MORNING CALM TALES Random acts of kindness in Korea

Rush hour in a subway station, published in The Korea Times Nov. 1 1992. Korea Times Archive

There I was, my second week in Korea, sailing right along. My conversation classes at the language institute were going well. The split shift — 10 a.m. to noon and 6 p.m. to 10 p.m. — wasn’t nearly as brutal as I’d been warned. I’d even picked up enough Korean to get by day to day and had learned, through a bit of trial and error, that those bottles I thought were milk actually contained makgeolli, a traditional fermented Korean rice wine.

As I said — it was smooth sailing.

Until one fateful morning at Sincheon Station, now Jamsilsaenae Station on Seoul Metro Line 2.

In 1990, subway stations in Seoul operated with a system that felt both mechanical and reassuringly straightforward. The turnstiles consisted of an electronic ticket reader mounted on the right side and a set of waist-high steel bars that revolved when unlocked. Subway tickets were made of thin yellow cardboard, about the size of a stick of chewing gum — just a little shorter and flimsier.

Then President Kim Young-sam, right, goes through a subway turnstile, published in The Korea Times Oct. 31, 1993. Korea Times Archive

You’d insert the ticket into a narrow slot on the right side of the turnstile, and with a mechanical clunk, the bars would release, allowing you to push through. If memory serves, a single ride cost around 300 won. When I first arrived, my mentor — ever practical — helped me purchase an orange monthly pass for 10,000 won. It covered unlimited rides across the city, whether I was commuting to work or exploring unfamiliar corners of Seoul in those wide-eyed early days.

That morning, when I inserted the ticket into the slot, I didn’t hear the soft, reassuring electric whir. Instead, a harsh, grating buzzer blared through the station, echoing off the tile walls like an alarm announcing my failure. I had already stepped forward, expecting the revolving steel tubes to give way — but the moment the buzzer sounded, they locked in place just above my knees with unforgiving precision. The shock of the sound was bad enough — but the abrupt collision left me stumbling, trying to recover my dignity while absorbing what I’m sure were multiple contusions, all the while unintentionally testing Newton’s Third Law of Motion in the most public and painful way possible.

The ticket — the unseemly culprit in this minor disaster — popped out of a slot on top of the reader. I retrieved it and tried again, only to be met with the same grating buzzer and stubbornly locked steel tubes. Hoping that the third time would be the charm, I inserted the ticket once more. Of course, the results were identical.

Meanwhile, as I continued my battle with the turnstile in true Quixotic fashion, a quiet line of commuters had formed behind me, waiting with admirable patience for me to either succeed or surrender. Eventually, I backed out — perplexed, slightly panicked and clearly having a meltdown after being defeated by a machine — and waved the others ahead, allowing them to pass through as I stood there, clinging to my ticket and what was left of my dignity.

Then, out of the crowd, an angel materialized — a young Korean woman who had witnessed the entire ordeal. Without saying a word, she stepped over to the ticket booth and purchased a one-way ticket for me. Of course, I could have done that myself — easily, in fact — but when you’re in the throes of your first cultural meltdown, nothing feels easy or obvious. She returned and handed me the ticket with a warm, gentle smile. I managed to thank her, and then — just like that — she disappeared into the morning rush of commuters, never to be seen again.

One would think that in a city the size of Seoul in 1990, there wouldn’t be these kind gestures, these random acts of kindness which can make all the difference in the world. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it meant everything. That young woman’s quiet act of kindness cut through my frustration and embarrassment like sunlight breaking through a cloudy morning. In a city where I didn’t yet speak the language fluently and everything felt foreign and unfamiliar, her simple decision to help — without fanfare or expectation — left an imprint that stayed with me. It reminded me that kindness doesn’t require words, and that sometimes, the most meaningful connections are the briefest ones.

Blind man, published in The Korea Times May 16, 2007. Korea Times Archive

Over the weeks that followed, I would come to experience more of these small but powerful moments, each one a reminder that even in the most crowded, fast-moving places, humanity has a way of making itself known — often when you need it most.

One night, around 10:30 p.m., I was heading home from the language institute on the subway. The car I was in was crowded with people returning home from work, institutes, restaurants and bars. As I stood near the doors, three young Korean men — probably college-age — struck up a conversation with me, eager to practice their English. Back then, I got a lot of that from the brave souls who weren’t afraid to try out what they’d learned. We chatted casually, our voices pitched an octave above the din of the car, but in English — which caught the attention of a few riders, especially one in particular.

At the back of the car, a beet-faced, middle-aged man had been eyeballing me since I boarded. From the way he muttered to himself, it was clear he took offense. His grumbling soon escalated into a loud, drunken tirade that drew the attention of nearly everyone in the car. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying, but the tone was unmistakable — angry, aggressive and directed squarely at me.

The three men I had been chatting with suddenly went silent. Whatever the man had said must have struck a nerve, because one of them — without hesitation — walked to the back of the car to confront him. Another turned to me and said firmly, “You should get off at the next station.”

Before I could protest or even process what was happening, the train pulled into the next station, and they physically — but gently — ushered me out of the car. The doors slid shut behind me.

As the train pulled away, I caught a glimpse through the windows: the three of them still facing the drunken man, standing their ground. Today, that entire incident would’ve been recorded on a dozen smartphones and posted online within minutes. But back then, it was just three young men putting themselves in the middle of a conflict to protect a stranger.

Subway station, published in The Korea Times Jan. 1, 1987. Korea Times Archive

Not every act of kindness came in the heat of confrontation or moments of high drama. Some were quieter, more subtle — so much so that I nearly missed them altogether. One such moment happened not long after that night on the subway, and it taught me an entirely different kind of lesson.

One afternoon, on my way home from shopping, I found myself juggling several shopping bags as the subway rocked from side to side. My commute had turned into a full-body balancing act. Directly in front of me, a middle-aged Korean woman watched with growing concern. Without a word, she reached out and grabbed one of my bags.

Startled, I instinctively pulled it back, convinced — if only for a split second — that she was trying to steal it.

What followed was an unexpected tug-of-war. I pulled one way, she pulled the other — each of us determined not to let go. The tension between us was real and awkward, and I could feel the eyes of nearby passengers fixed on us. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes. The woman’s calm but resolute expression never changed. Finally, she let go, sat back in her seat and frowned — clearly offended. Unbeknownst to me, she had simply been trying to help.

Kim Young-sam looks at subway riders, published in The Korea Times Jan. 31, 1996. Korea Times Archive

It wasn’t until I recounted the incident to my colleagues that I realized the gravity of my cultural blunder. They burst into laughter at my naivety and explained that, in Korea, it’s a common courtesy for seated passengers to hold bags for those who are standing — a quiet but meaningful gesture of communal support.

Looking back, I wonder if I noticed these random acts of kindness more during my honeymoon period in Korea — those early weeks when everything felt new, strange and full of meaning. Or maybe they’ve always been there, but I stopped noticing them once life got busier, more familiar. Did they carry more emotional weight back then simply because I was more vulnerable, more open, trying to find my footing in one of the world’s largest cities?

Sure, over the years, there have been countless small moments — people giving up their seats on buses and subways for my kids, a helping hand when I looked lost or confused. I still remember, during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, when our family doctor personally drove me to St. Mary’s Hospital in Daejeon. At the time, we thought I had dislocated my shoulder. He brought me straight to the emergency room and stayed to make sure I got the care I needed.

Curious if others had experienced similar moments of generosity, I reached out to several friends and colleagues. Nearly all of them had stories to share — help with finding a place to live, offers of food and drink while hiking in the mountains and, for those with children, the occasional gift of candy from well-meaning strangers. Unfortunately, such acts today are often met with suspicion, especially when it comes to kids.

As for myself, I hadn’t really thought about those gestures, not in a long time. They’d blended into the background of my time spent in Korea.

Somewhere along the way, as the years passed and routines settled in, I stopped noticing. Life got louder and more crowded with responsibilities — work, bills, raising kids — and the little things began to blur. Kindness became part of the backdrop, like subway announcements or traffic lights: always there, but rarely acknowledged. I didn’t stop appreciating it, exactly — I just stopped seeing it.

That is, until the other week at Homeplus in Daejeon.

I was in line to buy some strawberries that were on sale, only to be told that the discounted price was for members only. As I stood there debating whether to pay full price or just put them back, a Korean woman waiting behind me quietly stepped forward and offered to use her discount card. No fanfare, no expectation, just a simple gesture of kindness from a stranger.

Shoppers at a supermarket, published in The Korea Times April 30, 1988. Korea Times Archive

It caught me off guard — not just because of the offer, but because of how deeply it moved me. In that small act, I was instantly taken back to my early days in Korea, when every gesture felt monumental — proof that I wasn’t alone, that even in a city of 10 million strangers, there was room for human connection.

I walked out of the store that day with more than strawberries. I walked out with a renewed sense of something I hadn’t realized I’d lost. It’s easy, over time, to become numb to the world around you — to take for granted the quiet gestures that once felt so profound. But kindness, I’ve come to understand, doesn’t always need to be loud or dramatic to matter. Sometimes, it’s a stranger holding your bag. Sometimes, it’s helping when you’re lost. Sometimes, it’s just someone standing beside you when you feel alone.

Korea has changed in the decades since I first arrived, and so have I. But in the soft undercurrent of daily life, these small, enduring acts still flow — steadily, quietly, reminding me that no matter how fast the city moves, there’s always room to pause, to notice and to be grateful.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990. Reach him at daejeonscribe@yahoo.com.