Familiarity
By Katherine Moncure ETA ’16-’17 Each morning is the same routine, but after five months there are still days I wake up forgetting which country I’m in. My host mother yells to wake up my host sisters, and they cry back in resistance. Some mornings their screams fill up the entire apartment, funneling out more energy than it would take for them stand up and eat breakfast. As I pull a dress over my head, I wonder what would happen if my host mother just left them, if they slept and missed school. Would they be angry at her? Would they blame her for that too? I picture my own mom sticking her cold hands down my warm, sleepy neck when I was younger. She would giggle and pick up an arm, flopping my limp hand against my face before saying goodbye for the day. Mom let me go back to sleep and get up on my own. She left for work at 6am, an hour before I walked out the door. At breakfast, I tread lightly and smile. I say good morning to my host father and he gives a deadpan reply as his wife pours coffee for him. He puts a hand up in the air, “Okay okay, stop stop stop.” He takes a sip and says something to his wife that I do not understand. She pours some hot water in his drink – the coffee is too strong. Neither of them are pleased. The overeager warmth my host parents used to show evaporated with the summer, and my small attempts at conversation are met with thinly veiled indifference. This morning, like many others, we are running late. And yet, my host sister sits calmly at the table, slowly chewing as I rush in one direction to grab my coat, and another to get my bag. I’m not sure why, but my host father always seems frustrated that I am ready before anyone else, and I wait for my host sister before we sprint to the bus together. “What.” He spits out the word as I pick up my scarf near his seat. “What are you doing.” It is not a question. “Nothing,” I gently perform the response. The walls in the apartment feel hollow and thin, as if leaning my body against them would make them crumple. After five months here, I don’t know what they’re made of any more than I know the people who live within them. I’m inside a regal school bus. Purple, embroidered tassels and rainbow lights line the edges of the ceiling, and a television at the front plays an advertisement for kimchi refrigerators. Teenage girls in uniform jackets fill the seats silently – the one next to me slumps forward with her eyes closed. Through a damp window haze, the cars outside glow as they weave between traffic. In a few hours, this will all be covered in rain. My students do not talk on the bus and neither do I. Instead, I stare at box-shaped high-rises and giant, hangul signs that overtake storefronts. Yellow leaves from small gingko trees are scattered on the sidewalks, and a two-story portrait of a bride covers the façade of a wedding hall. As we pass more buildings, I sound out Korean letters in my head: tah-ee… tah-ee-uh puh-ro. Oh. Tire Pro. When I arrive at school, the desks in my classroom have been rearranged. Teachers cleared the room for a test while I was gone, and it is remarkably tidier now. I spend twenty minutes pushing desks back into groups, sighing as loose wheels and entire legs fall off. I have just enough time to roll up the window shades before students stream in shouting, “Hello teacher!” I am already exhausted, but I smile and shout hello back. At the end of the day, it is pouring outside. I search for the umbrella I keep between my desk and the wall. It’s gone. ______________________________________________________________________________ I tiptoe to a coffee shop a few blocks away. My feet still get wet. In a country crowded with chains and franchises, this café is small and unassuming, tucked into a corner behind an apartment complex. It seems to be run entirely by one young woman, who says hello as I push open the door. Today she drinks coffee with a friend. This is the third time I’ve been here since I discovered the place last week. Our communication is a lot of guesswork, stilted phrases, and hand gestures, but she always gives me a plate of tiny cookies with my drink. Even though I don’t know her name, she looks at me and smiles as though I am an old friend. My preferred spot is next to the window, and today the cold, wet air lingers beside me. After an hour of working on my computer, she brings me a mug of hot water with herbal tea leaves. I hold it close to my face and lean back into the chair, letting sweet steam rise onto my skin. It reminds me of my mom’s mug collection – she has one cup with no handle, and in winter she wraps her fingers around it to keep them warm. When I explained to my students that my hometown has twenty thousand people, fifteen times smaller than Iksan, their mouths hung open in shock. “Teacher! How?” some of them asked. I think about the carefully planned, colonial style buildings and lamp posts at home, the maple leaves that hang in the fall air. These days, I find myself aching for things in the United States that I never even thought I liked. The garish, red Sheetz gas stations that dot the drive between Oberlin and Connecticut. The purple-faced Phantom Fireworks signs that loom on billboards near state borders. A sky outlined by thousands of black branches that spread out like veins in the winter. English. I think about
Soul of Korea
by Grace Lee, ETA ’15-’16 I sat down, preparing for the English Bible study to begin. It was my first week living in Sejong and I was elated to see an elderly gentleman sitting across from me at the table. “Are you from the South?” He asked. “Yes, I am from Georgia.” I was a little surprised. “How did you know?” “You have a Southern accent. I graduated from Columbia Theology Seminary school in Atlanta.” From that moment on, I knew I wanted to learn about this 86-year old gentleman and Korean War veteran. I had partly come to Korea in order to interview the elderly community. My own grandparents passed away in 2009 and 2014. I could not ask them about their personal upbringings before their deaths because of the language barrier, but I yearned to talk to them. After my parents’ divorce, they remained a strong presence in my life and prepared me to live a prosperous life in the US. I knew their immigration story and of their successes with their hotel business. However, I knew that their stories started long before they immigrated to the US. Understanding that story meant understanding more of my Korean heritage. This is why any chance I have to speak to an elderly person here is a special connection for me. And here I was, sitting in front of an elderly gentleman who spoke perfect English. I could not let go of this great opportunity. After sharing my goals, he said “Grace, you are the only person who I want to share my story with.” He told me that I could tell his story to you. But, he had a wish. He wanted me to use his friend’s name Mr. Jung in this article, instead of his own name. He wishes to honor his friend, though it is only a name. I decided to honor him by complying with this wish. For five consecutive weeks, from September to October 2015, I sat down with Mr. Jung anywhere from half-an-hour up to one-and-a-half-hours at a time to hear his story. When I listened to Mr. Jung, nothing else mattered and nothing else existed. Although he was soft-spoken, I felt charisma through his words. They had a subtle, yet sweet conviction where you knew each one held wisdom. When he spoke, I concentrated. _________________________________________________ “Grace and Suffering.” Mr. Jung came from Jeollabuk-do, a small southwestern province in Korea. He prayed to live until he was 65 years old. The life expectancy of Koreans was 37 years during 1925-1930 and rose to 52 years during 1955-1960 1. He is now in his 80s. “Until [God] calls me, I have to pay back grace that he’s given me,” he said. “I still have one more Grace of God…next to me.” His last statement gave me goosebumps. I felt humbled to be in his presence, graced by hearing his story. ______________________________________________________ “Escaping from the Mud” His father died at a young age and left nothing for his family. From first grade until the sixth grade, he spoke Japanese in school because Japan occupied Korea at the time. He didn’t have enough time for studying though because he and his friends worked for families whose sons were drafted for the Japanese army. Mr. Jung worked diligently. Growing up, the Japanese educated Korean students to hate America and England. “We must destroy the Americans and those from England,” they told him. He and his classmates believed that the Japanese would win the war and destroy their enemies’ countries. “They educated us that way,” he said. Continuously, he and his classmates chanted: “We must destroy the Americans and those from England.” But while publicly declaring his animosity towards the British and Americans, Mr. Jung privately disagreed with his public outcries. I’m pretty sure that my grandparents had the same experience as Mr. Jung. They immigrated to the United States in the 1980s. But, I never heard about or felt any distrust or animosity towards the American or British people from them either. Like my grandparents, Mr. Jung empathized with foreigners and showed no prejudice towards them. But at the time, he had to keep those thoughts to himself. Living in the countryside, the Japanese in the community knew that he had little money. Wealth disparity was common in the living conditions amongst his friends. From 1911 to 1937, Korea was dealing with economic problems. When the Japanese gained a large access to Korean farmland, Korean farmers were immediately forced to become sharecroppers2. The Japanese governement owned all the industries and made it difficult for Koreans to get their own businesses running. They charged Koreans at least 25 percent more in interest fees than they charged Japanese people. This was one example of the hardship Koreans faced. One day while walking to middle school, some Japanese people said, “Even strong cow is in the mud.” Their statement made him believe that he could not escape from the mud, his poverty-stricken life, no matter his strength. With the help of his aunt, Mr. Jung moved to Jeonju. He had been a Christian since his childhood. His aunt knew a better life was waiting for him with the missionaries. By 1940, ninety percent of missionaries had left Korea because of the harsh persectutions they were facing during Japanese rule. However, some had stayed. The church took a lead role in helping mend the country of its suffering. By the church being advocates for democracy, Christian church members fought for the rights of Korean people3. Mr. Jung had been told by his aunt that he could help the missionary’s cook, so he went and worked faithfully and honestly there from 1946 to 1950, learning English while he worked. “[The missionary] helped me escape from the mud,” he said.“From that time, my life was changed. He would continually feel grateful for their kindness, for caring for him as if he was their own son. When Japanese rule over Korea
Pyeongchang
Pyeongchang: Quest for Revitalization By: Yung-Ju Kim Amid the pastoral landscape, in one of the least developed provinces in South Korea, where agriculture and fishing are still the most ubiquitous industries, and a population that is experiencing an overall decline while struggling to keep up with a rapidly growing senior population – is a county, home to 40,000 residents who are gearing up for one of world’s most widely publicized international events. Despite some of these challenges, the residents will have you focus on the positive aspects that their town has to offer: a pristine coastline, prized national parks, a 1400 year-old Buddhist temple that has remained intact and unharmed from fire or wars and an enviable food source that is highly sought after throughout South Korea. This is Pyeongchang, the host of the upcoming 2018 Winter Olympics. Most people will wonder how a relatively unknown county in Gangwon-do province came to host the Winter Olympics, one of world’s most recognized sports franchise. The story originates back to when Gak-gyu Choi, then governor of Gangwon-do in 1996 envisioned hosting the Winter Olympics as his humble province was preparing for the 1999 Asian Winter Games. With the construction of new, high-performance venues already underway, Governor Choi set his ambitions higher with the Winter Olympics as his ultimate goal. As part of his reconnaissance, he sent his Vice Governor Jin-Sun Kim to Nagano, Japan, as it was gearing up for the 1998 Winter Olympic Games. When Vice Governor Kim became the succeeding governor, he made it his campaign promise to bring the Winter Olympics to Gangwon-do province in order to revitalize its deteriorating economy, and during his three terms as a very popular governor the residents, too, believed that hosting the Winter Olympics was the answer to reversing the many years of depopulation and economic decline. No one, however, was prepared for the challenges that lay ahead. The mission to bring the Winter Olympics to Gangwon-do was an arduous task, which took three Olympic bids over the course of 12 years to accomplish. The first Winter Olympic bid was lost to Vancouver by a small margin 56-53 on its second round of voting. Despite the Pyeongchang Olympic Bidding Committee’s assiduous marketing efforts, the IOC (International Olympic Committee) mistook Pyeongchang as Pyongyang, the capital city of North Korea, and this lack of name recognition consequently leaned in favor of Vancouver. The second Winter Olympic bid was lost to Sochi 51-47 also on its second round of voting. While Pyeongchang’s name recognition had improved since the first bid, Vladimir Putin’s heavy handed involvement was no match for a provincial town led bidding committee. After two losses to Vancouver and Sochi, the local residents, planners, and government at both the provincial and federal level left nothing to chance for their third Winter Olympic bid. By this time much more were at stake: both chaebols[1] and international investors who had made hefty real estate investments were dealing with heavy losses; morale and the spirit of the Gangwon-do residents were riding on this third bid attempt; and the global strength and influence of the South Korean government were being tested by the Olympic bidding process. In order to demonstrate to the IOC that Pyeongchang was not only a viable candidate but the strongest candidate for hosting the 2018 Winter Olympic Games, many projects were highlighted during the course of the Olympic bidding process: the construction of Alpensia, a 5-star, $1.4 billion ski resort, that was to become the main hub of the Olympic Event and Planning headquarters; the approval of the long-anticipated high-speed rail that would connect from Incheon International Airport to the Olympic venues — essentially reducing the travel time between South Korea’s east and west coast by 50%; and a slew of international winter sports competitions to be hosted in Pyeongchang which showcased their Olympic-caliber venues and ability to host large-scale, international events. Pyeongchang Winter Olympic Bidding Committee’s efforts were rewarded when Pyeongchang won in the first round with the largest voting margin in history, 63-25-7, beating out both Munich, Germany and Annecy, France. The news of the Olympic bid victory was received by the Pyeongchang residents with overwhelming joy and relief. Over time, however, Pyeongchang was not immune to the challenges of Olympic planning and development. Differing national and regional concerns from environment to economy turned the locals from being the strongest advocates to a group of dissidents. Gangwon-do province is recognized as one of the most undeveloped provinces in South Korea. While on the one hand “undeveloped” has a rural connotation, Gangwon-do’s undeveloped terrain also emphasizes its pristine, untouched landscape. As a consequence of the Winter Olympic development, the environmental impacts became one of the most contentious issues between Pyeongchang Organizing Committee Olympic Winter Games (POCOG) and the residents. Among the string of environmental concerns was the felling of 500 year-old trees in Mount Gariwang. Not only did the 23 hectares of clearance include ancient, rare species, but the area dates back to 15th century Chosun dynasty when the forest was used to grow and procure ginseng for their kings. Not only is the Pyeongchang Olympics organizing committee’s promise of restoring the habitat to its original state unrealistic and “patronizing,[2]” but the 58,000 trees which were home to endangered species of plants and birds were deforested for three alpine skiing events to be held over the course of 14 days will leave the area of ecological, historical, and cultural significance permanently scarred. A second point of contention is the financial impact of the Winter Olympics. While Gangwon-do remains second lowest income per capita province[3] in South Korea, the property values have increased 50% since the announcement of the winning bid and 80% remain non-resident owned[4]. Real estate speculations have only benefitted landowners while hurting long-time tenants, farmers and small business owners, who are now displaced and forced to seek a more affordable option elsewhere. Another financial contention is the backlog of wages that have remained unpaid to the construction laborers. Since January 2016