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PART 1

KOREAN IDENTITY

Don’t know your jeong from your aegyo? Let’s take a look at some of the most important social traits and concepts that help make modern Korea what it is today.

THE CONCEPTS OF JEONG, HAN, AND HEUNG UNIQUELY KOREAN CULTURAL CODES?

“My company runs on jeong,” says the chairman of one of Korea’s ten largest conglomerates. A person considered to have a large capacity for jeong is probably well-liked. But according to a saying, jeong is also “the scariest thing.” What on earth does this strange word mean, then?

I sometimes call jeong “the invisible hug.” Jeong is a bond that exists between people, and gives them a sense of mutual destiny. If you share jeong with someone, then you ought to go the extra mile for them. You may even feel the need to bend or break society’s rules to help that person.

Jeong isn’t merely a matter of friendship. It can exist between members of large groups: Koreans are liable to helping graduates of the same school, university, hometown, or military unit as themselves, because of jeong. If I were a company boss, and a candidate from the same school as me came for a job, I would probably say, “what a coincidence!” and leave it at that. But in Korea, I might feel like I should give him the job.

THE INVISIBLE HUG

Jeong is probably a product of Korea’s difficult history. For centuries, ordinary Koreans lived in villages, under the yoke of oppressive yangban landlords. This, and frequent crop failures, meant that people had to band together, thinking of “us” rather than “I.” Added to this is Korea’s status as a pawn in the power games of bigger neighbors, like China and Japan. The experience of struggling to survive as a nation bonded Koreans together in a kind of national jeong, in opposition to outsiders.

Jeong creates “in” and “out” groups in every situation. In the context of you and your family, the guy you went to school with is an outsider. But he becomes an insider when you meet up in Seoul. And someone from Seoul whom you never met before can share a bond with you if you encounter her in Mexico. For this reason, Koreans are famous for sticking together when abroad.

My Own Experience With Jeong

I experienced a kind of “nationalistic” jeong during my graduate school days back in England. Our class was very international, and included ten Koreans. One professor told us to submit assignments on CD-R, so I asked a Korean classmate (who I knew had a pack of ten) if I could use one of his. I had recently done a favor for him, so it wasn’t unreasonable for me to ask. He declined, saying, “Ah, but we are ten.” “We” meant the Korean students. He had bought the CD-Rs to share among his Korean classmates only.

The thing that frustrated me most was that this fellow told me that he was not especially friendly with half of his Korean classmates. That is part of jeong as well—even if you don’t like someone, you can share a sense of connectedness which makes you feel the need to help them. There is even an expression, miun jeong (“hateful jeong”), to describe the jeong that exists between people who do not like each other. But jeong is beautiful too, when you enjoy such a relationship with someone. The level of self-sacrifice and mutual support shared with a good Korean friend will be very high. I have experienced the positive side of jeong on many occasions here—such as when I was completely broke and was able to borrow a fairly hefty amount of money from a friend, without even asking. “Just give it back when you can,” I was told.

A yangban from the late 18th century. Their feudal system probably helped deepen the culture of jeong.

A “UNIQUELY KOREAN” EMOTION?

Sometimes, people will claim that jeong is something only found in Korea. In my view, this is completely false. A feeling of shared destiny, along with self-sacrifice and extreme displays of generosity, can all be found anywhere in the world. And a warm feeling towards someone, which inspires you to help them no matter what, is not a uniquely Korean emotion. But the fact that Korean has a very frequently-used word for it is telling. Jeong may not be “uniquely” Korean, but it is a concept to which Korean society attaches extra-strong importance.

What is Han?

Like jeong, han describes something that is central to the image of Korea and Koreans. Han is a kind of deep melancholic feeling that comes from an unresolvable burden. perhaps you have been oppressed by someone powerful; perhaps someone close to you passed away before their time; or, perhaps the love of your life abandoned you. you cannot do anything about it, so with a heavy sense of resignation, you carry the pain around with you for the rest of your life. this is han.

HAN AND HEUNG

Often when Westerners think of East Asians, the stereotypes of stoicism and self-control—the so-called “inscrutable Oriental”—come to mind. But Koreans in fact tend to be very expressive and open with their feelings. Somehow, sadness and happiness both seem to be magnified in Korea. Two key cultural code-words will help us examine this further: han and heung.

HEUNG AND HAN-PULI

Because han comes from unresolvable trauma, its cause never goes away. So what do you do about it? You can wallow in your pain, but you can also temporarily forget about it by pursuing all-out, manic fun. This is where heung comes in. Heung is pure joy. The word isn’t as famous as han, but I think that it should be. Even traditional Korean funerals used to feature extreme alcohol consumption, raucous singing, and the like.

Whether you want to “untie” your han (han-puli), or simply go a little crazy, Korea is a great place in which to do it. Young or old, rich or poor, everyone is allowed to get drunk, dance like a fool, or sing at the top of their voice. Tapgol Park in Seoul is often full of pensioners drinking rice wine, and throwing some shapes to the sound of old Korean music.

Korea has a history of poverty, colonialist invasion, and latterly, division into two separate countries. And crucially, a national narrative has been built around these sad events. While South Koreans can be justifiably proud of what they have achieved in such a short space of time, they still tend to view their country as a tragic victim. Korean art reflects this: the most popular ballads, TV drama series, and movies, tend to have a seriously melancholic, han-like aspect to them.

A traditional Korean funeral was a noisy, colorful affair full of han-puli.

Late-night Heung

Korea isn’t famous as a party destination—but it should be. If you find yourself out and about at 5 AM on a Friday or Saturday night, you can always drop by an “afterclub,” which as its name suggests, just gets going after normal clubs are winding down. Roadside bars named pojang macha serve soju—the lethal Korean national spirit—at all hours, too. Then try a noraebang (a kind of karaoke room) with your friends. Thousands of English songs are also available, and even if you can’t sing, there’s no excuse not to dance and shake a tambourine.

MILITARY SERVICE: THE FORMATIVE YEARS

All Korean men of sound mind and body must spend two years serving as conscripted soldiers. It is a tough experience that no one looks forward to. But it is also a highly formative period in a young man’s life, and one that results in life-long friendships. It also has a major influence on company life, strengthening hierarchy and unity between male co-workers.

Kim Kyung-hyup, a friend of mine, served in the marines—haebyeongdae in Korean. Haebyeongdae is considered the toughest and most tightly-knit of the services a conscript can enter. I asked him a few questions about his life then, and military service in general.

What kind of training do you go through?

Before joining a unit, you have six weeks of basic training down at Pohang [a city on the southeast coast]. Traditionally Haebyeongdae recruits receive training from a non-commissioned officer, a tough drill instructor who really bullies you for six weeks. In the first week they put you through tests, and send you back [to the regular army] if you aren’t physically or mentally strong enough. After that, basic training proper starts—lifting tree trunks, and training in the mud. In the third week, you learn how to shoot, and something called Bbangbbare starts. Bbangbbare means waking you up in the middle of a winter’s night, and forcing you to train outside wearing only your pants. Then they’ll spray you with a fire hose. That’s a Haebyeongdae tradition. It’s so cold… and you can’t sleep…

Bbangbbare continues, but in the fourth week you also start guerrilla and airlift training. Following that is tactical marching up Cheonjabong [a mountain around Pohang], and amphibious vehicle training. Finally, in week six, it’s the completion ceremony. The whole place is a sea of tears—six weeks of built up pain and emotions just come flooding out.

What happens after that?

When you complete your six weeks you are assigned to a division, where you’ll spend the rest of your two years. The main ones for Haebyeongdae are based in Pohang, Kimpo, and Baekryeong-do [an island very close to North Korea]. As for me, I was stationed at Baekryeong-do. Baekryeong-do Haebyeongdae is basically the northern-most line of defense in the West Sea. My unit was known as a special forces surprise attack unit. We differed from usual soldiers in that we did lots of training with IBS (Inflatable Boat, Small). This is a black rubber boat that carries seven people and weighs 230 lbs (105 kg).

Elite Haebyeongdae soldiers in training.

What was the toughest part?

Something called “twelve kilometer head-carrying,” which is a kind of training for secret landing, infiltration, and reconnaissance. Six of us would have to carry one IBS on our heads, for twelve kilometers. If you haven’t done it, you can’t imagine how painful it is. You really think it’s going to break your spine. When you complete it and put the boat down and your seniors congratulate you, you can’t help but cry. My best memories of the military were the times when I got to sit down with a beer after head-carrying. We’d receive extra money for it as well, 40,000 won each. It’s more now, but at the time that was enough to enjoy yourself on a leave day.

Also, Haebyeongdae has a lot of idiots. For example, seniors who dig up bugs and force you to eat them. Lizards, frogs, caterpillars too. And if you have to work at night with rotten seniors, they might beat you. There was always some bastard like that.

What is the effect of military service on a young man?

You feel thankful to your parents, and also that that you helped Korean society. You lament the loss of two years of your life on rotten work, but you do become more mature.

In some ways it is cruel to spend two years conscripted into the army. Generally, Korean guys go in their second year of university, and then come back two years later. By the time they’ve graduated, they’re about 26 or 27 years old. That’s late compared to other countries. Of course, there are many who emerge more mature, but there are also a lot who think it was a waste of time.

What impact do you think military service has on Korean society?

Military service is a very important part of Korean life. Simply because we’re a divided country, we have conscription, and the only people who don’t go are either the physically or mentally handicapped, or those who have enough power and connections to get out of it [this is actually a highly controversial issue in Korea]. For ordinary guys, the only choice you have is between Haebyeongdae, Air Force, the regular Army, and so on—there’s no escape from conscription itself.

While going through the course of military service, we commonly hear that it is “character-building.” But what that really means is learning socially expected behavior and rank, and being re-educated to live the kind of existence society demands us to live. The habits that form there come to last a lifetime, so military service seems to have a massive impact on how Korean men live in society.

In a good way and a bad way, conscription has a huge impact on Korean society. Not just simply as an organization for national defense, but as one of the most important elements of Korean social structure. And the Haebyeongdae Veterans’ Association, for instance, is one of the very strongest social organizations in Korea.

Would you like to reform the system in any way?

Fundamentally, I am against conscription. We just have it because we’re a divided country. I received training for two years, but really, I think that’s too short a time. Conscripts don’t have a strong will to protect the country, but rather, do it because they are forced to. And because there are so many soldiers, the quality of training cannot but be weakened. A professional army would be better prepared for war, because soldiers would receive proper training and live as life-long soldiers. I think that soon, we might start taking this course.

There are guys who say that women should go to the army too... but I don’t think that’s necessary.

KATUSA Some Korean conscripts are seconded to the US Army in a program named KATUSA. Such soldiers are considered lucky—they get to practice English, and even go home at night rather than staying in barracks.

PUTTING KOREA ON THE MAP KOREA AS NUMBER ONE

Since the days of President Park Chung-hee, Koreans have had it drummed into them that their nation absolutely has to stack up against others, when it comes to anything that can be measured in numbers. That includes economic data, such as the value of Korean exports—but it now also extends to intellectual, cultural, and sporting fields. Whenever a Nobel prize ceremony goes by without a Korean winner, disappointed newspaper columnists churn out laments.

Major sporting events result in big displays of national pride. But it’s also great fun: there’s no party like a World Cup party in Korea.

President Kim Dae-jung won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2000. To date, he remains Korea’s only Nobel laureate.

WHY DOES KOREA NEED TO BE NUMBER ONE?

This desire to measure up is a result of Korea’s troubled history. Korea is a small nation that has long been subject to the whims of larger, more powerful ones. In particular, Japanese colonization (1910–1945) created a sense of humiliation, and a desire to improve Korea’s power and stature. The division of Korea into North and South heightened this. Reduced not just in terms of size and population but also in terms of power and security, both countries reacted in extreme ways.

For North Korea, that meant bulking up militarily, but for the South under Park Chung-hee, it meant pursuing economic growth. Economic performance is of course measured numerically, and Park himself was personally obsessed with Korean economic data. He would become angry at underlings who could not match his knowledge of inflation and export statistics. And over time, the national preoccupation with numbers spread into other areas of human achievement.

A surprisingly high number of Koreans know the size of national GDP, and how this stacks up against other countries. They know that Korea is the number one country in shipbuilding and semiconductors. They also know that the Korean Olympic team’s medal table rank has been consistently improving, and that Psy’s “Gangnam Style” hit number two in the US pop chart. In fact, “Gangnam Style” not making number one was itself a story. When will Korea have its first US Billboard number one, ran the headlines?

Psy horse-dancing. Psy became the most famous Korean ever during the summer of 2012. He is a hero to many Koreans for putting their country on the map. The government responded in kind, by putting him on a series of postage stamps.

Times Square A Samsung advert in Times Square, New York. Korean businesses, campaigners, and government officials all consider New York as the prime place in which to launch any promotion. This reflects the importance of America in the South Korean psyche.

“BIG BROTHER” AMERICA

Since the division of Korea, the South has felt great political, economic, and cultural influence from “big brother” America. The land of Uncle Sam was held out to Koreans as the model seonjinguk—advanced nation—that they needed to emulate. Some Koreans love America, and some hate it, but nobody ignores it. This is why the US pop chart number one is the holy grail for a Korean pop star. Top Korean labels like SM Entertainment have spent millions of dollars on promoting their acts in America.

It is not inaccurate to state that Korea has a certain inferiority complex with regard to the US. This is a country that wants to be recognized, particularly by Americans. Whenever Korean activist groups want to draw attention to territorial disputes with Japan, they take out adverts in The New York Times. It is also likely the reason why the government spent US$5 million opening a Korean restaurant in New York.

The ironic thing is though that Korea has in many ways overtaken the US. Its citizens live longer, and are healthier, better educated, less likely to be unemployed, and less likely to live in poverty. According to surveys though, Koreans are nowhere near as happy as Americans—because of their stressful, competition-filled lives.

Korea meets America, in the Seoul district of Itaewon.

The Latest “It” Gadget: Anipang

Trends come and go from Korea—as they do anywhere else—but they move more quickly here, thanks to neophilia, the love of the new. They also embed themselves very deeply for the brief duration of their popularity. It is hard to live in Korea and be immune to the latest “it” gadget, fashion, or slang word.

As I write, the young woman sat opposite from me in this cafe is playing a game named Anipang. Anipang is a little like the old classic Tetris, and is played on smartphones. So far I have resisted its charms, but 12 million others in this country have not. That is almost 25 percent of the Korean population. Six months previously, nobody had heard of Anipang. And I suspect that six months from now, it will be more a case of “Do you remember Anipang?”

NAEMBI GEUNSEONG: THE BOILING POINT

There is a phrase in Korean, naembi geunseong, which means “boiling-pot disposition.” It is similar in character to the coming and going of trends like Anipang, but relates more to anger which bubbles over when heat is applied, but cools down soon afterwards. When a politician does something wrong, he has no place to hide—everyone is out to get him. But the scandal usually blows over quickly, and soon enough, he is back in frontline politics.

The summer 2008 “beef protests” illustrated naembi geunseong quite well, when around a million people took to the streets of Seoul in fury at the government. The demonstrations had a number of disparate causes, but the spark was undoubtedly President Lee Myung-bak’s decision to reintroduce American beef imports in spite of alleged cases of mad cow disease.

By 2010, Korea was the number one importer of American beef in Asia. People eat it now without a moment’s thought. And nobody protests against it.

ALL TOGETHER NOW

I write for a living. That means I inevitably spend a large part of any day alone. Unless I have a specific appointment, I’ll work by myself in cafes, and have lunch by myself, too. It doesn’t bother me—in fact, I rather like it.

One drawback is that I’m limited in terms of the places I can go. Korea is all about the group, so even the most casual restaurants, for instance, are set up for a minimum of two. Individual restaurant seating, as found commonly in Japan, is hard to come by. There’s nothing to stop me from taking a table by myself, but it would just seem a little odd—making me look like a wangtta (“outcast”). What’s more, most of my favorite Korean dishes, such as dakdori-tang, a spicy chicken stew, come in big pots to be shared between three or four. You can’t order an individual portion.

HAVE A GOOD EXCUSE!

During my days at a large Korean investment firm, we would have lunch all together as a team, virtually every single day of the week. At a team lunch, the most senior person would simply decide where we were going, leaving everyone else with no choice over what to eat. As a so-called “individualistic” Westerner, I found this quite stifling, and often wanted a day off from it. The only way to escape was to sneak out unnoticed at 11.57 AM, and then come back an hour later, with a story about having met up with an old friend.

This kind of full-on togetherness can also cause friction in Korean-foreigner friendships. Back home, I would accept, “Sorry Dan, I’m worn out and just feel like having an afternoon in by myself watching TV,” as a reason for not meeting me one particular day.

In Korea though, I would never say that to a friend. While plenty of Koreans do want to steal a moment to themselves, openly saying so may cause disappointment. So instead, I would pretend that I had something important to do.

Nobody wants to be alone.

You’ll Never Walk Alone

But the don’t-be-alone mindset does have some advantages. In 2005, I was working for a small investment firm in Seoul. For the first six months, my fellow new hires and I were paid like interns—receiving the princely sum of 500,000 won (around US$500) per month, an amount that barely covered my rent. But we survived, gathering virtually every day after work in each other’s studio apartments, eating instant ramyeon noodles and drinking soju. We didn’t need much money, because we lived cheaply, and we had each other’s friendship. A group of eight of us spent virtually all our waking hours together. I still look back on that time as one of the happiest in my life.

Are You Still Single?

Being single is tough in Korea. People will ask, “Haven’t you met anyone yet?” with pitying looks on their faces. Some couples proudly display their attached-ness by wearing the same outfit as each other. This is known as couple-ot (“couple-clothing”). If she wears a red sweater and blue jeans, so will he. And those who take each other seriously will exchange “couple rings,” to show the world that they are in a relationship.

If you live in Korea and have no significant other, you may find people enjoy telling you, “I know this great guy/girl, let me introduce you to him/ her.” It even happens to me a lot these days. I’m glad people care about me, but I always just reply, “Don’t worry about me,” and tell them I’m a nuni-nopeun saram—a person with “high eyes,” or rather, excessively high standards. I’m not sure if anyone believes that, though!

Life in the Pressure Cooker

I love Korea, and I love living in Korea. But I do sometimes feel grateful to be an outsider here. The reason for this is the perpetual competition. This country has a pressure-cooker environment in which winners and losers are identified from an early age. It starts with education—along with money, the most important element of a person’s social status in Korea—and then moves on to career and marriage. The birth of children then marks the beginning of a new cycle of competition.

This competition mania kicked off in the 1960s, when President Park Chung-hee exhorted the people to go all-out for industrial development. As a nation, South Korea was compelled to hit ever-higher export figures and GDP targets, to overtake North Korea and other countries. Korea had no natural resources to speak of, so everything rested on the optimal use of brains and brawn. This required absolute devotion to academic study, and then absolute devotion to work after graduation.

A Korean classroom Education in Korea is tough: kids study all day long, and then attend after-school academies (or, hakwon) until late. No wonder this poor child is falling asleep.

THE EARLY REWARDS OF COMPETITION

Those who did well—going to the best universities and then working for the best companies, or taking up government service—were rewarded amply. Through their herculean efforts, they rose as Korea rose. They enjoyed elevated social status and wealth. Lee Myung-bak, for instance, collected refuse from the streets to pay his tuition fees at the elite Korea University, and later joined Hyundai Engineering and Construction. An early employee with an extreme capacity for hard work, he became CEO in his thirties, and was later lionized in a TV drama series about his life. In 2007, he was elected president.

Now-former President Lee was an archetype of late 20th century Korean achievement. His personal success is a kind of model—get into an elite university, join a good company, work like crazy, and push your way to the top. Naturally, this is a decent route to take in any country, but in Korea, it is treated as just about the only route. If you stray from this golden path, you are made to feel like you failed.

“SPEC”—A MODERN CULTURAL CODEWORD

These days, 80 percent of young people go to university, with 500,000 university graduates coming on to the job market every year. Unfortunately, high-status companies and government agencies can only create around 100,000 jobs in that time. Because of the importance of being seen to be doing well, people are reluctant to take jobs with less famous organizations, or engage in blue collar work. If they did so, their later marriage prospects and social position would be greatly weakened—so they wait, and build up their resumes.

A person with a resume stuffed full of impressive qualifications is said to have “spec.” Spec can mean Masters and PhD degrees, as well as professional qualifications such as the Certified Financial Analyst (CFA) certification. In other countries, people already working in finance take the CFA, but in Korea, university students feel compelled to do so. Many Korean ex-co-workers of mine had at least the Level One CFA before they even set foot in the office.

It is also considered essential to ace English tests like the TOEIC and TOEFL. People even spend years living abroad to better their chances at doing so, but actual fluency itself is not so important. The exam result is everything, as it is one of the main means by which large companies whittle down their applicant lists.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, of course. There are many young people in Korea with virtually no time for hobbies or travel, because of the perceived need to build spec. One of my best friends is like this. It isn’t that he likes that lifestyle, but rather, he always felt that he needed to concentrate on developing his marketability to survive in this hyper-competitive society.

Top Talent, a competition show for English-speaking performers. English fluency is one of the main ways in which Korean society divides people into winners and losers. Those who can speak English very well are admired and respected for it.

The fruits of one’s labor...

The caption in this recruitment advert reads: “From the time you were born, you were already a global challenger.” Unfortunately, this is a little too true.

Plastic Surgery to Get Ahead?

An advert for plastic surgery. The message is, “Be a more competitive potential wife, and get a richer husband.” But a pretty face can also get you a better job. At one company I worked for, female candidates were regularly screened based on the attractiveness of the mandatory photograph affixed to the application form. There is even an expression, Chwijik seonghyung (“surgery for getting a job”). Don’t label a Korean woman as vain for going under the knife: she may even consider surgery necessary for her career.

The North Face (see “Always In Stokke,” right) is a very popular brand in Korea. But have you heard of this cheaper imitator, The Red Face?

Samsung headquarters (on the right), Gangnam, Seoul. There are many who dream of the chance of working here.

THE COMPETITION NEVER ENDS

Congratulations! You’ve spent your life building up great spec, and finally, you have a job with XYZ Chaebol. But your life will still be stressful, as you will work extremely long hours (the longest in the OECD), and you will still be competing for promotions at the office. Unless you are a superstar, you will be pushed out for early retirement around the age of fifty, to face an uncertain future. So in order to prolong your career as much as possible, you must continue fighting all the way. And meanwhile, your children will be under great pressure to come top of their class.

Recently, the phrase “Scandi-Mom” has done the rounds in the Korean media. This refers to a mother who pursues an apparently “Scandinavian” style of parenting—reducing pressure on her kids, and encouraging them to play more. There are also young people who are deliberately dropping out of the success track. I have several highly intelligent friends who are completely uninterested in spec, getting a job at Samsung, or even in getting married. But both they and the Scandi-Mom are very much in the minority. Competition will remain the defining characteristic of modern Korea for the foreseeable future.

Always in Stokke

Particularly for those of high social status, it is important to always be seen to be doing well. This is a big part of the reason why Korea spends five percent of GDP on luxury brands, higher than any other country. One of the more interesting trends in luxury over the past few years has been the explosive growth in popularity of Stokke baby strollers. Stokke strollers are imported from Norway, and despite performing no better than other strollers in consumer tests, their US$700–1500 price tag makes them, paradoxically, a must-have item for Gangnam mothers. All of the guys at the investment firm I used to work at have become fathers, and most of them have had to cough up for a Stokke.

In 2013, a Korean firm went one step further and even bought Stokke itself! Among teenage boys, jackets by The North Face are beyond fashionable—even though they are more expensive in Korea than in other countries. It is common to see groups of youths walking along, all wearing the same type of North Face jacket. Costly threads are important—but in a group-oriented society, there is also a demand to not stand out too much.

Your Phone Disgusts Me!

I finally caved in and bought a smartphone in December 2011. For a long time, I was alone among my friends in resisting the trend. This often exposed me to mockery. One day, I was sitting in a cafe, with my stone-age phone out on the table in front of me. A mother and her son (of about seven or eight years old) walked past, and the boy blurted out, “Ahh, yetnal phone! Hahaha!” (yetnal means “old”). He was pointing at the thing, and had a look of total disgust on his face. Yet only two years previously, my phone had been the “latest” thing!

A CLASH OF OLD AND NEW

Korea was one of the “Asian Tiger” economies, experiencing extremely impressive economic growth throughout most of the late 20th century. The driving force behind this was authoritarian President Park Chung-hee, who saw industrial development as the country’s way out of poverty. It was also a way of overcoming the sense of shame and weakness felt because of Japanese colonialism, and a means of gaining security against the threat of North Korea.

Everything related to the past had to go. Old was bad, even shameful. Thatched roofs were out and corrugated sheet metal was in as part of President Park’s “New Village Movement” (Saemaeul Undong) in the 1970s; hanoks—traditional Korean houses—were torn down and replaced with gigantic gray apartment complexes. Then when the apartment complexes started to get old, they were torn down and replaced with newer apartment complexes.

The spirit of those times still exists. Koreans tend to like anything new and exciting. Slang vocabulary changes all the time. Restaurants last for two or three years, before their owners close them down and start serving something different. A hit from last year is an “old” song.

THE NEW NOSTALGIA

Neophilia has become a default cultural setting. But the pace of change is now slowing, and people have enough in the way of material comforts. This means that it is becoming easier to look back wistfully on the past. Normally I wouldn’t consider nostalgia an especially good thing, but in the case of Korea, I think it is. The fact that hanoks are making a comeback, along with other traditional elements of Korean heritage (see next chapter), means that Koreans are getting over the sense of embarrassment they had of their history, and re-learning their love for the best aspects of the past.

It is absolutely not contradictory to own a modernized hanok, fit it up with lightning-speed broadband, and hang old minhwa paintings on its walls. In fact, you would have to be quite wealthy to do so, and people would admire your taste. It is in fact the social elite who are leading the nostalgia boom. Where the traditional was once cheap, it is now expensive. Hanoks in the Seoul district of Bukchon could have been snapped up for the low tens of thousands of dollars a few years back; today, some go for millions. A haute couture traditional hanbok dress can cost thousands.

A hanok in Bukchon. Just a few years ago, people thought hanoks were old-fashioned. Today, modernized versions like these are highly sought after.

Musical Nostalgia

There is also nostalgia for music. Bars and clubs which exclusively play old Korean pop from the 60s and 70s are springing up. Shin Joong-hyun, the most legendary Korean rock star, told me that back in the 1980s, he was considered old news. Now, in his late 70s, he is playing again in big concert halls. Younger musicians, particularly in the Hongdae art school district of Seoul, speak of him with absolute reverence.

Those who are interested in old-school Korean rock should go to the funky Gopchang Jeongol bar in Hongdae, which has literally thousands of old vinyl records. At weekends, you’ll have to wait a while to get a table. But it is worth it—the crowd there is friendly, and you’ll invariably end up meeting artists, writers, and other interesting characters. And the age range goes from about 20 to 60.

At the moment, the mainstream is still driven forward by neophilia, whilst nostalgia is the preserve of the wealthy and the arty. But trends usually start with those latter two groups. In the next ten or twenty years, I think we’ll start seeing mass construction of hanoks again, and a boom in old Korean rock memorabilia. I’m definitely keeping hold of my signed Shin Joong-hyun CD.

LOVE AND COURTSHIP IN KOREA: DATING AND MARRIAGE, KOREAN-STYLE

Korean weddings tend to be big and expensive—the bigger and more expensive, the better. I have seen Korean wedding cakes as tall as myself, and heard of bills of ten thousand dollars just for flowers. I have been to weddings where five hundred people showed up, and guests arrived by the coachload.

Why is this? In Korea, a wedding is not just a union between two people. It is one of two families tying their fortunes together. The groom’s father’s co-workers, many of whom the groom himself will not really know, will likely show up. The bride’s aunt’s friends may come along to offer congratulations. And naturally, both families want to put on a good show. A big wedding is a matter of pride.

A MARRIAGE MONEY-GO-ROUND

A clever family might not end up out of pocket on their son or daughter’s wedding, though. This is because guests give the highly practical gift of cash in an envelope. When you arrive at a Korean wedding, you will see two tables—one manned by friends of the groom, and one by friends of the bride. You sign a book of congratulation, and then they hand you an envelope, into which you may put 50,000 or 100,000 won—maybe more, if you are close (or rich).

All of those contributions should hopefully pay for the lavish wedding meal (and copious amounts of alcohol), flowers, room hire, dresses, and so on. Some families even turn a profit. But because the money goes to the family rather than the bride and groom themselves, some guests—usually the groom’s friends—hand extra cash over to them in secret.

Between the two families, a whole range of expensive gifts will also change hands. The groom’s family is supposed to provide an apartment for the couple, while the bride’s family is supposed to fill it with furniture, appliances, and so on. The bride must in turn give the groom’s family a gift, or yedan, which consists of valuables up to the tune of 10 percent of the cost of the apartment! Many a wedding has been called off due to disputes over these costly arrangements.

The mothers of both bride and groom at a wedding. A Korean wedding is a union of families rather than just individuals—so the two sides really need to get along.

A wedding at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Gangnam. This was one of the fanciest weddings I have ever attended. Check out the size of the cake in the background!

Don’t Marry Her!

Because a Korean wedding is a union of families, parents are heavily involved even in the selection process. Even today, most Koreans would not defy their parents if told “don’t marry him/ her.” A close friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend after his parents said they could not accept her as a daughter-in-law. He later married another woman. Sad to say, the difference was one of status—his mother and father felt the family of the first girlfriend to be socially beneath them. This kind of tale is a common one in Korea.

EOJANG GWALLI: MANAGING YOUR FISHING GROUNDS

My aforementioned friend met both his ex-girlfriend and future wife on blind dates. These are known in Korea as sogaeting. Sogaeting is considered the standard way of meeting people, and it certainly isn’t merely the desperate who have them. Many people also enjoy arranging them. Internet dating, too, is popular, with relatively little stigma attached. And then for more serious dating, there are “marriage information” agencies, which introduce people looking for a spouse. Large firms like Duo and Sunoo, which maintain databases of tens of thousands of lonely hearts, do great business.

In big cities like Seoul though, there are many who do their own “hunting” (this is an English loan-word), at their universities, in bars, and in clubs, and so on. And despite Korea’s (now outdated) reputation for social conservatism, those who are considered attractive may well maintain a pool of not-quite-significant others whom they date casually and non-exclusively, before possibly getting serious with one of them later. Young Koreans even came up with a phrase, eojang gwalli (“managing your fishing grounds”), to describe this practice.

YOU’RE MY PET!

Another interesting trend has been the growth in relationships between older women and younger men. “Nuna-ism”—“nuna” being “older sister,” but which can also generally mean an older woman—has gained traction in art and life. TV shows and movies show such relation ships, and this has been accompanied by a dramatic increase in the number of men marrying older women in the past fifteen years. This is helping turn the traditional man-as-provider notion on its head. There was even a movie released in 2011 entitled You’re My Pet, in which a career woman protagonist finds a poor young man on the street, and quite literally takes him in as her pet. The male lead is Jang Keun-seok, an archetypal pretty-boy (or kkotminam in Korean slang) who is also extremely popular in Japan.

A Sogaeting (Blind Date)

Blind dates are the most common kind of first date in Korea. Mutual friends introduce the two, and then leave them to it. Sometimes things work out, and sometimes they don’t…

The Man of Korea Movement

You’re My Pet enraged a group named Man of Korea (MoK), a self-proclaimed men’s rights organization, which protests against submissive portrayals of men in the media. MoK also threw a hissy fit about a pop video by singer Baek Ji-young, which showed men being treated like pet dogs by women.

It is surprising that such a group would exist in a country as male-dominated as Korea, but it does show that times are starting to change. Ironically, the media companies that release Miss Baek’s songs, and make movies like You’re My Pet, are still almost completely run by men.

THE AEGYO SYNDROME: GIRLINESS TO THE MAX

“Am I cute?”

“Sure, you’re cute.”

“But then, am I not pretty?”

“Yes, of course you’re pretty.”

“Why don’t you say I’m sexy, though?”

“You just asked me if you’re pretty…”

“So I’m not sexy then?”

“I didn’t say that! Sure you are.”

“But if I’m sexy, then how can I be cute?”

“‘Cute’ and ‘sexy’ are different.”

[Repeat until one’s head explodes]

This is a close approximation of a conversation I once had with a girl I was dating, back when I was young and foolish. But this kind of rather childish, overly-cute talk is an example of aegyo, a type of girlish flirtiness that young Korean women are adept at. Though it may frustrate a cynical Englishman like me, the truth is that plenty of Korean guys go crazy for it.

HOW AEGYO WORKS

Basically, aegyo is all about seeming as cute or defenseless as possible, whilst teasing the man a little. Squealing the word “oppa”—which literally means “older brother” but is mostly used to address a boyfriend—is a must. So is comically slapping oppa on the chest or arm whenever he says anything a bit naughty. Pouting and pretending to be angry for a while, and then forgiving oppa, also increases one’s aegyo rating.

The master aegyo artist is a completely different woman in front of a man she is interested in. She may use bad language, discuss all manner of sexual topics, and drink like a fish when with her female friends, but if the object of her affections shows up, the change is instantaneous. She will become a picture of giggly innocence.

AEGYO OR NAESUNG?

Not everyone likes aegyo. For a start, women tend to hate it when they see others using it—though that doesn’t necessarily stop them using aegyo themselves when required. There is also the occasional man who finds it irritating, particularly when he is not attracted to the woman in question. In such a case, he might accuse her of being naesung, rather than having aegyo. Naesung means “pretending to be innocent,” but in a negative way.

Feminists tend to dislike aegyo, since it reinforces the “helpless woman” stereotype, and encourages men to see women in that light. But one can also see aegyo as a kind of empowering con game that induces men to become putty in a cute young lady’s manicured hands. And I have seen women with fat salaries and PhDs demonstrate naesung with the best of them.

Is she really angry, or is she just using aegyo?

Aegyo makes great business

Korean girl groups like Girls’ Generation and f(x) have young (i.e. teenage) members who are trained how to use their aegyo to maximum effect when appearing in videos and interviews. At the same time, they also dress in an extremely sexualized fashion. Apparently, the fans who really like this are older men in their late thirties or forties, some of whom even send gifts and fan mail to their favorite group members. It is hard to deny that there is something a little not-quite-right about this. But it is very good business for the record labels.