According to research by the department of Family Medicine at Hallym University, some 60 percent of people who attempt suicide are suffering from depression. Yet too many people in South Korea have outdated views of psychological illness. Many think that when someone is suicidal he simply lacks a strong will to live; he’s weak. There’s little sympathy or interest in probing below the surface.
And it’s not easy to get therapy for depression in South Korea, where there is still strong societal resistance to psychological treatment. Kim Eo-su, a professor of psychiatry at Yonsei Severance Hospital, told me: “One out of three depression patients stops mid-treatment. One of the biggest issues is that many patients think they can overcome depression on their own through a religious life or through exercise.”
Many people who seek psychiatric treatment are afraid of doctors keeping records. There was a rumor going around recently among married women that having a record of treatment or medication for depression could mean losing custody of your children if your husband were ever to sue for divorce.
Satisfactory explanations for the root causes of the epidemic are hard to come by. For the elderly, many analysts cite the breakdown of the traditional family unit, and the poor economy. Among the youth, the pressure over college entrance examinations is often blamed. And for the middle-aged, it’s uncertainty about the economy. But no matter what the age, too many South Koreans see suicide as a viable escape from the stresses of modern life. That attitude has to change.
— South Korea’s Struggle With Suicide, by Young-Ha Kim; April 2, 2014
By Guest Contributor Esther Choi
Existing in very distinct manifestations of Korean American diaspora, but occupying similar spaces, we the American-born Koreans defined “fobs” (Fresh Off the Boat, more recently immigrated Koreans) by their cutesy antics, superficial looks, plastic surgery craze, and love of K-pop. We may have considered it all in good humor, but ultimately it assured us we were morally superior, a higher art form.
When I finally grew up a bit and began challenging my own internalized racism, I began to realize my judgments of “fob culture” were more about my desire to raise myself above it rather than any attempt to understand their world. Perhaps we thought that by defining ourselves against the less assimilated, we could stamp out our own sense of foreignness.
I am now living in South Korea, the place I was never from but to which my life has always been bound. Centering this society, I find a renewed appreciation for the ways that the Korean side of my bi-cultural divide has always challenged and deepened my perspectives. As I learn more about the connections between Korean society today and its incredible history of struggle and endurance, which echoes throughout the next generations and across diasporas, my identity takes new roots.
By Guest Contributor Jea Kim (aka Onsemiro), cross-posted from My Dear Korea
- What the Heck Is Gangnam Style?
PSY finally set the world on fire with a song, Gangnam Seutail (강남스타일, “Gangnam Style”), written and performed by himself. The song is the title track of his sixth studio album, Yukgap (육갑), which can be interpreted two ways: (i) the word originally means “the sexagenary cycle;” but (ii) it is mostly used in a derogatory way as meaning “a total retard.” However, PSY chose this word to express his hope that his sixth (육(六), “six”) album would be the best (갑(甲), “best”). He made a wish and his wish came true. In fact, the song turned out to be a greater success than he had hoped; it became an instant YouTube, and iTunes hit upon its release and also has immediately become a worldwide phenom. And people are beginning to wonder what the heck is “Gangnam style.”
Generally speaking, “Gangnam” is the south of the Han River in Seoul while “Gangbuk” is the north of the river, in which gang means “river” (that is, the Han River); nam is “south,” and buk is north. More specifically, though, it refers to the areas that include Gangnam-gu and Seocho-gu districts as seen below. (Note that Songpa-gu can be considered to be part of Gangnam in a broader sense.)
By Guest Contributor refresh_daemon, cross-posted from Init_Scenes
Korean cinema changed my life. That’s a pretty bold claim to make, but my encounter with Korean cinema in 1999, during a trip to see my father in Seoul, fused together with my growing interest in film and television studies and drove me into a place of personal and cultural discovery. But before all that, let’s rewind a little.
Immigrants, Identity, and Movies
My parents were Korean immigrants to the United States, so it was a given that I’d be exposed to Korean media growing up, although it was primarily via rented Korean dramas and variety shows from the local Korean video rental store. And in my youngest, most naive years, I ate it all up, like I ate up 3-2-1 Contact and Sesame Street. I loved it all.
“Jealousy”: a popular 1992 Korean drama, although by then I’d “grown out” of Korean culture.
But once I became of school age, as an Asian American youth in a predominantly white city of a predominantly white US state, and in the heavily conformist culture of public school, there were enormous pressures to assimilate. People who were different got picked on or were never completely accepted and I was different enough by the way I looked and who my parents were, so I largely ignored my cultural upbringing in favor of the things I’d have in common with my friends at school.
As it turns out, I fell in with a group of kids who had a fascination for storytelling and the cinematic medium–many of whom, like me, work in the industry today. But back then, my interest was largely relegated towards the mainstream popular movies that my peers were into.
A Trip to Korea
Now, 1999 was not my first trip to Korea, nor was it the first time I’d ever seen a Korean film, as I’d watched copious amounts of Korean television in my youth while spending summers bored in the Korean countryside. I’d largely dismissed Korean film at the time because, in terms of production values, they paled in comparison to their Hollywood counterparts that I had access to at home.
But 1999 was my first time in Korea as an adult and my first time in Korea since my cinematic awakening. During my downtime in that trip, I watched a lot of Korean television, encountering the growing K-pop machine and still cheesy Korean dramas, but I also encountered Korean film. I distinctly remember watching, and dismissing Kim Sangjin‘s Two Cops 3, but I also found myself captivated by a Korean film as well.
It was about a street tough youth who goes to jail for a crime involving his friend, a young girl who he treats as a younger sister. When he gets out, the girl, now a woman, has developed a strong infatuation for him, but he refuses to involve himself in a relationship with her. Instead he finds his capacity as a fighter drawing him into a life of crime and watches as his friend ends up dating and becoming engaged (or married?) to another man, although she seems to still only have eyes for him. Eventually, his life of crime catches up with him, and the woman he loves and there’s some kind of tragic ending.
Sure enough, it wasn’t a remarkable movie, and it’s not a story you haven’t seen in crime films from the West, but there was some underlying emotion to the film that I connected with on a subconscious level that caused the otherwise unspectacular movie to linger in a way that Goodfellas never did. But that alone would not have caught my interest. No, spurred by what I saw on television, I got my father to take me to the movies and we went to see Nowhere to Hide—and that was a cinematic revelation. Flawed as it was, Lee Myungse showed me via that film that Koreans are just as capable of going beyond the ordinary.
I had not seen anything like this before.
Dipping into the Han
Eventually, my interest in cinema became strong enough to make me make career suicide and major in film at college. Separately, my interest in Korean cinema was growing since that summer, and I found an English-speaking community of Korean film fans at Koreanfilm.org and started to have my parents send me Korean films on DVD from Korea.
The Foul King was one of my early treasured Korean DVDs.
And by luck, my junior year in college, a visiting Korean professor offered a class in Korean cinema. I was exposed to a breadth of significant Korean film, from social commentary cinema like Chilsu and Mansu to the flowering of the Korean New Wave in Christmas in August, concurrently learning about the history and societal forces that helped shape the films I found coming out of Korea as well as more ambiguous concepts like “han.” This helped add a context to all these movies that I was rapidly consuming and think more critically about who was making these films.
Filling in the Gaps of Omission
But Korean cinema’s impact on me wasn’t merely intellectual but deeply personal. As an assimilated Korean American, I had willfully distanced myself from all ethnic elements of my identity almost up until college, including my very ethnically Korean parents. Yet, that conscious and forced denial of how I grew up and how I was raised left a rather bitter gap in my identity, unable to resolve the parts of me that would always differentiate me from the white majority of the world I live in: my Korean first tongue, my fond memories of Korean food, music, and even my parents and extended family.
What Korean cinema offered me, beyond simply good and sometimes innovative filmmaking and storytelling, was a way to connect the film-loving me of today with the more Korean me of yesteryear, tying me back into all those parts of myself that I left behind so that I could be seen as the same by my peers. It also offered me a picture of a world where I saw people that looked like me, that spoke the language of my parents, that I shared a connection to on a cultural level, to relate to. It was in part because of cinema that I realized that there was a part of me that was repressed.
Furthermore, it showed me what I was lacking in mainstream Hollywood cinema. I wasn’t represented. Even though Asian Americans make up more than five percent of the US population, we hardly made five percent of any significant credits, be it in cast or crew. And as “universal” as people think the mainstream Hollywood stories projected onto screens around the country might be, for Asian Americans, they aren’t universal. Sure, there are common elements as Americans–nay, as human beings–we can all touch upon, but, just like in my life, when watching films where people who look like us and have similar cultural backgrounds are lacking, a gap is left in our psyches, elements of who we are that might not be explicitly rejected in what it means to be American (or German, British–whatever your national cinema might be), as defined in the screen, but rejected by omission all the same. Just as I had rejected my Koreanness and Asianness by omission.
For me, Korean cinema fills in those gaps, reminding me that my stories, rooted in the ethnic and cultural elements of my identity, are valid, too, tying me back into the history of my family and their stories back in Korea and even sometimes here in the United States.
A New, Modern Korean Cinematic Me
There is no doubt in my mind that Korea is home to world-class filmmaking. The country manages to create remarkably quality-looking productions that easily rival their American peers at a fraction of the cost and boast visionaries of modern cinema in their cast and crew. These are examples of why many outside of those of Korean heritage might be drawn to Korean cinema.
Korean cinema ignited my imagination in many ways, since the industry is unconstrained by the same pressures that the Hollywood machine is–free to tell crazy stories that can’t be categorized by simple genre labels, especially in the flowering of the New Wave. And many of those trailblazing talents have been granted the latitude to continue working their magic into today, despite the rapid growth and development of Chungmuro into more of a machine.
They just can’t make them like this in Hollywood.
But for ethnic Koreans living and born away from land of their ancestors like myself, Korean cinema can offer even more: filling in the gaps in identity omitted by the local cinema, the local media, and the local culture to varying degrees, helping to salve the pains of absence of living in societies where complete representations of ourselves are lacking.
I continue to follow Korean cinema for multiple reasons. It appeals to me as a writer for the medium, keeping my brain flexible and willing to look at story-writing and film narrative from a perspective outside of the norms of the industry that I work in. It appeals to me as an intellectual, giving me perspective and understanding of the society that my father lives in and that my parents came from, giving me a means to understand and analyze it. And it appeals to me as a person of Korean ethnic heritage, helping to fill in the lack of representation and identity in the white-dominant society that I live in.
By Arturo R. García
Call this a more loathsome counterpart to Sleeping Chinese.com: There’s actually a blog dedicated to posting images of drunk, passed-out Koreans, and, frequently, the people who find them on the street.
In an interview with Matador Nights, the blog’s anonymous owner, an American man teaching English in South Korea, had a blunt response to concerns about his subjects’ privacy. (Note: that’s not him in the picture posted above)
By Arturo R. García
Most of the stories we’ve read about the now-infamous opening sequence prepared for The Simpsons by artist and documentary subject Banksy include a sentence along the lines of:
The extended sequence was apparently inspired by reports the show outsources the bulk of their animation to a company in South Korea, according to the BBC.
Not exactly breaking news; the show’s Wikipedia tells us its’ creators has been employing South Korean studios since its’ very first season, starting with AKOM Studios’ work on “Some Enchanted Evening.”
By Guest Contributor Diana, originally published at Disgrasian
It took me a full day to believe that this headline was real and not just something Tila Tequila got mixed up on her blog:
Girl bands are the new Weapon X? Badass!
From The Chosun Ilbo:
An official in charge of psy ops at the Joint Chiefs of Staff said no decision has been made so far. “It will take months to set up the big screens to use in psychological warfare operations and a wide range of contents will be shown,” the official said. “I don’t know whether songs by girl groups will be included, but there is that chance since pop songs were used in the past.” But he added the content of propaganda broadcasts will not be limited to girl bands.
Oh, the propoganda broadcasts won’t be made ENTIRELY of girl band materials? Well that’s dumb.
by Latoya Peterson
Reader Carleandria sent us this LA Times article over the weekend:
The telephones kept ringing with more orders and although Duan Yuelin kept raising his prices, the demand was inexhaustible. Customers were so eager to buy more that they would ply him with expensive gifts and dinners in fancy restaurants.
His family-run business was racking up sales of as much as $3,000 a month, unimaginable riches for uneducated Chinese rice farmers from southern Hunan province.
What merchandise was he selling? Babies. And the customers were government-run orphanages that paid up to $600 each for newborn girls for adoption in the United States and other Western countries.
“They couldn’t get enough babies. The demand kept going up and up, and so did the prices,” recalled Duan, who was released from prison last month after serving about four years of a six-year sentence for child trafficking.
When we post articles about taking the time to consider children in the adoption discourse, I am always surprised at the number of comments that assume we are anti-adoption (or as one amusingly put it, leaving these poor children to rot) when we believe in listening to perspectives from adult adoptees and adoptive POCs. The perspectives are quite different from the standard narrative on adoption. Just check out what Paula, of the Heart, Mind, and Seoul blog had to say:
[W]hy do so many people casually accept (and perhaps even secretly celebrate) it as fate, good karma, a higher power at force, destiny, luck, etc. when a woman who is without a true, just selection of choice or is told that the only real choice she has is to place her child, and believe this to be perfectly acceptable so long as it benefits our agenda? Our plans. Our lifelong hopes and childhood dreams. Why is okay for other women to find themselves in a position to have to make arguably the most God-awful and heart-wrenching, hellish choice or worse – to find themselves WITHOUT choice – when it suits us or those we love? And why aren’t more of us or more of those we love willing to make the same kinds of sacrifices that we expect, assume, hope and accept that other women will do? Continue reading