There are moments when I feel completely uncomfortable in Korea.
Not because of curious eyes on me in the subway, diners munching on dog meat, or the stench of sewage in the street. I feel uncomfortable because of violent interactions I observe between Korean men and women.
Last Sunday I met up with a group of my friends near Pusan National University for lunch. My buddy Won had some college friends visiting from Japan, and he really wanted to introduce them to hae-jang-guk (pork spine soup), a delicious and popular Korean dish. We walked a few blocks to the small restaurant, greeted with the usual chorus of "Annyong-ha-seyo!" as we stepped inside. We removed our shoes and padded barefoot to a low wooden table in the corner, where we sat on square cushions. There was about eight of us, chatting and laughing as we situated ourselves. Won rang the bell on the table and our waitress came over to take our order. She then scurried off to get our side dishes - kimchi, carrots, green peppers, wasabi - while the eight of us talked.
The restaurant was fairly empty, but quite suddenly the middle-aged woman sitting across the room started yelling. We looked over and she was on her feet, shouting at an ajassi (older man) while another women squeezed between them and tried to push both back, a palm on each chest. The man was also shouting loudly in Korean, spittle shooting from his mouth, trying to push the woman in the middle out of the way.
What is going on? we murmured to each other, looking around the restaurant to see if anyone would come to intervene. One waitress was organizing chopsticks, no others were in sight. Our gazes glued to this strange fight, we watched as the man and woman slapped at each other, and then, the man pulled back and punched the woman farthest from him in the side of the head.
At this point, thankfully, Won and Dave jumped up and ran over to help. The woman in the middle was whimpering, "Juseyo, juseyo" (Please, please) but the man pulled away before the boys reached their table. It was difficult to tell what was going on, as they'd been screaming in Korean, but it was certainly disturbing. One of the waitresses walked over, but seeing that the physical fighting had stopped, just told Won and Dave "It's okay." With uncertain looks, they returned to our table.
We all sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to digest the situation. It is unsettling to watch any kind of physical altercation, particularly when it's between a man and a woman. It is confusing and disturbing when nobody around you seems to do much about it.
In the States, if there were any kind of fighting in a restaurant, those involved would most likely be asked to leave. If a man punched a woman, it is safe to assume that the police would be called. Here, everybody returned to their food and the couple returned to their fight. There were no more punches thrown, but they continued yelling for another 20 minutes. Won, who speaks some Korean, said the man was being asked to sign divorce papers. Throughout the meal, I kept glancing over to see if he was going to hit her again.
This kind of scenario isn't entirely new to me. I've seen men push their girlfriends into telephone poles on the street during heated arguments - I've even had a drunk man punch me in the back, another shove me into traffic. Most of the fights I've seen appear to be two-sided; the woman pushes or hits back. Physical abuse between couples appears to be accepted, or at the very least, one minds his or her own business when it comes to domestic issues.
And that's what really bothers me. Nobody wants to be involved in a personal fight between strangers. But my upbringing has taught me that I have no choice when a fight becomes violent - I now have an obligation to intervene. If I sit back, if I do nothing, I become part of the problem. And I feel like shit.
Which is exactly how I felt when I didn't help the woman screaming in my apartment building. It was a Tuesday night, and I was watching a movie with a friend. When we first heard the screams, we couldn't tell if it was part of the film or not. I muted the sound, and heard the shouting much more clearly - a woman's voice, almost shrieking, the sound of someone being hurt badly.
I rushed to the door, swung it open, stuck my head outside. I expected to see other faces in the hall - my neighbors, also investigating the screams. But nothing, just a dark and deserted corridor.
I thought I should call the police, but I didn't even know the emergency number in Korea. I dialed my Korean friend Monica, and explained the situation to her.
"So, what's the Korean 911, Moni?" I asked. "I need to call them." I was breathless.
She made a clucking sound. "Ah, Jenn, no call police. Maybe just wife in fight with husband."
"But she sounds like she's being hurt very bad. I don't care if it's her husband."
Monica sighed. "Sometimes Korean woman good at screaming, I think. But it is okay. Don't worry. Maybe I will check for you tomorrow."
I hung up the phone feeling unsettled. I couldn't just turn the movie on and forget I'd heard something. But I wasn't so sure about calling the police, either. What if they blew me off the same way Monica had?
I slipped on my leather boots and stepped back out into the hallway. I could still hear the woman shrieking, although it was sporadic. The hall was pitch black and I could only see a few feet ahead of me. It sounded like the woman was screaming from the floor above me, so I walked as quickly as I could down the hall to the stairwell, my heels clicking loudly on the ground.
I peered into the empty stairwell, could hear the woman's voice overhead. My heart hammered in my chest, my ears, even the bottoms of my feet. When I reached the landing, I paused to listen. The screaming had stopped. I waited a few moments, and then, utterly spooked, I ran down the stairs as fast as my feet would take me. I burst through the door onto my floor, never slowing down. I didn't stop until I'd locked my front door behind me with clammy hands, panting.
I was too scared to help the woman. I had been raised to believe women were fearless, and that if someone were in danger, I would go to their rescue, Sydney Bristow style - kicking ass and taking names. But without cops or other worried neighbors, I was too scared to put my nose where I'd been told it didn't belong. I felt like a coward, like I was responsible if the woman was seriously hurt.
I travel so I can view, and be a small part of, other cultures. I enjoy learning about different views, different ways of life. But I believed that there were several universal truths, a few things that connect all of us, regardless of age, gender, religion, geographic region, race: our love for family, our belief that killing and violence are wrong, a desire for a bright future for our children.
Living in Korea has shaken that belief. I have seen bad and scary things during my travels across South America, Africa, Asia, Europe. There are plenty of bad and scary things in my own country, in my own city. But what worries me is when those things aren't deemed "bad" and "scary" or when the belief is that others shouldn't get involved in preventing such things.
A belief in myself has also been shaken: the belief that I will always try to do the right thing, regardless of consequence. I hate the fact that I overestimated my bravery, and that regard for my own safety compromised my ideals.
I don't know what happened to the woman in my apartment building, but I hope she was more courageous than me. I hope she found the strength to leave whomever thought it alright to harm or hurt her.
Not because of curious eyes on me in the subway, diners munching on dog meat, or the stench of sewage in the street. I feel uncomfortable because of violent interactions I observe between Korean men and women.
Last Sunday I met up with a group of my friends near Pusan National University for lunch. My buddy Won had some college friends visiting from Japan, and he really wanted to introduce them to hae-jang-guk (pork spine soup), a delicious and popular Korean dish. We walked a few blocks to the small restaurant, greeted with the usual chorus of "Annyong-ha-seyo!" as we stepped inside. We removed our shoes and padded barefoot to a low wooden table in the corner, where we sat on square cushions. There was about eight of us, chatting and laughing as we situated ourselves. Won rang the bell on the table and our waitress came over to take our order. She then scurried off to get our side dishes - kimchi, carrots, green peppers, wasabi - while the eight of us talked.
The restaurant was fairly empty, but quite suddenly the middle-aged woman sitting across the room started yelling. We looked over and she was on her feet, shouting at an ajassi (older man) while another women squeezed between them and tried to push both back, a palm on each chest. The man was also shouting loudly in Korean, spittle shooting from his mouth, trying to push the woman in the middle out of the way.
What is going on? we murmured to each other, looking around the restaurant to see if anyone would come to intervene. One waitress was organizing chopsticks, no others were in sight. Our gazes glued to this strange fight, we watched as the man and woman slapped at each other, and then, the man pulled back and punched the woman farthest from him in the side of the head.
At this point, thankfully, Won and Dave jumped up and ran over to help. The woman in the middle was whimpering, "Juseyo, juseyo" (Please, please) but the man pulled away before the boys reached their table. It was difficult to tell what was going on, as they'd been screaming in Korean, but it was certainly disturbing. One of the waitresses walked over, but seeing that the physical fighting had stopped, just told Won and Dave "It's okay." With uncertain looks, they returned to our table.
We all sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to digest the situation. It is unsettling to watch any kind of physical altercation, particularly when it's between a man and a woman. It is confusing and disturbing when nobody around you seems to do much about it.
In the States, if there were any kind of fighting in a restaurant, those involved would most likely be asked to leave. If a man punched a woman, it is safe to assume that the police would be called. Here, everybody returned to their food and the couple returned to their fight. There were no more punches thrown, but they continued yelling for another 20 minutes. Won, who speaks some Korean, said the man was being asked to sign divorce papers. Throughout the meal, I kept glancing over to see if he was going to hit her again.
This kind of scenario isn't entirely new to me. I've seen men push their girlfriends into telephone poles on the street during heated arguments - I've even had a drunk man punch me in the back, another shove me into traffic. Most of the fights I've seen appear to be two-sided; the woman pushes or hits back. Physical abuse between couples appears to be accepted, or at the very least, one minds his or her own business when it comes to domestic issues.
And that's what really bothers me. Nobody wants to be involved in a personal fight between strangers. But my upbringing has taught me that I have no choice when a fight becomes violent - I now have an obligation to intervene. If I sit back, if I do nothing, I become part of the problem. And I feel like shit.
Which is exactly how I felt when I didn't help the woman screaming in my apartment building. It was a Tuesday night, and I was watching a movie with a friend. When we first heard the screams, we couldn't tell if it was part of the film or not. I muted the sound, and heard the shouting much more clearly - a woman's voice, almost shrieking, the sound of someone being hurt badly.
I rushed to the door, swung it open, stuck my head outside. I expected to see other faces in the hall - my neighbors, also investigating the screams. But nothing, just a dark and deserted corridor.
I thought I should call the police, but I didn't even know the emergency number in Korea. I dialed my Korean friend Monica, and explained the situation to her.
"So, what's the Korean 911, Moni?" I asked. "I need to call them." I was breathless.
She made a clucking sound. "Ah, Jenn, no call police. Maybe just wife in fight with husband."
"But she sounds like she's being hurt very bad. I don't care if it's her husband."
Monica sighed. "Sometimes Korean woman good at screaming, I think. But it is okay. Don't worry. Maybe I will check for you tomorrow."
I hung up the phone feeling unsettled. I couldn't just turn the movie on and forget I'd heard something. But I wasn't so sure about calling the police, either. What if they blew me off the same way Monica had?
I slipped on my leather boots and stepped back out into the hallway. I could still hear the woman shrieking, although it was sporadic. The hall was pitch black and I could only see a few feet ahead of me. It sounded like the woman was screaming from the floor above me, so I walked as quickly as I could down the hall to the stairwell, my heels clicking loudly on the ground.
I peered into the empty stairwell, could hear the woman's voice overhead. My heart hammered in my chest, my ears, even the bottoms of my feet. When I reached the landing, I paused to listen. The screaming had stopped. I waited a few moments, and then, utterly spooked, I ran down the stairs as fast as my feet would take me. I burst through the door onto my floor, never slowing down. I didn't stop until I'd locked my front door behind me with clammy hands, panting.
I was too scared to help the woman. I had been raised to believe women were fearless, and that if someone were in danger, I would go to their rescue, Sydney Bristow style - kicking ass and taking names. But without cops or other worried neighbors, I was too scared to put my nose where I'd been told it didn't belong. I felt like a coward, like I was responsible if the woman was seriously hurt.
I travel so I can view, and be a small part of, other cultures. I enjoy learning about different views, different ways of life. But I believed that there were several universal truths, a few things that connect all of us, regardless of age, gender, religion, geographic region, race: our love for family, our belief that killing and violence are wrong, a desire for a bright future for our children.
Living in Korea has shaken that belief. I have seen bad and scary things during my travels across South America, Africa, Asia, Europe. There are plenty of bad and scary things in my own country, in my own city. But what worries me is when those things aren't deemed "bad" and "scary" or when the belief is that others shouldn't get involved in preventing such things.
A belief in myself has also been shaken: the belief that I will always try to do the right thing, regardless of consequence. I hate the fact that I overestimated my bravery, and that regard for my own safety compromised my ideals.
I don't know what happened to the woman in my apartment building, but I hope she was more courageous than me. I hope she found the strength to leave whomever thought it alright to harm or hurt her.
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