Courtesy of Anthony Tran
David A. Tizzard
My daughter was jumping around the room, happy she was going to play with the girl next door. I looked at her and asked simply, “Your friend is coming round later. Are you happy?” Without missing a beat, she stared up at me and replied, “Daddy. She's not my friend. She's my Unnie.”
Elizabeth is only 8 years old but she's already able to describe her Korean relationships to other people in English. A friend is someone who is the same age as her (dong-gap). With these “chingu,” she can use the simplest form of language and doesn't have to worry about honorifics. Those older than her become unnie (girls) or oppa (boys). When they are younger, they are “dong-saeng,” and she uses their names frequently. For the most part in Korean society, you do not use the name of someone older than you. You use titles. And people quicky establish their relationship with other people. It's generally done by age but titles and position also come into it.
I've known my sister-in-law for about 12 years. We have travelled to different countries, eat and drink together regularly, and she plays a huge role in raising our children. Sometimes, admittedly after a few too many glasses of port, I say her actual name when speaking Korean as a way of testing the waters. Doing so brings an immediate glare from her and an over-reaction as if I've just committed some incredible sin. “Hey!”, she shouts. “You need to call me cho-hyung!” This is a title that a man is meant to use when addressing his wife's older sister.
Things get a little more complicated with my wife's younger brother. He is older than me and so, technically, I would be using honorific language with him. However, because I'm married to his older sister, I go above him in status and so he should technically be using honorific language with me. The result is a wonderful dance we do of being overly polite and formal with each other at times and then completely loose and natural at other times.
Much of this is done in an unspoken manner. Korea is known as a high-context society and so people do not always speak directly and say certain things. A lot of the conversation goes unsaid and you are expected to use your nunchi to navigate life and relationships with people. There is a whole dialogue going on beyond words and played out instead with a series of almost imperceptible grunts and hand movements.
No white pass
It can be quite easy to live in Korea and get a foreigner pass for things. If you don't speak Korean, you can breeze through life and have quite an easy time of things. Particularly if you are white, there is sometimes this unfair and unspoken expectation that Korean people should adapt to your language and your culture. People from Southeast Asia do not always receive the same treatment unfortunately. They are expected to speak the language and understand Korean culture.
And when you do speak Korean, you will notice your relationships with people change. They become more complex. You do not just have friends, but rather a whole series of hyung, unnie, dong-saeng, and so on. Your relationships are inter-dependent. Rather than being a single static self, authentic, and the same in every situation, you wear a mask and play a role. Some of the academic literature shows how notion of an unchanging identity is remarkedly western, steeped in Judeo-Christian thought and played out by religious and literary figures. In more Confucian influenced societies, you adapt to the person you are speaking and interacting with. I am never David but rather a professor, a father, a brother, an uncle, and a student in turn. Each position bringing with it a different way of speaking and being. And it's masks all the way down.
University life
At the start of a university semester, when introducing themselves, students will often remark how surprised they are to see so many unnie in their class. They are classmates, brought together for 16 weeks to study, but they feel a relationship difference from their first day. And, then after a year, they see a whole new batch of freshman arrive and they suddenly become a unnie. Their perspective changes. They are no longer the bright-eyed new arrivals looking for guidance and help. Instead, they are the ones who have to provide assistance. They have to write things anonymously on the university apps and show others around the campus.
Again, it's not always based on age. Some students have done their suneung exam two, three, even four times before entering university in the hope of getting better grades or studying in Seoul. And so there are those who are older than others yet further back in their academic career. Here, we get the sunbae and hubae titles that are also used frequently.
What I have enjoyed learning about recently is how some girls are moving away from calling older male friends oppa and opting instead for hyung (a term usually reserved for men addressing other men). It's like the gender neutralization of the terms guys and bros in English.
Over analysis
That last point speaks to a possible danger. We could be over analyzing something very simple. Why, for instance, do people in England call each other “bro” when they are clearly not related to each other? Why has “fam” become a term of endearment given to people who are not blood relatives? Language is fluid, changing, and representative of the socio-cultural conditions. And for many people living here, everything I've said above is completely obvious and, to a certain extent, second nature. Particularly if you speak the language and go about your day-to-day life interacting in Korean.
But for those outside the country, it might be easy to miss this cultural linguistic difference. Take, for example, watching K-dramas. You'll frequently see English subtitles use people's names when the actual Korean language being spoken on screen is full of titles and positions. The translations will be full of Jisoos, Dong-hyuns, and Eun-youngs. On screen, however, just like in Korean life, people are addressing each other by titles.
So when international students tell me at the end of a semester that they have had trouble making friends in Korea, I sympathize with them. It can be quite difficult here for some people. But then I try to offer another solution. Don't make friends. Instead, look for an unnie, look for a hyung. Or a dong-seng. When you do this, your life in Korea changes.
It can, at first, feel very distant. Cold, almost. When you come from a culture in which you frequently call people by their first name irrespective of age, when your social circle and friend group is composed of people of all ages, it feels alien to distinguish people based solely on age and then adjust your language and behavior accordingly. But there is something different that happens. Having a hyung cements your relationship with that person. You are then bonded in a certain way, each defining the other.
Some of my deepest and most profound relationships in Korea are with those who I speak formally. To whom, I would never use their name. They are not friends. They are not inherently better or worse than relationships with people in other cultures. Just different. And it's something that I hope other people can find when they visit or interact with Korean people.
David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.