Courtesy of Cat Han

Korean summers are brutally humid. You sweat just looking out the windows. Nevertheless, we had broken down a large wardrobe and had to now carry these large planks of wood outside to a recycling area familiar to anyone who lives in Korean apartments. Illuminated, slightly removed, and watched over by a passionate "ajjoshi" seemingly desperate to make sure you take off every piece of paper and wash every piece of plastic. Even without cameras, there's always the fear that failing to recycle properly will result in a notice going up in the elevators about "somebody" not doing their job properly. The public gaze in this country is super real. People don't act right and avoid stealing stuff because they're inherently better people than elsewhere. It's often because there's an inescapable feeling that you're always being watched. It's known locally as either "nunchi" or "namui siseon."

So we struggled, back and forth. My niece and nephew joined in as we slugged long planks of wood to the tents outside. The security guard, by this point, had abandoned his television and decided to watch us instead. A white guy with a beard lugging wood around is always likely to draw attention, but when there's the possibility of someone fly-tipping or dumping rubbish without the requisite permits, the interest increases in magnitude. By the time we reached our sixth or seventh visit, the old lad was satisfied that not only were we doing things right but also that we had purchased the necessary stickers from the local administrative office for them to be collected. He decided that he would also help us stack them against the wall.

He stood somewhat proudly with his various medals spread across his shirt, his hat erect on his balding head. Though I didn't see it at the time, I'm sure there must have been a "Best Driver" badge somewhere on him. But, he was a good dude. Realizing that we were actually working and doing everything above board, he decided to help us. We got the job done much quicker, and there were no worries about the placement of the various pieces of wood.

This is Jeong

Having finished, I decided to walk back out with a box of vitamin drinks and nuts for the old boy. It was hot, the weather was desperately unpleasant, and I was sure he would appreciate it. As I arrived back outside, he was still there. Standing by the wood. Making sure everything was stood up correctly and the stickers could be seen. I bowed somewhat and told him in Korean, "Many people say that 'jeong' has disappeared in our society today, but I want to say thank you for helping us."

As I handed over the two packages, he looked at me with a measure of disbelief. "You're very handsome," he said. I had become used to this by now. Some Korean people are very quick to comment on your appearance (for both better and for worse). In this particular moment, where a Western person would have expected a thank you or a sheepish rejection of the gifts, the Korean response was to instead see the bestower of gifts as more beautiful than they had previously imagined. Morality and generosity are deeply intertwined here. And the more you give to others, the more pleasing you look in their eyes.

I'm not sure when I learned to give gifts to others in Korea. Of course, the idea of generosity and donations has been deeply instilled in me from a young age. To give is to be Christan, I was told. It was impossible for me in Britain to pass a seller of the Big Issue or a local subway violin player without reaching into my pocket and handing over a few coins. But that was an individual decision, and there were no ramifications to my actions. Whether I gave the person a couple of pounds or not, he was still likely to look at me and say, "Afternoon, mate?"

In Korea, however, those you meet regularly will often be given small gifts. The people who come to clean the water filter every month, the lady who sits inside the car park tent, the old lad who runs the coffee shop at the end of the road and the interns who staff the university office desks during summer and winter all suddenly take on a different role. They are not just strangers in a completely atomized neoliberal world. Nor are they friends. Instead, they are people with whom you are expected to have consistent and regular interactions. Therefore, there is a necessity to show your appreciation.

In some cultures, you can smile, say thank you, look someone in the eye, and pass on your gratitude as you recite their name. Handshakes and eye contact are all quite new to Korea, however. Names are also quite difficult. The person is likely a hyeong-nim, an ajjuma or something else. They are an archetype, and your behavior has to change accordingly. It is in this situation that one gives gifts.

Service as love

It's sometimes hard to say "thank you" or "I love you" in Korean. This is a high-context society. A lot of communication goes unsaid. It's not that it's fundamentally different from other countries, cultures and civilizations. It's just different in intensity. This means that acts of service, giving fruit or driving to a destination, are often more appreciated than simple vocal gestures. Instead of vocalizing things, you act them out. You do rather than think. You act rather than speak. You cook for them. You bring coffee. You give them an old jacket you no longer wear.

Whatever the reasons might be, in Korea, you learn to both give and receive. This might be a set of vitamin drinks, it might be a compliment or it might be the bill at the local barbeque joint. But it's more than money or affection. Here, those actions become a bond: a psychological umbilical cord linking people. This might be jeong. It might be the natural development of devotion and affection that exist among people everywhere. It's certainly not unique to Korea. However, it means a lot. And every Korean will immediately know what you mean when you say the word "jeong." They will also all have their own definitions of this "invisible hug." Even if they say it's a disappearing concept, they are still telling you it once had a prominent home here. I can't define jeong for you. I can only tell you the story of my interaction with the security guard, one of many such things that happens regularly to me.

I feel jeong every day. I feel deeply connected to the people, the country, the civilization, and everything else that comes with it. Korea is part of me. I help people here when they are in need. If someone asks for help, I do it without thinking. If everyone wants to eat something I'm not too keen on, I go along with it. I don't complain about things being done differently from what I'm used to. I just smile. Bow and nod. I know that the most important thing here is your jeong with others. No man is an island, and no Korean is an individual. We are all tied together in some way.

I'm sure that some will decry my depictions of jeong, saying such notions are attempts at either essentialism or orientalism. I'm not suggesting that jeong is unique to Korea or that it doesn't happen elsewhere. I'm simply suggesting that every Korean you meet will know the concept of jeong and have their own understanding of it. I have mine, and it is part of the wonderfully deep and real connection I feel to people here, not least of all the security ajjoshi outside. If you've spent any deal of time here in Korea and learned to speak the language and interact with the people, you will feel it too, in your own way, of course.

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.