The pandemic's psychological effects on Korean youth

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By David A. Tizzard

Try explaining Confucianism to someone. Or how Korean people will often instinctively become aware of the hierarchy in a room and know where to position themselves, what language to use, and who to defer to.

Try conveying the feeling carried by the scars and trauma of Japanese colonization and the anti-Chinese sentiment that gets whipped up sporadically.

And then how Korea's journey toward modernization and democracy has demanded many individuals quieten their own identity and dreams. Has the economic and cultural success been worth it?

And what of that cultural success: why are large swathes of the world going nuts over hyper-sexualized and overly-choreographed Korean idol groups?

None of these is easy to answer. They are difficult questions and don't lend themselves to explanations in a tweet. They require exploration, nuance, dialectical interactions, questions, challenges, humility and sensitivity.

And then you still might not get close to coming up with an answer that satisfies everyone. Korean studies is a brilliant field to explore.

It's never been more attractive and this is evidenced by the huge numbers of international students signing up to learn about Seotaeji, gugak, Park Chung-hee, gapjil, Gwangju, candlelight movements, nunchi, Bong Joon-ho, Queen Seondeok and Lee Young-ji.

I've spent the last couple of years teaching these topics online through live discussions at two different universities. Zoom is certainly a substitute for the classroom, but only ever that.

It will never replace the tangible experience of occupying the same physical and temporal space with other people.

The weird awkwardness before a class begins where you can't just sit there with your camera off but instead have to acknowledge you're being looked at.

That awareness of who's not really catching what's going on and who most definitely is despite their desire to stay somewhat quieter than others during discussions.

Those fleeting conversations before and after class, the coffees during break-time, the huge sigh of relief when you're finished and say goodbye only to then have to greet people again when you get to the elevator.

Office workers, high school kids, coffee shop employees, delivery drivers, nurses and late night hostesses have all been largely at their regular places of employment while university students have remained off campus.

I've benefited quite a lot in terms of money and time in that I've been able to stay at home and not have to worry about commuting, lunch and new pairs of trousers.

While I've waved my kids off to school in the morning, I put on my slippers, shorts, and sit down dressed smartly from the waist-up to explain the presence of "han" in Korean dramas and literature in the 1980s.

It never quite felt right seeing my young kids and wife go out while I stayed home secure: a backwards interpretation of the chivalry expected on boats and vessels in the west.

So I'm glad I'm going back to a degree of normalcy. And so are many students.

Having spoken to some this week, it was eye-opening to hear how many of them openly said that they wanted to be here on campus, they wanted to see people, they wanted to make friends, they wanted to be a university student, they wanted to live.

Students offered these observations to me without prompting but purely of their own choice. It was the friendship comments that I was most struck by.

Some were volunteering their social media and other forms of contact to people they were meeting for the first time. And this wasn't just trying to get more followers or flex their latest Tik-Toks, it was a cry for help. And a brave one at that.

Korean life can be a lonely and isolated experience sometimes. But I can't imagine what it must have been like to have left high school and all your friends, entered a new university where you know no one, and then be kept away from human contact for two years.

I'm not a virologist and I also understand the motivation to keep people safe, but, beyond COVID-19, this week opened my eyes to the psychological and emotional effects the pandemic and two years of online learning has had on the nation's youth and young adults.

I've always read about it and tried to empathize as much as possible, but now the reality has presented itself.

University students have often been at the forefront of Korea's liberalization and democracy. They have been vanguards for freedom and truth. A new generation are here, and they seem ready to assume the mantle. It's time we let them take up that responsibility.

Dr. David A. Tizzard (datizzard@swu.ac.kr) has a Ph.D. 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. The views expressed in the article are the author's own and do not reflect the editorial direction of The Korea Times.

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