By Jason Lim
I didn't know Kent Davy. I never met him. We were merely casual Facebook friends. And it was Facebook that told me that Kent had passed away suddenly from an aggressive form of cancer. He was apparently showing positive responses to new therapy when he suddenly passed. I guess these things happen with cancer, a terrible disease that takes too many loved ones from us too early.
First and foremost, I would like to convey my sincere and deepest condolences to his family. I know that he leaves behind a wife and daughter. I also send my sympathies to his friends who actually knew him in person. If it's true that you are the company that you keep, then it's apparent that Kent was an intelligent, kind and insightful person who was actively engaged with his community and, especially, loved Korea as his adopted home in spite of all its faults and eccentricities.
This is unchartered territory for me, writing about the untimely death of someone that I didn't know. I am fully aware of the risk of intruding on a sense of profound grief that I have no right to witness as a stranger. For that, I ask for forgiveness from his family and friends.
At the same time, I find myself strangely moved by Kent's untimely passing. Although our exchanges consisted of a few Facebook messages and comments on random posts here and there, I had felt a sense of warm familiarity with Kent. It wasn't his politics, since he was an unabashed conservative who loved to needle liberals, of which I am more than I am not. It definitely wasn't his position as an international realist who never bought into the whole North Korea engagement strategy, seemingly wary that South Korea's romantic ethnocentric fraternalism will be taken advantage of by the coldly calculating North; I happen to be a pro-engagement guy.
I believe that I felt kinship with Kent because his love of Korea and Koreans was apparent and authentic. He was one of the core members of the expat community who had settled permanently and had carved out their slices of life in Korea. At the risk of generalizing, this expat community consists of diverse folks who came to Korea when Korea wasn't exactly a happening destination and, for various reasons, decided to stay. Many of them married Koreans, raising mixed families in what must have been an often hostile, homogenous environment.
In that sense, they are literally pioneers of a new way of Korean life. As the hermit kingdom gave way to the land of the rising K-pop, they redefined the life that was possible for a foreigner in Korea in business, academics, politics, journalism, art and every important venue through which a life can be expressed and found meaningful. Most of all, by choosing to be present ― by choosing to persevere in their presence ― they affected and forced Korea to be more expansive and generous of what it meant to be a Korean. They drove Korea to be better than what it was.
They are also living witnesses to the tragic, inspiring but always dynamic evolution of South Korean society as it transitioned from one of the poorest countries in the world to the modern miracle that it is today. From a brutal dictatorship to the messy but powerful democracy that somehow managed to impeach the sitting president through peaceful candle power, which Kent probably disagreed with. Many of the core expats were U.S. military who had been stationed in Korea or Peace Corps members who were assigned to the country, thereby actively participating in the evolution that they witnessed first-hand.
Further, they are the penultimate global ambassadors for Korea. Choosing to live in Korea and participate fully in their experience wholly as permanent residents ― rather than as long-term interlopers ― speaks volumes to the world about what Korea is becoming. They don't have to dress up in hanbok, play gayageum or read Korean poetry to represent Korea; they represent Korea through their presence and participation in Korean society, which they choose intentionally. It wasn't thrust upon them as an accident of ethnicity.
Sure, they criticize and complain about Korea. But they criticize as local residents, not as visitors passing through Korea. Their criticisms come from a place of understanding and love, of commitment and ownership, rather than from a place of disinterested observation.
As I said, I am not a part of this community. But I have been privileged to catch a fleeting glimpse of what has surely been an honorable and noble life and, through him, appreciate the courage and spirit of others like him. It's said that we stand on the shoulders of giants. The story of modern Korea has many giants. Kent reminded me that not all these giants are Koreans by birth. They are here by choice.
Rest in peace.
Jason Lim (jasonlim@msn.com) is a Washington, D.C.-based expert on innovation, leadership and organizational culture.
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First and foremost, I would like to convey my sincere and deepest condolences to his family. I know that he leaves behind a wife and daughter. I also send my sympathies to his friends who actually knew him in person. If it's true that you are the company that you keep, then it's apparent that Kent was an intelligent, kind and insightful person who was actively engaged with his community and, especially, loved Korea as his adopted home in spite of all its faults and eccentricities.
This is unchartered territory for me, writing about the untimely death of someone that I didn't know. I am fully aware of the risk of intruding on a sense of profound grief that I have no right to witness as a stranger. For that, I ask for forgiveness from his family and friends.
At the same time, I find myself strangely moved by Kent's untimely passing. Although our exchanges consisted of a few Facebook messages and comments on random posts here and there, I had felt a sense of warm familiarity with Kent. It wasn't his politics, since he was an unabashed conservative who loved to needle liberals, of which I am more than I am not. It definitely wasn't his position as an international realist who never bought into the whole North Korea engagement strategy, seemingly wary that South Korea's romantic ethnocentric fraternalism will be taken advantage of by the coldly calculating North; I happen to be a pro-engagement guy.
I believe that I felt kinship with Kent because his love of Korea and Koreans was apparent and authentic. He was one of the core members of the expat community who had settled permanently and had carved out their slices of life in Korea. At the risk of generalizing, this expat community consists of diverse folks who came to Korea when Korea wasn't exactly a happening destination and, for various reasons, decided to stay. Many of them married Koreans, raising mixed families in what must have been an often hostile, homogenous environment.
In that sense, they are literally pioneers of a new way of Korean life. As the hermit kingdom gave way to the land of the rising K-pop, they redefined the life that was possible for a foreigner in Korea in business, academics, politics, journalism, art and every important venue through which a life can be expressed and found meaningful. Most of all, by choosing to be present ― by choosing to persevere in their presence ― they affected and forced Korea to be more expansive and generous of what it meant to be a Korean. They drove Korea to be better than what it was.
They are also living witnesses to the tragic, inspiring but always dynamic evolution of South Korean society as it transitioned from one of the poorest countries in the world to the modern miracle that it is today. From a brutal dictatorship to the messy but powerful democracy that somehow managed to impeach the sitting president through peaceful candle power, which Kent probably disagreed with. Many of the core expats were U.S. military who had been stationed in Korea or Peace Corps members who were assigned to the country, thereby actively participating in the evolution that they witnessed first-hand.
Further, they are the penultimate global ambassadors for Korea. Choosing to live in Korea and participate fully in their experience wholly as permanent residents ― rather than as long-term interlopers ― speaks volumes to the world about what Korea is becoming. They don't have to dress up in hanbok, play gayageum or read Korean poetry to represent Korea; they represent Korea through their presence and participation in Korean society, which they choose intentionally. It wasn't thrust upon them as an accident of ethnicity.
Sure, they criticize and complain about Korea. But they criticize as local residents, not as visitors passing through Korea. Their criticisms come from a place of understanding and love, of commitment and ownership, rather than from a place of disinterested observation.
As I said, I am not a part of this community. But I have been privileged to catch a fleeting glimpse of what has surely been an honorable and noble life and, through him, appreciate the courage and spirit of others like him. It's said that we stand on the shoulders of giants. The story of modern Korea has many giants. Kent reminded me that not all these giants are Koreans by birth. They are here by choice.
Rest in peace.
Jason Lim (jasonlim@msn.com) is a Washington, D.C.-based expert on innovation, leadership and organizational culture.
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