Why do I like Park Chan-wook’s Korean film, Oldboy, you ask? Why, the reason I like Oldboy is because I long to punish my enemies. Not only do I want to tit their tat, but also to utterly annihilate their entire existence while ruining everything they love. If they love nothing? Then I want to give them love only to violate it while blossoming. My enemies should not only suffer physically, but should also endure every possible psychological torture procurable. I want my adversaries to be at the peak of their hopes before kicking down their sandcastles. Before you indignantly judge me, you must remember that when I say “I”, you know that it means “we”: for beneath all of our politeness, beneath all of our reservations, linger spiteful, vindictive thoughts. Speak for myself? No, I will speak for all of us.

Elucidating this idea, Russell Roberts, the director of Vancouver, Canada’s Shakespearian Bard on the Beach play, Titus Andronicus, defends the choice of using gratuitous fake blood instead of “arty-farty” red ribbons:

“We’re very inhuman, we human beings. I mean, look what’s happening in Afghanistan, in Baghdad, in Somalia. It has happened since day one. This is no more violent or horrible than what’s going on around the globe right now. Titus has been catalogued as a problem play, but I think that the problem—if there’s a problem—is that we don’t like to have that mirror put up to us.”

The mirror of which Roberts speaks is the same mirror that Park puts up to us when he immerses viewers into the world of a man as an insect under glass. In Oldboy, Oh Dae-su unwittingly draws the attention of Lee Woo-jin who has enough wealth and motivation to become an omniscient, overbearing God in Dae-su’s life. Woo-jin’s explains his vengeance to Dae-su by saying: "Be it a rock or a grain of sand, in water they sink as the same," meaning that even the most frivolous of deeds may bring about the same wrath meant for more serious acts. Petty and insignificant causes lead to severe overreactions.

In one of his interviews, Park says: "Basically, I'm throwing out the question 'When is such violence justified?' To get that question to touch the audience physically and directly - that's what my goal is. In the experience of watching my film, I don't want the viewer to stop at the mental or the intellectual. I want them to feel my work physically.” When we watch the film, we feel Dae-su’s anxiety. When Dae-su feels most powerful, we see even his best attempts are futile. Woo-jin knows Dae-su completely and can not only predict Dae-su’s actions, but can also get deep inside of Dae-su’s mind to control his very thoughts. Woo-jin is the scholar studying Dae-su.

We can taste the omnipotence of God. Our voyeuristic tendencies, too, have grown well beyond fictional films and into peeping in on real lives. Our computer monitors are windows into the secret lives of others that we not only watch, but also play like interactive games.

Knowing of my own secret thoughts of revenge, knowing the little scenarios I play out in my head, I realise that our fear of becoming stereotypical paranoid freaks has left us too vulnerable. We simply aren’t as paranoid as we should be. And because we are scared of sharing our paranoia, a false sense of security has left us open to sudden and shocking intrusions into our lives. We tell ourselves that it would never happen to us, yet we never know when someone—some stranger—will notice us. Still, people are usually watching us. They have similar tendencies to us albeit sometimes with a little less hesitation for executing their fantasies. Even for ourselves, we find our urges overrule our better thoughts leaving our impulses to control our actions. When we know we should simply ignore some slight, we instead find ourselves with pyrrhic victories.

Jeremy Bentham, the 18th century social theorist and utilitarian advocate, proposed an institutional building that could allow an observer watch over all inmates without them knowing when and if they were being observed. This paranoid exhibitionist’s wet dream, known as a panopticon, was a way of keeping power not only over an inmate’s body, but also their mind. While Bentham conceived the panopticon as an application for hospitals, schools, poorhouses, and madhouses, he intended prisons to adopt such a system. The coeval government continuously strung along poor, bitter Bentham who had little success in building his prisons, but parts of his scheme have been realised. We see his idea in the guise of the ubiquity of not only CCTV cameras, but also the prevalence of public and private surveillance equipment such as camera phones, video recording equipment, tracking devices, and facial recognition software. With the increasing popularity of the Internet, we not only have to worry about an authoritarian “Big Brother” watching over us, but also about an anonymous ever watchful mob that has unknown, ever-changing intentions. Why would someone destroy our lives? Why not? It’s fun.

While we are hastily moving into a panopticonal society, we have not yet dealt with our need for vengeance. We do not simply want to correct injustices and prevent them from happening. Rather, we want to punish those responsible for perceived infractions. We want to go over and beyond mere justice. While Park’s vengeance trilogy criticises revenge, critics condemn Park for seemingly advocating revenge through glamorisation; however, Park refutes this claim: “living without hate for people is almost impossible. There is nothing wrong with fantasizing about revenge. You can have that feeling. You just shouldn't act on it”.  According to Park, not only is there nothing wrong with fantasizing about revenge, but also depicting revenge in films may help to diminish it. This may be true, yet our need for vengeance still lingers. No matter what clothes we wear, and no matter which niceties we hide behind, we are still animals. We are animals that can use keyboards and Internet connections.

Some of us animals perform dastardly deeds such as torturing and killing other cuter, fluffier animals. One such animal under the alias Huang siu siu, earned 100 yuan a pop for each bunny she crushed. Her sponsors were a group who paid cute girls to fill the desires of “Crushfetishists”. Sickened and repulsed, we want retribution. Yet, what can we other animals do about such cruelty?

Well, this is the age of Internet vigilantism and the Chinese Internet phenomenon known as the “human flesh search engine.” We now have the means to catch bunny-crushers as well as other deviants. Mary Bale, the woman who “thought it would be funny” to dump a cat in a trash bin, was one of these animals caught on a CCTV and then hunted by a fleshmob of concerned citizens. Justice was served and the kitty was saved.

While it has, in the past, usually been those in charge that have been the eye in the sky, commoners now have the opportunity to watch the watchers. Police officers such as Patrick Pogan, who body-slammed an innocent cyclist then charged the cyclist with assault, can now be brought to justice for abusing power. Our new technological toys are invaluable for catching anti-social activities.

Yet, while we can use our technological tools to reveal otherwise hidden corruption, violence, and other transgressions, there are those who abuse these tools. As with other mobs, these vigilante collectives run kangaroo courts that may go beyond the justice that any court would normally dish out or even indict the wrong people. Fleshmobs can completely ruin people’s lives for petty offenses: misdemeanours become capital offenses.

Even with the smallest amounts of personal data the massive human collaboration can dig up schools, workplaces, contact information, financial records, and even residences. They make the anonymous onymous and once this happens a faceless army sends out hatemail, cyber-attacks, death threats, to name but a few. We can never face our accusers. They can attack the individual, or even those in their social network from employers to loved ones. The public shaming is often endless and without boundaries. This is witch-hunting and the Spanish Inquisition in modern form. Think about it: it takes one individual to read some misinformation about a supposed crime, become irrationally infuriated, and then harass from afar. What are you going to do? Call the cops?

How can we deal with such overwhelming paranoia and fear from not only the unpredictable nature of others, but also ourselves? There are laws, but laws mainly restrict behaviour. How do we dig into the hidden depths of our consciousness to reveal the creatures that hate to be looked at? Perhaps art is one safe vehicle of exploration. In another interview, Park says:

“With the development of civilization and the rise in education levels, people have had to hide their rage, hate and grudges deep within them. But this does not mean that these emotions go away. As relationships become more and more intricate, the rage only grows more and more. While modern society is burdening the individual with a growing sense of rage, the outlets through which people can release their rage are becoming narrower. This is an unhealthy situation, and it's probably why art exists. In reality, however, the vengeances represented in my movies are not actual vengeances. They are merely the transferring of a guilty conscience. My films are stories of people who place the blame for their actions on others because they refuse to take on the blame themselves. Therefore, rather than movies purporting to be of revenge, it would be more accurate to see my films as ones stressing morality, with guilty consciences as the core subject matter. The constantly recurring theme is the guilty conscience. Because they are always conscious of and obsessed with their wrongdoings, which are committed because they are inherently unavoidable in life, my characters are fundamentally good people. The fact that people have to resort to another type of violence in order to subjugate their initial guilty consciences is the most basic quality of tragedy characteristic in my movies thus far.”

As Park says, our relationships are becoming ever more intricate, and as they do so, we need to find ways to vent our rage. Within the panopticon, we are further distanced from others and our empathy is less likely to be triggered. On the battlefield soldiers need special conditioning to make them actually shoot other humans; however, when the same empathetic soldier is separated through technology, be it a plane or computer monitor, the adversary ceases to be human and is instead some blip, some object. The same goes for us behind our computer screens. People’s lives aren’t lives at all. Rather they are text and moving images. We are usually good people, but by othering others they become non-human, so we can be inhumane. We are negotiating contemporary norms, but we still have guilty consciences: we all have mental shitlists of those who have wronged us. Although we might not have acted out our scripts, we have roleplayed them enough in our minds that they have become a part of our personality. We rehearse what we will do next time since we could not do it last time. Never again we say, then we look for opportunities that resemble that situation. Without some sort of release, such as through art, our guilt leads us to vengeful acts. We might want to smash the mirror when it is held up to us, but sometimes we need to look straight into the eyes of the doppelgänger that looks back at us and have an actual discussion before they have enough power to take control.

Why do I like Park Chan-wook’s Korean film, Oldboy, you ask? Why, I like the film because I secretly want to be locked up for 15 years. In fact, I have dreamt of my incarceration since I was a kid. My romanticisation of a reclusive lifestyle began during one camping trip while reading Old Norse mythology. From the tales, there were a few that stuck with me such as those of the Norse God, Odin, who hung himself upside-down from a tree until he died. Why would he do that? He did it because he had learned everything except the knowledge of the afterlife, and his curiosity led him to explore the world that he could only reach through death. So I sat in my tent in solitude reading with no distractions of how Odin finally bartered his way out of Hades by plucking out his eye. Seemed like a good deal to me: an eye for immense, if not total, wisdom. Later, back at home, being so enthralled with the story, I came close to gouging out my own eye with a piece of broken glass. In the end, with the thin splinter against my eye, I thought better of the oedipism. To this day, I wonder how close I was. The fascination may be why I have a thing for cute girls wearing eye-patches.

Many years later, and with both eyes unpunctured, I spent most of my time in Cuba reading. I should pause to say this now: I am not an avid reader. Unlike the admirable voracious readers I have met, reading doesn’t come easily to me. Each page, for me, is onerous. Commas and semicolons, to me, are more like periods. I have an attention span that barely makes it until the end of the.

Perhaps my dysfunctional reading ability is why I hate distractions. I can take the blame myself, but the lesser part of me would like to jump on the trend of blaming modern media for ruining my lost genius. Still, while I was reading, Emily Dickinson’s secluded life inspired me, and I was again stricken by the thought of living the life of a recluse. I mauled over her line: "the brain is wider than the sky." I thought of how vast is the mind. Moreover, Leon Trotsky’s The History of the Russian Revolution, perhaps the longest book that I have read and forgotten, compounded my longing for exile, for the book was written during Trotsky’s own exile from his own revolution. So many great works are written when the author is cut from their social circles either by their own volition or by an ousting. Once the distractions of the social life are cut, oeuvres flourish.

In Anton Chekhov's short story, The Bet, a banker and a young lawyer, a mere five-and-twenty, make a bet over whether or not the death penalty is worse than a life in prison. To determine the victor, the rich banker puts up two million rubles against 15 years of the lawyer's life. To carry out the bet, the lawyer isolates himself in one of the banker’s secluded rooms. The lawyer forfeits his freedom, but he is allowed all the wine he can drink, all the food he can eat, and all the tobacco he can smoke. He is also allowed to write letters, play musical instruments, read newspapers, and study books. The game is that he must stay in the room for exactly 15 years, and if he crosses the threshold, he loses the bet. While he does use some of his time drunk and in lonely sorrow, the lawyer spends most of the confinement on intellectual pursuits and, much like Odin, makes his own sacrifices, such as his youth, for the sake of wisdom.

As with Chekhov's lawyer, Chan-wook’s Oh Dae-su also spends 15 years shut in a room albeit not as privileged and not of his own free will. Instead of books, Dae-su has television. Wine? No, just poison gas. Exquisite food? Dumplings. Unlike the dissipated lawyer, however, Dae-su’s shadowboxing­ makes him physically strong while the zymurgy of internalised vengeance ferments intense fortitude. Chekhov’s once young lawyer leaves his confinement disillusioned while Dae-su awakens with passion. Dae-su is metamorphosed from a loathsome loser into a fully realised man. His transformative experience changes him from an ordinary human being into a human beast, a beast shown in a gratuitous fight scene that took seventeen takes and three days to film the single continuous final take in which Dae-su, wielding a hammer, brawls with a few dozen men.

I first saw Oldboy when I was still in Vancouver. The film was not only one of my first tastes of Korean culture, but it was also one of the motivators that brought me to Korea. While I’ve been here in the ROK, my envy of Dae-su’s 15 years of solitude has only deepened. As with Chekhov’s lawyer, I spent my first while splurging in hedonistic pleasures, yet now I spend most of my time pursuing knowledge while confined in near solitude. I wish for an ascetic life, but I’m much too influenced by the social life, so I’m often consumed by the idée fixe of cutting myself off entirely. Too oft we confuse “loneliness” and “alone” as synonyms, yet for me being alone does not poison my whole existence. I wish for exile. I dream of being a recluse able to work on whichever pursuits that suit my fancy. I do, in fact, spend much of my time alone—sometimes months at a time. And for everyday that I am alone, I go through a personal Renaissance. Each day new ideas transform me from my foundations. Like a caterpillar in a chrysalis, my notions completely dissolve into a soup of the most basic elements before the undigested surviving neurons sprout fresh wings leading me to new lights. I, therefore, ponder if the life of an opsimath and polymath is worth the sacrifice of personal liberty. For whom would the knowledge be meant? The knowledge need not be for anyone but myself.

Ah, but then the romance ends. Liberty comes with possibilities. The unpredictable world full of delightful challenges draws me back from my idyllic reverie. Most of all, the friable ignis fatuus gives way to those few intriguing minds that demand and deserve as much valuable time as there is to give. Knowledge for its own sake means much, yet I am but a single filter. Sharing with those who can further distil the ideas brings about a more complete synthesis while also pulverising any of those overly arrogant notions that take hold refusing to dislodge. It is for these allies and adversaries that I long for my self imposed prison while also seeking emancipation. My life as the unwashed hermit begins and ends for these people. Yet still, my secret dream lurks behind my thoughts and my smile. I taunt the idea, yet I do not know if I could ever fully endure my fantasy realised.

Why do I like Park Chan-wook’s Korean film, Oldboy, you ask? Why, I love the quirky action-packed romantic comedy because it’s good wholesome fun for the whole family! Are you a fan of true love, superheroes, and octopuses? If you are, you will definitely enjoy this showdown between good and evil based on the popular Japanese comic written by Nobuaki Minegishi. If you like anti-heroes such as the Dark Knight and pretty Grrl-power heroines such as Batgirl, you will love the zany adventures of Oh Dae-su and Mi-do. There’s no lame Aquaman in the movie! No way, no how!

Oldboy has it all: adventure, suspense, humour, and of course, love! Our hero, Oh Dae-su, similar to Harry Potter, begins the tale as a loser just getting through life one day at a time. One dark night, Dae-su is kidnapped then imprisoned in a hotel room for 15 years. During this time, Dae-su trains himself by shadowboxing. He begins to find his true destiny that will lead him to making the ultimate sacrifice for the sins of others. When he is finally mysteriously released back into the world, Dae-su seeks to avenge the cruel murder of his wife and save his daughter. In the end, Dae-su must fight for justice and face the evil mastermind, Woo-jin, and his henchman, Mr. Han. Woo-jin has all of the answers and knows a secret that will change everyone’s lives forever. Dae-su must solve the puzzle quickly—it’s a race against the clock! Can Dae-su find Woo-jin in time?

Of the films that I have seen during my life, Oldboy stands out as one that I would recommend to everybody. One problem, however, is that there has yet been a review for the younger peeps. I recommend this movie for children 5 and up, but it is ideal for tweens. Not only is this film perfect for the youngsters, but parents will also love this flick. Park’s film is action-packed, full of humour, and provides strong moral guidance laced with good old-fashioned family values. As with other biblical allegories such as Charlotte’s Web, Oldboy teaches of the circle of life while within a world that is always being watched over by a vengeful and loving higher power. Similarly, the film follows the same theme of David versus Goliath. From the Bible as well, as with the close relations between Adam and Eve's children, Oldboy shows the true consummated love between father and daughter. Oldboy, moreover, follows the strong tradition of cautionary tales in the same likes as Heinrich Hoffmann’s Der Struwwelpeter, The Pied Piper, and Little Red Riding Hood. Not only does this film draw from fairy tales, but it also draws from Shakespearian tales such as Titus Andronicus to warn against the hollow victory of revenge.

Parents will also be relieved that there are far fewer acts of violence than with much of everyday children's programming. Many people are upset with the senseless violence from kids’ television in such cartoons as Transformers, Ninja Turtles, and Teen Titans. Not only does Oldboy leave much of the graphic scenes up to the imagination, but also purposefully furthers the moral messages showing children the path between right and wrong.

Some viewers might still think that some of Oldboy’s content is unsuitable for children, yet I ask them: what makes this film any less suitable for children? From religious texts such as the Bible that advocates genocide and vengeance, to our folktales that use rape and torture to scare children into obedience, to our children’s programming that uses a constant barrage of violence to attract our children to advertising, we have raised our children on twisted sex and violence to teach them moral messages. While Disney may have watered down many despicable fairy tales to fit current mores, these mores will not always be the same. We can take the rape out of Little Red Riding Hood and whitewash the Bible, but these stories are based on violent sources, and we continue to raise our children on the idea that violence is acceptable if the good triumphs over evil—if the Cowboy triumphs over the Indian. There are too many of us who find it acceptable to teach our current cultural values through violence so long as the villains face punishment in the end. If the ends justify the means and we can teach our social mores through sex and violence, then Oldboy certainly fits our criteria along with the Bible and other fairy tales.

In his essay, Where Worlds Collide, Pico Iyer analyses the hustle and bustle of the Los Angeles International Airport while transvaluing the associations of the airport culture into current trends of globalisation. Through his long, descriptive sentences, Iyer controls the perception of time to take snapshots of juxtapositions, contradictions, and ironies.

Beginning with a single long sentence paragraph, Iyer captures attention with suspense as the reader tries to figure out who “they” are. He repeats “they” and “them” while providing visual and audial details allowing the reader to put everything together until Iyer finally states the location at the end of the third paragraph. By starting with the perspective of the collective, we get a sense of multiple views while also understanding indirectly that Iyer is only one set of eyes. He uses such a perspective as a device for adding his own experiences into the writing. Through this, he writes with limited omnipresence.

By working through observation and a control of time similar to editing video, Iyer catches many ironies through various juxtapositions in the airport. One such juxtaposition is the contrast between the “American Dream” and reality. While many developing countries invest heavily into their airports to make a good first impression for visitors, the LAX is less appealing and may be a disappointment to those who have heard exaggerations of U.S. wealth. Iyer often induces what people expect and compares it to he thinks they actually experience from the things that he sees. He uses his intuition to role-play how people interact the environment that he sees. In one instance, newcomers experience a gift of a keychain globe (a symbol that, like postcards made in Korea, visually enriches his essay with details of cultural and global interconnectedness) that ends up to not being free at all, but instead a solicitation for a donation. In another example, Iyer mentions the graffiti of “Mexicans go home” scrawled on a bathroom wall that contradicts the international culture within the airport. Through Iyer’s juxtapositions, readers can see both tolerance and intolerance of intercultural relations. On one hand, we see the prejudice against Mexicans, and on the other we see Ethiopians, despite extreme cultural animosity, working along with the Tigre. Iyer suggests that people are “amnesiac” towards historical tensions and much is forgotten for the sake of coexistence, yet he also reveals much of the lingering undercurrents of resentment.

Some of his ironic juxtapositions are more humorous. Monks using credit cards challenges our usual notions of the non-attachment and anti-materialism stereotype, and psychiatrists advising women to practice flirting contrasted with religious groups hoping to catch souls adds to the witty twists of conflicting cultural paradigms. He expounds the idea of mixed mores in many ways. One such way is by pointing out the metaphor of “LAX” and “SIN” for their respective cities’ general attitudes. Through these comical comparisons and contrasts, Iyer is able to keep his writing entertaining while also discussing onerous issues.

Similarly, Iyer switches perspectives every view paragraphs to keep the writing lively and compelling. He starts with “they”, then switches to “it” to explain his philosophy for a few paragraphs, after which he moves into his own personal point of view with “for me…” before going back into a more objective, distanced perspective. The shifts of his paragraphs coördinate with many of his expressions of time distortions such as when he says, “We fly not only into yesterday or this morning when we go across the world but into different decades” and “Terminus: a place where people come to arrive.” Both of these compound the feeling of time distortions of the reader while also creating a realistic setting of an environment where all of the clocks are set differently. The switching between paragraphs and the playing with time through language not only skew the reader’s perception of time, but also helps keep Iyer’s writing organised with a sense of erratic anxiety.

Through his writing, we get a sense of paranoia that connects the authoritarian airport system to totalitarian regimes. Coming from a “third culture kid” perspective, Iyer focuses on the growing culture of a polyglot existence that is held together by omnipresent, often authoritarian English language in airports. There always seems to be a domineering voice shouting orders and rules over the speaker, and we get a feeling through Iyer that airports are highly restrictive and oppressive. Moreover, we can get Iyer’s point that if airports are supposed to be associated to modern global cities, we must also consider how much of the totalitarian system is both currently and becoming a part of our own countries.

Airports, in Iyer’s reflection, are microcosms of the global melting pot of cross-cultural identities that are being moulded into uniform structures. These microcosms are in some ways experiments from which International cities draw their own strategies of how to adapt and cater to a multicultural demographic. Iyer, furthermore, does not see airports as merely a hub, but a culture all their own; not only individually, but collectively. Each airport is a near-iso version of the others with duty-frees, Starbucks, and other global companies.

Although airports usually force a pause on usual routine life and keep people in a state of waiting, we may not always overcome our impatience enough to notice all that is around us. Iyer, however, is able to capture the stasis while contradictorily keeping the stasis in flux. Time has stopped, but not the observations.

؟ ؟ ؟
God’s Ministry of Comedy

The Juche-bag Kim Jong has died. We saw it coming: he’s been Il for a long time.

And so it goes.

Although we +1, ✓Like, and resend these mostly annoying, crude jokes while participating in the cheap giggles, we cannot think of dystopia without also thinking of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. We sit at our computers connected from all around the world laughing at people who still don’t have the voice to defend themselves. We taunt their country, their leaders, their idols, and their Gods. Do we laugh because we are malicious? Yes, sometimes. There is, however, something deeper than mere vindictiveness. We know the North Korean situation is bad—unimaginably, unbearably beyond bad. Surely, it is not malignity, but rather sympathy that keeps us laughing for the very fact that their situation is so horrible. What do many of us do? We laugh because of the desperate, juxtaposed extremes. The situation is so dark, and we are so helpless to do anything meaningful, that all we can do is laugh. Laughter: our last link to sanity.

☯☯☯
God’s Ministry of Karma

Like Führer, like son, Kim Jong-il followed his tyrannical genetic predecessor, ‘The Eternal President of the Republic’ Kim Il-sung and collapsed from a heart attack denying his divine privilege to immortality. On December 17th, 2011, ‘Dear Leader’, Jong-il, nearing 70, died leaving behind four known children. Of Jong-il’s children, and with Big Brother, Kim Jong-nam, choosing Disneyland, Tokyo over his own family’s nationwide amusement park, shy Little Brother, Kim Jong-un, born in Nineteen Eighty-Four, now rules the thanatocracy (a government of the living by the dead)—continuing the running joke.
Certainly Jong-il lived an exuberant lifestyle much at the expense and misery of others. ‘Dear Leader’, Jong-Il ‘Who is a Perfect Incarnation of the Appearance that a Leader Should Have,’ ruled with absolute control over the holy triumvirate of himself, Premier Choe Yong-rim, and Kim Yong-nam and together indulged in all of the opulence entitled to the 1%. Jong-il enjoyed his wealth, his yes men, and yes mistresses. He savoured the lobsters air-lifted to his train while watching his favourite classic films such as Friday the 13th, Godzilla, or anything starring Elizabeth Taylor. To build the North Korean film industry and help him produce such memorable films as Diary of a Girl Student, movie buff Jong-il kidnapped South Korean film director Shin Sang-ok and his wife Choi Eun-hee.

Finally, despite his misanthropy, Jong-il the ‘Invincible and Ever-triumphant General’ died unpunished. He got away with acts that make murder look like blowing dried dandelion florets into a gentle breeze. Sure, he was afraid of flying. Sure, his mother died in childbirth. Sure, he could never find a decent barber. Yes, he did suffer the mundane trials of life, yet he was never held accountable for his atrocities. He’s one of the bad guys, one of the Communists; a Terrorist. He’s the Indian to our Cowboys and the freedom-fighter to our freedom-fighter-fighters. But instead of facing justice as we all hoped he would, he rubbed the insult in further by dying of natural causes.

Karma betrayed us all by ignoring the corrupt ‘Beloved and Respected General’. Karma is, however, for suckers. The karmic wrath of a universal, metaphysical justice system ought not give us consolation. People seek some sort of retribution or justice, yet their refusal to accept an indifferent universe, and their denial of sharing the same earthy grave with people such as Jong-il, lure them into a mumpsimus of religion and karma. Despite our longing for justice, the notion that a supernatural force will curse a cruel individual in their next round of reincarnation or their ascension into an afterlife should not appease us. If Jong-il is to be tortured in his next life, then so too are the sufferers of our world now repaying their previous debts. Following such karmic logic: rape victims, starving children, and impoverished plague-ridden populations are all making up for past crimes. If we accept the joke of karma, then we are obligated to beatify Jong-il as we have done with Mother Teresa who believed that suffering would bring people closer to Jesus. For Jong-il would have helped so many people regain their spiritual currency through such suffering. If, like Mother Teresa says, it is ”the most beautiful gift for a person that he can participate in the sufferings of Christ," then Jong-il, the ‘Highest Incarnation of the Revolutionary Comradely Love’ has performed such a benevolent duty and also deserves sainthood. Furthermore, with the logic of karma, Jong-il lived in luxury because of his past life good deeds. Subscribing to karmic law, we should not pity the suffering victims since they are merely the deviants, the dictators, and Kim Jong-ils of yesterlife. No, karmic belief is a nasty, ironic joke. It is a bullshit belief that is supposed to make us feel better about despicable people going unpunished, yet on deeper thought, it forces us to blame the victim instead of the sadist.

✞✞✞
God’s Ministry of Religion

“They are evil,” said a little South Korean boy after watching a film on North Korea, “I want to kill them all.” Such indoctrination begins early in all of us. They get us while we are young and impressionable, before we know how to use critical thought against the brainwashing. Later, we sacrilegiously taunt the God that many North Koreans worship. Despite our irreverence of another people’s deity, we demand that others respect our own. Our Gods are different we say. Unlike us, their religion is nothing but a cult. Unlike us, their members are brainwashed. Not us. Never us. Despite witnessing people so faithful to their God that they would rather starve to death than break with the Juche philosophy, we continue to think that the stronger our faith, the more praiseworthy we are. A firm belief is not a compliment. Rather, it is an ignorance that ought to bow one’s head in shame. Likewise, the single real difference between North Korea’s cult and the other major religions is that we have evidence that North Korea’s God once existed. It may be that Jesus Christ and Mohammed too were real men, yet as with Jong-il, they have become mass media personalities within cults spreading around the world. Myths grew beyond these once mortal men turned compost: Jesus walked on water and made water into wine? Jong-il controlled the weather and turned his blood into $650,000 worth of Hennessy. Three wise men followed the Star of Bethleham to Jesus? A swallow and a rainbow foretold the birth of Jong-il. We see how much belief people give someone like Jong-il but are then incapable or unwilling of turning it in on our own beliefs and religions. In essence, the basic formula to a good joke is a witty deception with a final “Gotcha!”

ॐॐॐ
God’s Ministry of Community

When I ask myself what I would have done if I had been Kim Jong-il, I cannot say, while upholding my role as an honest man, that I would have done anything differently. You see: we are all Kim Jong-il.

I am Kim Jong-il.

You are Kim Jong-il.

We are all Kim Jong-il

I say this with the premise that each of us lives within the same maelstrom of variables and influences that put together such a man. We comfort ourselves with the thought that Jong-il is something evil, something alien. To do this, we undergo an internal brainwashing by our own conscience convincing us that we would have been benevolent living as Jong-il. We play mental games in which we overcome the influences of being raised in a totalitarian regime while shaking off the conditioning and acculturation. As far as we know, however, we are living in a deterministic universe, or at least a universe that binds us to our genetics. If we escape our genetics, we cannot escape our nurturing. If we escape our nurturing, we cannot escape our environment.

Ah, but we argue that we are rational, logical creatures separate from the beasts and our non-rational brethren. Yet, while we might have rational insights once in a while, we spend more of our time rationalising and justifying our behaviours. We make shortcuts that take a lifetime before we can look back and either regret or autofellate. When we do screw up, our personal narrative tells us that we are still, despite our flaws, the good ones—or at least the noble, dark anti-heroes. Our individual stories show the paths that we have travelled. We see the injustices and abuses we have endured; how each of our own crimes was the outcome of a series of events, not from some inner evil. Even the inner evils we notice in ourselves, we treat as external influences, things that we cannot control. All the while pretending that we can somehow muster the pure will to deny our determined path despite our consciousness perpetually living in the past. We can look, but we cannot touch—never directly. All in all, self-control is majorly, if not completely, illusory.

Get it?

If not, it’s not your fault.

☠☠☠
God’s Ministry of Altruism

For most of the International community, North Korea is someone else’s backyard, someone else’s problem. There is, admittedly, perpetual fear that stoic-faced North Korean soldiers will goosestep across the Demilitarised Zone (the most militarised zone in the world) inciting global war, yet we leave South Korea, the shrimp between whales, to live along with the North Koreans, in a fear that is so constant that the anxiety has become blasé. North Korean attacks get as much reaction as inconvenient weather reports. Missile attacks again? Better grab an umbrella.

At the same time, we all have a North Korea in our own backyards. Each of us has a North Korea lurking a few streets down. Canada, our home on Natives’ land has its Vancouver East Side. United Statesians have their ghettos. The developed world, in general, has its undeveloped world. Through a diffusion of responsibility, we each let it happen, and we each contribute to the misery of others. From slaughtering animals for meat to buying the latest gadgets, each of us makes tacitly agrees to the daily utilitarian sacrifices that let atrocities continue. When we say no, we allow our institutions make us say yes. All the while, we stand on the backs of giants for our knowledge, yet each one of these giants has ridden on the backs of the sacrificed. We are all incriminated, as is Jong-il, in the continual sacrifices of the world we live in. It’s not a numbers game. The injustice of an individual is an injustice to us all.

Even when we are not silent, even when we protest, we let it happen. Even through self-immolation, we still sacrifice one individual while also leaving the mess to others. We cannot walk away from Omelas. Rather we are confined to Sisyphusian futility. While we might find our pet causes that satisfy us for a while, sooner or later, the unbearable weight crushes down again. Our stomachs begin to upset. Our abdomens tighten. And the pain becomes so intense that we soon hear a grotesque, sardonic laughter that is all our own.

ㅋㅋㅋ
God’s Ministry of Schadenfreude

In the end, we are dung beetles pushing our ideologies up only to have them fall back upon us. There are only so many layers of a palimpsest, and after scratching away at the failed hopes and ideals we are left with a joke that we are all in on; one big inside joke that we forget and then remember during tribulations. We struggle to forget, pushing the contradictions out of conscious mind until the punch line gets so twisted that we cannot help but laugh. Punned names, exaggerated Asian accents, and readymade racial stereotypes are almost as bad and as willing to beat a dead horse as the ‘Bright Sun of Juche’ Kim Jong-il himself, yet we groan out enough chuckles at the endless spewing slews of memes that we encourage our near-global Internet culture to continuously stream parody and satire. We know we ought not to, but we titter away anyways. By looking at those we deem worse than ourselves, we hope to reduce our own self-loathing. Places such as North Korea make us feel better about ourselves because—hey—at least we ain’t them. We don’t elect politicians because they will make our world a better place; we hire them as deadpan comedians. We let dictators rule over us on the condition that they entertain us. Too many of them, however, take their role too seriously. We mock others while distracting ourselves from the realisation that we are also the butt of the joke. Yet, each time we create some high virtue, we are contributing to the irony. As we take ourselves, and our beliefs, seriously, we perform in an even sillier satire. The strife and illogic of others is so overbearing that we get off on schadenfreude, the joy of another’s suffering, yet we can also be wonderfully self-deprecating when we realise the absurdities and life’s little ironies. Our masochism for being the sucker end of the joke helps release tension. And the ironic laugher keeps us awake—if we want to be. We can lull ourselves to sleep with religion and ideology while flippantly dismissing the contradictions and horrors of life. Or, we can get in on the joke. It might not make us look sane, but it does help us keep sane. Laughter: our last link to sanity, but nothing more than another defense mechanism. Perhaps it’s time to break the chain.

The Many Names:

A South Korean Folktale

Back in the old days of South Korea, there was, as folklore would have it, an old man who had but one son. With the family linage so important, and being much too old to sow more rice, the old man wished to ensure a long life for his son. Having worn out his knees going village-to-village asking for advice, the old man finally came upon a recommendation for a wise name-specialist who could make a symbolic name that would promise a lengthy life. The old man was overjoyed when he met the specialist. The joy was soon replaced with persistence, however. As the specialist came up with names for the old man’s son—names such as “Kim Soohanmoo” meaning “age-is-infinite”, “keobugiwa durumi” traditional symbols of long life: the crane and the tortoise, and “Tongbang Sak” after an ancient Chinese man who lived many lifetimes—the old man was never satisfied and instead urged the specialist to make more names. The pressured specialist, in the end, gave the old man the desired long name for his son.

As the old man became older, his son became stronger and healthier. And the old man became prouder. One day, while the father and son enjoyed the day fishing in the Han River, the boy caught a fish. Unfortunately the fish overwhelmed the boy who was too stubborn to let go of the rod. The boy was strong, yet not strong enough to overcome the powerful currents. The old man panicked and tried to get help. He ran towards some other beach dwellers shouting “Help! Kim suhanmoo keobugiwa durumi samcheongabja Tongbang Sak Chichigapo Sarisarisaenta Woriwori Saepeurika Moodoosella gureumi heorikaein dambyeorak seosaengwonae goyangyi badookineun Doldolri fell into the river—please help!” The people patiently waited for the old man to finish the name before they realised the urgency. By this time, however, the boy had already drowned.

Lies

We like it when others lie to us. We tend to be quite hostile to truth. No matter how tactful we are given truth, we become annoyed or even outright hostile. We hate, and then shun, people who give too much honesty. While there are so many kinds of deceits that we despise, and for which we will never be grateful, we like lies that keep the onus with the speaker. We insinuate that we want to be lied to, but once the truth finally comes out, we want to blame the liar while enjoying our indignation. We seem to like the immediate fantasy although it sets ourselves up to future strife. We see the preference for the ephemeral façade in so many aspects of our social lives, from marriage to politics. Although so many marriages don’t work, and we are slaves to our biology and environment, partners expect the other to vow monogamy, yet no one knows our future actions. We also know that our politicians continuously lie to us, yet we accept prevarication until something really goes wrong. Momentary comfort overrules impending disillusionment. There is something about honesty that draws so much irritation.

I continue looking for evidence that people would prefer honesty; yet after each discussion, people will usually admit that they would prefer the lie — prefer the comfortable illusion. Each of us has a choice of telling the truth yet there is a constant game of implication. We infer that the listener would much rather hear the lie, yet we cannot ask outright if they would prefer the lie. People unfairly place people in situations where they either have to lie or face hurting not only themselves, but also the other person. When some of us break this rule and chose to tell the truth, others hate that we won’t play the game by giving them such leverage. So much of being an honest person isn’t so much of an ethical issue as it is resisting more subtle forms of manipulation and maintaining personal power.

Written by Knigel Holmes

Charcoal Photoset on Flickr

If someone had told me that I would become obsessed with charcoal during my stay in South Korea — well, no one would ever have told me that. From plebs to intellectuals, we enjoy the work of others; we rarely think deeply about the products around us. Charcoal, for one, is rather humdrum. Sure, one might consider charcoal when in need of heat, but the thought goes little further than basic utility. One might know a few technical facts such as activated charcoal makes an efficient water filter, or that most “charcoal briquettes” are usually a mixture of coke and coal instead of real charcoal — yawn. Perhaps one even has one of those odd little facts useful for filling in awkward moments of silence:

“Hey, did you know that African red colobus monkeys self-medicate themselves by eating charcoal which absorbs the cyanide from their leafy diets?”

(Awkward silence resumes.)

No, I did not come to Korea to ponder such a ho-hum, mind-numbing topic. I came to Korea for the raw octopuses, the bitter Soju, the cinematic ultra-violence, and of course, the Busan Bikini.

Never mind, forget about charcoal. Instead, let me tell the tale of the cunning, old Chinese joker, Dongfang Shuo, otherwise known in Korean as Tongbang Sak who, after eating the goddess Seo Wang-mo’s peach down by a river, became so blessed with longevity that the spirit world wailed with jealousy. So long did Tongbang live that his name officially appeared in the red ink of a dead man allowing spirits to drag his soul into the afterlife.

Tongbang, however, remained elusive. Naturally crafty and intelligent, Tongbang‘s wisdom also grew immensely through life experience. So confident was Tongbang of his own wits that he would invite his stalkers into his home to entertain them. Tongbang was, among his admirable traits, also a gracious host who kept cups full. The well-spirited spirits would leave the house lost, confused, and ultimately fooled. Upon re-entering the spirit world, the contented, dazed spirits would face both the slow realisation of trickery and the mockery of the spirit brethren.

The game went on for quite a while until one spirit became so irked at the ridicule that the disgruntled spirit slammed its ghastly hands down onto the table as loudly as any spirit can while vowing to catch Tongbang. Resolute not to succumb to Tongbang’s persuasions any longer, the frustrated spirit devised a cunning scheme.

Soon after, Tongbang came upon a young girl scrubbing laundry along the stream. Looking closer, Tongbang noticed the girl rubbing white clothes with charcoal. Fascinated, Tongbang asked the girl why she would do such a thing.

The girl looked up, and said this to Tongbang, absentmindedly rubbing her arm across her forehead leaving a black smudge: “I am washing these clothes with charcoal because charcoal makes them whiter, of course!”

Tongbang, upon hearing this, paused in dumbfounded silence until he sputtered violent laughter saying, “My young, foolish girl—I have lived thousands of years, and I have never once heard of anyone making clothes whiter by washing them with charcoal!”

No sooner had Tongbang’s last word trailed off his tongue had the spirit unzipped its deceptive girl costume, grabbed Tongbang by the ear, and dragged him off into the afterlife.

Tongbang’s long life came to a finish, but from the mischief, the stream has so been named, Tancheon: “The Stream of Charcoal.”

***

Outside of my window, between two buildings and the loud voices of truck speakers that sound more like wartime propaganda than computer buy & sell announcements, or the blue trucks spewing thick, white mosquito poison into children’s faces, I can see the Stream of Charcoal that, during monsoon season, is anything but the peaceful, gentle trickle that usually brings a tranquil aesthetic. The Tancheon begins in Yongin, Gyeonggi-do, flowing through Seongnam then between the Songpa-gu and Gangnam-gu districts of Seoul before becoming a tributary of the more famous Han River. The Tancheon is 35.6 kilometres long in total—the same distance that South Korean racing cyclist, Lee Min-Hye, travelled in 49 minutes and 38.35 seconds to win a gold metal in the 2010 Asian Games. Running alongside the river, a painted line separates a smoothly paved path into two lanes: one for pedestrians and one for bicyclists. Power-walking “ajumma” elders, the older married women, annex both lanes. Stereotype, yes. Hyperbole, no. The Tancheon is certainly not the cleanest stream either. Nevertheless, the filth hasn’t prevented fish—or myself—from swimming in it. The itching from the Tancheon water didn’t last for more than a couple of days, however I brought something back with me from that water. There was another kind of itch that never went away. It was the Tancheon, and its infused folklore, which pushed my reluctant curiosity into the charcoal pit of history and culture to dig around the ashes and embers.

I live in Sunae, a neighbourhood in the Bundang district of Seongnam. Sunae is a few subway stops from the end of the yellow line; a line which weaves into a multi-coloured spaghetti noodle mess of train routes that leaves first-time foreigners dependent on the almost disconcerting kindness of Koreans who either go out of their way accompanying the baffled foreigner directly to the intended destination, or attempt an escape from the imminent English conversation by surreptitiously blending into whatever background with whichever props happen to be at their disposal. Koreans come in two kinds: the ones who see an English speaker as an opportunity to practice, and the ones who will throw themselves in front of an oncoming train to avoid the embarrassment of possibly making a grammatical error. Stereotype? Yes. Hyperbole? Totally. But there are heavy glass suicide doors blocking the subway tracks for a reason. Unlike in the overly spacious Canada, Korean cities cozy up to each other. I can get to Busan, on the other side of Korea, in a few hours by bus or the KTX, a high-speed rail system. I can severely cut down travel time by taking a taxi—if—of course, I survive being without seatbelt in a car speeding well beyond any posted speed limit with the driver ignoring traffic signals and the GPS warning beeps dinging overtop the sports game or Korean drama playing on the dashboard TV monitor. All in all, South Korea is a tight, interconnected network of roads, subways, trains, fibre optics, streams, and rivers. There is no part to which a traveller cannot travel; yet with weak drunk driving laws, and motorbikes speeding through densely crowded sidewalks, travellers should have travel insurance and stay out of the way. Koreans are usually in a hurry and aren’t going to stop to apologise.

Lingering from the past military dictatorship that justified the means of sacrificing social welfare by the ends of progress, the mindset of what Koreans call “ppalli ppalli”, best translated to “quickly quickly”, continues to get things done, but not without rusty rough edges and lackadaisical loose ends. In many houses, one will find a flowerpot, but instead of flowers, there are a few bright decorations that contrast a few chunks of achromatic charcoal. “I put charcoal pots into every room when I move into a new house,” said Chris’ Mom, who, like many Bundang mothers, lost her own name once her children entered school. “The construction leaves behind so many chemicals,” she explained, “and charcoal absorbs the bad smells and toxins.” She is not alone in believing that either. With the heavy pollution thanks to seasonal yellow dust blowing in from China, an overtaxed sewage system, and traffic exhaust, any chance for a fresher home is appreciated by most Koreans.

The “ppalli ppalli” paradigm has led to the invention of the planned city. Bundang, one such city, was a developer’s dream that made many people very rich in a country with limited real estate. Planned cities in Korea look like the outcome of a pro-gamer PC party: clusters of drab, homogeneous apartment buildings standing tall in uniform rows, taking their design from the first edition of Sim City, while the whole city is dropped onto the map like the hovering Terran Command Centre from StarCraft, the videogame that has become as stereotypically Korean as “fan death”. In this country, a city plops down onto an uninhabited tile instead of construction forming organically around a growing populace, as with Tokyo or Vancouver. Apartments, shopping malls, movie theatres, and schools all patiently wait until people begin moving into these premade ghost towns. Walking through these unpopulated cities is right out of an apocalyptic B movie. Because of a species-jumping virus, or economic collapse, the last not-undead, and mostly unmutated human walks alone. A single newspaper blows in the wind until the furious director storms on set, traps the newspaper under her low pump heel, and demands the head of whoever ruined the shot with such a terrible cliché. Cut! Back to reality, one problem is that the areas, prior to dropping from the sky, are not uninhabited. The farmers who were here before Bundang fell onto them protested the development, some protecting their ancestral burial grounds by self-immolation. Ancestral worship is embedded in traditional Korean culture, and disturbing graves brings the superstitious belief that misfortune will follow the living relatives. Bundang is now one of the richest areas of Korea; one of the satellite cities surrounded by hidden satellite ghettos. The former, and much poorer, residents live over yonder—at least until developers want those areas as well.

With industrialisation sweeping history and traditions off with the poor, Bundang is not usually the number one destination for “traditional” Korean culture. Bundang is too clean, too artificial, and too superficial. The cultural deprivation makes me grasp onto little stories such as the ones I find in non-potable charcoal streams. I like a little dirt, a little soot to show me the fiery past. I’m too thirsty for culture not to follow these streams.

My thirst led me to follow the charcoal channel through Korean history and tradition. While coal’s history is rather short in Korea, charcoal goes way back while peaking and dropping in popularity—usually depending on the economy. When times get tough, people resort to other cheaper fuels. South Koreans’ troublesome neighbour in the North, for example, has resorted to charcoal because of its current and ongoing economic strife. Foresters cut down trees faster than they can grow them and deforestation has left the DPRK’s once lush forest with a disfiguring haircut from Kim Jong-il’s own corn-alcohol drunk barber. The North Korean government clear-cuts the forest because it demands charcoal for its charcoal-fuel economy. Although charcoal-fuelled vehicles are atrocious for the environment, North Korea has converted much of their transportation, such as their buses, into charcoal-fuelled horror shows that can barely make it up a hill. Farmers, too, play an ongoing game where they plant illegal rice paddies only to have to later rip up the trees that the government plants there specifically to ruin the paddies. North Koreans are in desperate need of food, but they get burnt wood instead.

Lucas, one middle-aged South Korean who works for the South Korean Gas Corporation, KOGAS, and is one father whom I hope to one day emulate, mentioned during a talk about North Korea’s dependence on charcoal that South Korea and Russia wish to build a natural gas pipeline through North Korea. The deal would benefit all three countries while allowing North Korea to stop using charcoal for fuel. According to Lucas, North Korea unfortunately has so far refused the plan because the government fears that the necessary aerial photographs or other such planning would uncover their military information. Regrettably, North Korea’s paranoia keeps them from reducing their heavy contribution to global pollution, yet we also have hard workers and deep thinkers such as Lucas who help resolve complex fuel and energy problems by building cleaner and more efficient infrastructure in developing countries.

Going back further, we can see again how charcoal economics affect social and political structures. According to Lee Jeong-sin of the Korea Society of Medieval Studies, the Myeonghakso peasants living during the Goryeo Dynasty were humble wood-charcoal makers. They used charcoal for cooking as well as heating while the kilns produced, iron, gold, and silver. Charcoal was used in refrigeration rooms, preservation facilities, and tombs because it prevented pests and humidity. Unfortunately, because the villages broke up, the Myeonghakso could no longer produce enough charcoal to give for tribute as imposed by the central government. This meant that the Myeonghakso peasants had to buy charcoal to pay the tribute. The malpractice contributed to social agony, and when the tension finally broke, the peasants revolted. The lack of wood-charcoal to pay for tributes was at least partly responsible for the Myeonghakso peasant uprising in Gongju during King Myeongjong’s reign.

Following the stream of history and charcoal kilns led me to Martin T. Bale, a PhD at Harvard University and a Canadian archaeologist of North East Asia for around 17 years, who excavated for about seven years straight in Korea. He told me that he had come across many charcoal kilns. Bale explained that most wood-charcoal kilns date to the early to middle Joseon period. According to Bale, the charcoal kilns are often found together with roof-tile kilns such as “climbing kilns” or “dragon kilns”. These anagama kilns are fascinating in that they reuse heat in other parts of the kiln. Bale presumed that the charcoal was used to fire the climbing kilns as well as to bake clay roof tiles and that the kilns were mainly used for these purposes, but they may have had other uses.

One of the other uses for many kilns was for the workers who, after a tiring workweek, would turn the kilns into human convection ovens. While these traditional saunas dipped in popularity, there are now many places where people can go sweat in rooms so hot that synthetic clothes are banned. Some kiln owners have opened up their property to the public while many “jjimjilbang” throughout Korea have also added charcoal rooms. “Jjimjilbang” are gender-segregated bathhouses with several tubs of water ranging from scolding to freezing. I love the loss of identity that comes with being connected to my belongings only by an electronic key that doubles as a credit chip. There are also other floors for mingling and enjoying various rooms. We wear uniform clothes into one of the various rooms. Some “jjimjilbang” have the aforementioned charcoal room while others have salt rooms, elvan stone rooms, or ice rooms with enough ice on the wall to make a snowball. So much of Korean health philosophy mixes extremes.

In a “Jjimjilbang,” for example, one can also experience the juxtaposition of spices and ice burning their tongue in such a wonderfully masochistic way. Patrons can eat spicy “kimchi”, the fermented cabbage or “ddeokbokki”, the sliced rice cakes covered in sauce that resembles spicy ketchup. They can also eat “naengmyeon”, the cold noodles with chunks of ice, or drink “sikhye”, a sugary drink with floating pieces of rice. One common treat is the “maekbanseok gyeran” which are rubbery, dark brown eggs. These smoky eggs might be roasted, baked with elvan stone, or smoked in charcoal. In fact, the resurgence of the kiln saunas is at least partly due to the comeback of charcoal-grilled dishes. While at one of the kiln saunas, at a jjimjilbang, or pretty much anywhere in Korea, one can eat “samgyeopsal” which means “three layered flesh” and is delicious strips of fatty pork belly. Often they are cooked over glowing charcoal embers. Once in a while, a waitress—rarely a waiter—will replace the grill from over the brazier with a fresh one. Over top, there is a chimney that comes down over the grill to ventilate the restaurant. Frail old “ajjumas” carry heavy stone bowls full of burning charcoal embers over diners’ heads while navigating around rambunctious, rowdy Soju drinkers in usually cramped spaces. I have been meaning to dig up statistics for injuries from this kind of situation, yet some part of me doesn’t want to know. Sometimes the extremes of Korea aren’t as much mixed as they are shaken.

***

Through and through, charcoal is ubiquitous in South Korea: charcoal hand soap, charcoal dish soap, charcoal shampoo, and charcoal toothpaste. Charcoal in the pillows, charcoal weaved in socks, and charcoal sucking oil from nose pores. Along with expensive exotic goods such as ginseng and snake wine, consumers can buy Binchō-tan, the harder “white” charcoal—a favourite of yakitori and unagi chefs of Japan—that rings like metal when struck. Until a few Korean scientists started warning the populace that ingesting charcoal might be more hazardous than healthful, Koreans would add charcoal to everything from soy sauce to bean paste. Until a while ago, many families such as Lucas’ ate blue rice.

I followed the charcoal stream because I wanted to access memories. Flowing water always leads somewhere. And indeed, mentioning charcoal brought out many memories from those Koreans to whom I conversed. After asking a Korean about a new fact I had learned, the conversation would always trigger some other recollection leading me down another stream. It all started with the Tancheon.

One common memory that the older generation recollected was the “yeontan”, the huge charcoal, but usually coal dust and clay briquettes used for cooking and “ondol”, the underfloor heating. Many Koreans reminisced how these “yeontan” would take such a long time to get started. People also told me about near disasters from carbon monoxide poisoning. Of the fonder memories, children would use the depleted “yeontan” to roll snowmen. Later, as the snow melted, “ajeossi”, the male counterparts of “ajumma”, would use the disposed blocks for pissing targets leaving the neighbourhood scattered with these disrespected urine-soaked black chunks. I enjoyed how my Korean friends’ expressions would change as they recalled the first pleasant memory followed by the remembrance of the following mess.

In the end, the Stream of Charcoal led me to unexpected rivers of memories. Such memories have brought me closer to Korean culture and a goal about which I’m not so clear. I have eaten the squirming raw octopus, drunk the rubbing alcohol flavoured Soju, been to the Busan Film Festival, and—well, Korea has made me too polite to talk about the Busan bikinis. Before learning the folklore that swims in the Tancheon, I didn’t even give charcoal enough thought to even think it boring. But I have had a more enriching experience because I followed something that I normally take for granted. I often care so much for the novel that I neglect some of the intriguing details. Modern art, however, still relies on charcoal sketches. We can learn a little about a culture during a vacation; however, by spending a few years in a country, we become more sensitive to the details while the initial superficial interests become less vibrant. After a traveler’s honeymoon ends, many of the previous illusions break down leaving a sense of dullness; however, like scratching at a palimpsest, we can find history and culture beneath the layers of even the most artificial cities. The longer one is in a country, the more effort one needs to put into keeping a fresh interest. Details matter. Each product we use has a whole history behind it. It has a life, and these lives contain memories. I was looking for something else, but in the end, I got what I was looking for. Admittedly, charcoal has begun to sink into the background of daily clutter, yet at the same time, I have more details that not only add to a fuller experience, but also lead me to unknown rivers of dialogue.

Creative Non-fiction: Yes, this is a true story.

The Obituary of Billy Capra

Billy Capra, whose amiable personality and sincere, trusting character made him a favourite of all those who met him, died in Holguín, Cuba, on the farm where he was born and raised. Similar to many others born into the improper record keeping of the countryside, Billy’s exact age remains a mystery. Still, Billy could not have been older than 12 years old at his death.

Billy was survived by many close family members. Living in little more than a shed unattached to the main farmhouse, Billy’s family and he spent most of their time together. Although various nannies looked after Billy, his whole family ate together, slept together, and even bathed together. While some might frown on the Capra family’s closeness as something uncivilized, we must look onto them with compassion instead of judgement. They lived together out of oppressive necessity. Money was a luxury that the family went without.

Although Billy lived in what we might assume to be a life full of strife, he did not let on that the hardship affected him. He not only had a tough hide, but he was also a playful, sociable kid always out in some game with anyone who would humour him. On the rare occasion of butting heads with his peers over some mundane trifle Billy’s jovial temperament deflated any grudge. We cannot say, of course, that his constant gaiety did not annoy some of the crankier old goats. Billy’s natural inquisitiveness and intelligence kept everyone anticipating his next antics. From when he was a baby on four legs, his yearning for freedom oft led him somehow out of his pen and into trouble. Later this trouble would be the doe-eyed girls who fauned over the still-too-young Billy whom flourished under the attention.

Likewise, while Billy’s rich social life created a colourful life story, so too did the tranquil farm bring pleasant memories. The farm’s idyllic beauty, perhaps, was responsible for beaconing tragedy. Something unknown—some law—sabotages anything that mimics perfection too closely. Sherlock Holmes, in The Adventure of the Copper Beeches, explains how the vilest deeds occur, not in the cities how one might expect, but in the “smiling and beautiful” countryside. In the city, neighbours hold glass cups against the wall with their ears. The dark alleyway is a quick glance out the window and the law is never too far. In the countryside, however, folks ignorant of the law live in secluded houses out in immense fields. These abstract places conceal concrete cruelties. Unfortunately, although crime in Billy’s area rarely amounted to anything beyond simple livestock theft—usually due to confusion of ownership rather than malevolence—the absence of brutality lulled the region into a false sense of neighbourly trust. Unlike city-folk with their fierce paranoia of strangers, few in the rural area gave any thought to leaving their young to roam freely.

On the afternoon of his death, Billy was separated from his family and led away. He had always been a trusting kid raised to follow orders and the herd. With family and friends still unawares, Billy was tied upside-down by his legs. His chest heaved in thick fear. Perhaps this fear was what kept him silent. His pupils straining against his canthi spoke what no sound was capable.

Of the people there, Billy would have recognised a few. Some he had trusted since his first memories. There, too, were strangers—including one foreigner. The foreigner held a blade. The blade slit Billy’s throat. The miserable truth is that only a few fragile layers of skin divide life from death. Soon after, the sacrificial cult brought Billy’s body into a house where they butchered him as if he were some common animal. They then ate Billy. They devoured him for a lunchtime meal neither concealed under a dark night nor hidden behind a cellar door. Rather, this hedonism basked under crepuscular rays.

This obituary stands as the last memory of Billy. Although his body was desecrated, his memory struggles for its own life—albeit only as an evanescent, dim shimmer. We rarely remember those of Billy’s status. They remain unrecognised by recorded history. Perhaps Billy’s memories were handed down in an oral tradition? No. By now, all those who knew and cared for Billy are also dead. While the foreigner may have left back to his own country, the predators never did stop. Billy simply predeceased his family, childhood friends, and all of those doe-eyed girls. Undoubtedly, the law knows the identities of the dastardly murderer and his accomplices, yet they have neither been charged nor punished for these crimes.

Written by Knigel Holmes

In Politics and the English Language, Orwell criticises modern language for hiding true intentions behind unclear writing. “The great enemy of clear language is insincerity,” writes Orwell. “When there is a gap between one's real and one's declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink”. Orwell argues that euphemisms manipulate language and allow those controlling the meaning to distort reality. Following his argument, contemporary disputes of political correctness reveal modern power struggles. If, as Orwell argues, the enemy of clear language is insincerity, then political correctness is also an enemy of clear language. Political correctness and euphemisms, moreover, prematurely euthanize critical thought.

“'Who controls the past,” writes George Orwell in his novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, ”controls the future: who controls the present controls the past”. While critics abuse the term “Orwellian” by comparing Orwell’s dystopia to modern government, there has yet to be a government able to maintain such control on the populous. No single authority controls the thoughts of contemporary society; however, various institutions and organisations vie to shape language into what will best support their agendas. A Logocracy rules global culture through the power of language. Words define what is legal, what is clinical, and what is acceptable. A switch in meaning changes a benevolent act into a crime. Instead of a central authority, a coalition of individuals, media, businesses, and governments rule public thought through language. Each member of society receives and sends information shaping language and meaning; however, there is no balance of power in this coalition.

Additionally, complex thought is difficult to communicate; therefore, people and organisations rely on simplified common phrases to dismiss contrary views or quell cognitive dissonance. These thought-terminating clichés such as “be a man”, “think of the children”, or even “that’s just a thought-terminating cliché” inhibit critical thought through insincere logical fallacies. Robert J. Lifton, in Thought reform and the psychology of totalism: A study of brainwashing in China, explains: “[t]he most far-reaching and complex of human problems are compressed into brief, highly reductive, definitive-sounding phrases, easily memorized and easily expressed” (p. 429). Many of the criticisms against what people deem to be politically incorrect phrases are thought-terminating clichés. To say “that’s racist”, ”sexist”, or “homophobic” is to beg the question because it assumes that the proposition is proven in the premise. Claiming that something is politically incorrect kills deeper analysis.

In one instance, a “black” student complained when an English professor used “niggardly” while teaching Chaucer. The student told the faculty that she “was in tears, shaking,” and that "[i]t's not up to the rest of the class to decide whether [her] feelings are valid" (Kors p.4). The student claimed that the word “niggardly” was politically incorrect; however, in this case, “that’s racist” or “that’s offensive” are thought-terminating clichés that neglect critical analysis and pre-emptively inhibit thought. According to Kors, a Wisconsin State Journal editorial responded that academic “speech codes have a chilling effect on academic freedom and they reinforce defensiveness among students who ought to be more open to learning". Not to mention, if classrooms remove “niggardly”, they would also have to remove “Niger River”, “Nigeria”, or other similarly sounding names, from the class map.

In comparison, Marshall Brown criticised a D.C. Mayor’s aide, David Howard, for also using “niggardly” (Woodlee). Howard later mentioned: “I used to think it would be great if we could all be colorblind. That's naïve, especially for a ‘white’ person, because a ‘white’ person can't afford to be colorblind. They don't have to think about race every day. An African American does" (Woodlee). While Brown overreacted and took offense to the word “niggardly”, Howard learned a lesson that he would not have been able to learn if the word “niggardly” had been removed from the English language.  Following the logic of changing language based on perception, anything that anyone perceives as offensive is vulnerable for change and removal.

Moreover, removing emotionally loaded vocabulary from literature and replacing it with more pleasant clichés sterilizes the thought from language. For example, Marc Schultz of Publisher’s Weekly discusses NewSouth Books’ decision to publish Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer without the words “nigger” or “Injun”. According to Schultz, Alan Gribben, a Twain scholar, advocates the change because he became more aware “nigger” triggers negative emotions. Because of the two slurs, Gribben argues, teachers are uncomfortable reading the two books to students. “For a single word to form a barrier,” says Gribben, “it seems such an unnecessary state of affairs”. A blogger from The Economist mentions that while people will criticise the decision to remove the slurs for being overly politically correct, the change will make schools more comfortable reading the book in the classrooms (G.L.). The author states that the message against slavery and racial prejudice remain clear; however, the author points out that a part of that message also includes being uncomfortable. The New York Times journalist, Julie Bosman, counters Gribben’s claim that teachers are unwilling to teach the book because of the racial language. English teacher Elizabeth Absher, one of Bosman’s interviewees, explains that children already use profanity, and that she wants to teach material discussing race and slavery in their historical contexts. “A book like Professor Gribben has imagined,” explains Professor Wortham, “doesn't challenge children to ask, 'Why would a child like Huck use such reprehensible language?'” (Swaine).

Comparatively, political correctness relies largely on “weasel words”. Merriam-Webster defines “weasel word” as “a word used in order to evade or retreat from a direct or forthright statement or position”. Much of political correctness also relies on weasel words since they rely on euphemisms and vague language such as “most”, “people”, or even “experts”. When we talk about offending people, rarely can someone be specific when saying whom the words offends. They might use passive voice to say “blacks” are offended by the slur “nigger”, yet the term “nigger” does not offend all “blacks”. It might offend some “blacks”, but not all. While some groups might be more homogeneously against particular language, other people attempt to persuade others by using weasel words.

The word “Nigger”, moreover, is offensive to “white” people so they euphemise it to reduce discomfort. Comedian, Louie C.K., states that the “N-word” is worse than the word “nigger” because the euphemism makes the listener think of the word “nigger” in their head while removing the responsibility away from the speaker and places it on the listener. The “N-word” does not lessen the seriousness of the word, it only changes who feels uncomfortable. To C.K., that is “just “white” people getting away with saying ‘nigger”. Orwell, too, writes that such euphemistic “phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them”.

Orwell spoke of a totalitarian government; however, modern society claims a totalitarian control of history by inoculating the power of words through euphemism. “All rulers in all ages,” writes Orwell, ”have tried to impose a false view of the world upon their followers” (Nineteen Eighty-Four). Powerful institutions such as the media have more control over language in contemporary society. Comedian, George Carlin, emphasises the “[s]mug, greedy, well-fed white people [who] have invented a language to conceal their sins” as responsible for much of the insincere language. While the “N-word” was supposed to partly fix the problem of racial divides in society, it is instead a condescending attempt to resolve “white guilt”. “White” people have maintained control throughout much of history, yet instead of releasing that control, they use language to disable the power of history while furthering racial divides as people become so afraid of insulting someone of another culture they segregate themselves.

Political correctness uses “loaded words” to emotionally persuade listeners. Loaded words manipulate people emotionally. “A word or phrase is "loaded" when it has a secondary, evaluative meaning in addition to its primary, descriptive meaning. When language is "loaded", it is loaded with its evaluative meaning. A loaded word is like a loaded gun, and its evaluative meaning is the bullet” (Curtis). The word “black” is neutral, yet it is full of negative connotation. Euphemisms such as the “N-word” change the meaning of the original so that the evaluative meaning lessens the negative connotations of “nigger”. The “N-word” creates a new conforming group that feels alienated by the word “nigger”. “Black” people intimidate “white” people by saying “nigger”. Lifton writes of loaded language that “[t]he group interprets or uses words and phrases in new ways so that often the outside world does not understand.  This jargon consists of thought-terminating clichés, which serve to alter members' thought processes to conform to the group's way of thinking”. The “N-word”, for example, is a thought-terminating cliché that alters thought to make others conform to the dominant group. Furthermore:

New words and language are created to explain the new and profound meanings that have been discovered. Existing words are also hijacked and given new and different meaning. This is particularly effective due to the way we think a lot though language. The consequence of this is that the person who controls the meaning of words also controls how people think. In this way, black-and-white thinking is embedded in the language, such that wrong-doers are framed as terrible and evil, whilst those who do right (as defined by the group) are perfect and marvelous. (“Lifton's Thought Reform”)

Politically correct language creates the false worldview of segregation and fear of offending people. Language becomes so dense with offensive land mines that people fear talking to others of other cultures. Institutional political correctness exasperates the problem by increasing the consequences from personal conflict between individuals to those of life-destroying bureaucracy. Sarah Netter of ABC News reports on Paulo Serodio, a naturalised U.S. citizen born and raised in Mozambique who identifies himself as a “white African American”. According to Netter, Serodio filed a lawsuit against a medical school after being suspended and harassed because he identified himself as a “white African American”. Some other students felt offended and then criticised him. Other students felt that Serodio could not call himself African American because he is not “black”. Political correctness ends up constricting people to narrow definitions of their own identity while then forcing people into superficial definitions instead of the true and more objective meanings. “African-American” loses its actual meaning and becomes a loaded term. Political correctness constantly shifts and powerful institutions punish those who mistakenly use language that offends another. Instead of negotiating meaning as individuals, institutions involve themselves making innocent miscommunications into serious life-ruining events.

Similarly, the government further muddies clear language by trying to prescribe meanings. Joe Sandoval, a Los Angeles County official sent a letter requesting manufacturers, suppliers, and contractors to cease using “master” and “slave” for computer technology (Reuters). According to CNN, a worker filed a complaint after seeing the terms on a videotape machine. Sandoval wrote “The County of Los Angeles actively promotes and is committed to ensure a work environment that is free from any discriminatory influence be it actual or perceived” (Master/Slave). Carlin suggests that it is “the context that counts. It's the user. It's the intention behind the words that makes them good or bad. The words are completely neutral. The words are innocent. “Master” and “slave” do have their negative contexts; however, they also have their neutral contexts. It would be impossible to expunge all “offensive” vocabulary because there is always some word that could possiblly offend someone.

Instead of all of this complex and insincere politically correct language, Carlin urges for “simple, honest, direct language”. Moreover, Carlin discusses how words become more complex over time and lose their emotional meanings. “Shell Shock” becomes “battle fatigue” which becomes “operational exhaustion” and finally “Post-traumatic stress disorder”. This shifting politically correct language allows institutions to commit atrocities and undermine serious problems because it removes the emotional impact. “Shell shock” gets attention while “Post-traumatic stress disorder” needs a dictionary. Carlin argues we are “using that soft language. That language that takes the life out of life. And it is a function of time. It does keep getting worse”.

In conclusion, Carlin might be a comedian; however, his advice echoes Orwell’s suggestions for clear language and criticism of insincere writing. Hiding behind political correctness is the anti-thesis to “simple, honest, and direct” language. The speaker’s intention cannot be removed from interpretation without the conversation lapsing into miscommunication. Negotiating meaning helps language adjust to modern day ideas and trends; however, when people rely on euphemisms, thought-terminating clichés, weasel words, and loaded terms as arguments in and of themselves, manipulation replaces opportunities to learn and communicate. Institutional involvement intensifies the seriousness of individual language disagreements. Moreover, larger organisations gain power over public opinion through manipulating perception of vocabulary. Overreliance on enforcing any language trend that attempts to not offend any other person is not only impossible, but it does not help people clearly understand the intent of other speakers. Rather, it manipulates them through misdirection. Hate speech and purposefully insulting language deserve the harshest criticism. The contexts of words, however, cannot remain separate from the overall interpretation. Some language should make us uncomfortable because we do not have an innocent history. We have to accept that discomfort because we have to remember historic atrocities. In the end, euphemisms within political correctness do not help people understand each other. Political correctness, like insincerity, is the enemy of clear language. An enemy of clear language is an enemy of solidarity.

Works Cited

 Bosman, Julie. “Publisher Tinkers With Twain” nytimes.com. The New York Times. 4 Jan. 2011. Web. 29 Oct. 2011. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/05/books/05huck.html?_r=1

Carlin, George. “Euphemisims” Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics. Atlantic. 12 Aug. 1990.

C.K., Louis. “Chewed Up” Image Entertainment. 16 Dec. 2008

Curtis, Gary N. “Loaded Words” fallacyfiles.org. Fallacy files. n.d. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://www.fallacyfiles.org/loadword.html

G.L. “There weren't any niggers, then” The Economist.com. The Economist. 7 Jan. 2011. Web. 18 Oct. 2011. http://www.economist.com/node/21014503

Kors, Alan Charles. “Cracking the speech code” Reason.com. Reason. July. 1999. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://reason.com/archives/1999/07/01/cracking-the-speech-code/3

Lifton, Robert J. Thought reform and the psychology of totalism: A study of brainwashing in China. UNC Press. 1989. Print.

“Lifton's Thought Reform” Changingminds.org. Changing Minds. n.d. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://changingminds.org/techniques/conversion/lifton_thought_reform.htm

“Logocracy” Thefreedictionary.com. The Free Dictionary. n.d. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://www.thefreedictionary.com/Logocracy

“Master/Slave” Snopes.com. Snopes. n.d. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/outrage/master.asp

Netter, Sarah. “White African-American' Suing N.J. Med School for Discrimination” ABCnews.co.com. ABCnews. 13 May. 2009. Web. 18 Oct. 2011. http://abcnews.go.com/US/story?id=7567291&page=1

“Nineteen Eighty-Four” Wikiquote.org. Wikiquote. n.d. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Nineteen_Eighty-Four

Orwell, George. “Politics and the English Language” Wikilivres.info. Wikilivres. 1946. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://wikilivres.info/wiki/Politics_and_the_English_Language

Scultz, Marc. “Upcoming NewSouth 'Huck Finn' Eliminates the 'N' Word” publisherweekly.com. Publisher Weekly. 3 Jan. 2011. Web. 29 Oct. 2011. http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/publisher-news/article/45645-upcoming-newsouth-huck-finn-eliminates-the-n-word.html

Reuters. “'Master' and 'slave' computer labels unacceptable, officials say”. CNN.com. CNN. 26 Nov. 2003. Web. 18 Oct. 2011. http://edition.cnn.com/2003/TECH/ptech/11/26/master.term.reut/

Swaine, Jon. “Censored Huckleberry Finn prompts political correctness debate” telegraph.co.uk. The Telegraph. 5 Jan. 2011. Web. 29 Oct. 2011. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/northamerica/usa/8239737/Censored-Huckleberry-Finn-prompts-political-correctness-debate.html

“Weasel word” mw4.m-w.com. Merriam-Webster. Web. 30 Oct. 2011.  http://mw4.m-w.com/dictionary/weasel+word?show=0&t=1319954713

Woodlee, Yolanda. “D.C. Mayor Acted 'Hastily,' Will Rehire Aide” washingtonpost.com.  The Washington Post. 4 Feb. 1999. Web. 30 Oct. 2011. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/local/longterm/williams/williams020499.htm