This interview with APARC and Korea Program Director Gi-Wook Shin was originally published in Asia Experts Forum, a student-curated journal from the Keck Center for International and Strategic Studies at Claremont McKenna College. Ava Liao, a student journalist pursuing a dual major in International Relations and Media Studies, reported this story.

While Korean national identity was historically defined against Japanese imperialism, in more recent times Korean identity is responding to new influences related to globalization. How has Korean national identity been shaped by the distinctly Korean policy of segyehwa in the face of globalization?

Japanese colonialism was instrumental to the formation of Korean national identity. The Korean peninsula is surrounded by big powers such as China, Japan, and Russia. Even today, these influences are still very strong. A sense of threat is still there. Furthermore, although Korea is divided into North and South, Koreans share a strong sense of ethnic unity. Both North and South Koreans believe that they belong to a single nation, ethnicity, and race. For Koreans, this conflation of nation, ethnicity and race emphasizes the idea that there is a single bloodline going back to Dangun, a common ancestor and the mythic founder of the Korean nation. Even though they are divided, both sides believe that it is unnatural and only temporary and that they will eventually be reunified. 

Korea is very homogeneous; only about five percent of the population is non-ethnic Korean. The issue of maintaining social cohesion in the face of a growing power of globalization ironically strengthens ethnic identity. South Korea is trying to promote Korean culture on the world stage. Look at BTS, for example, and Parasite. Korean culture becoming popular around the world is fairly new and Koreans are really proud of that. The economy has grown greatly, it is a G20 country, and South Korea is proud of exporting its culture so successfully. With globalization, there have also been further efforts to absorb the overseas Korean population into the Korean identity and to utilize them as representatives in their host or resident countries. All these interrelated factors shape Korean national identity.

Your 2012 article “Racist South Korea? Diverse but Not Tolerant of Diversity,” concludes that although South Korea has become multi-ethnic, it has yet to become multicultural. It also outlines how foreigners, migrant workers of Korean ethnicity, and those with darker skin color often face discrimination in South Korea. Have these dynamics changed significantly since 2012?

Not so much. South Korea has been promoting multiculturalism as a policy initiative since 2006, so it is a fairly new phenomenon in Korean society. Foreign brides—from China, Vietnam, and other countries—marry Korean men and move to South Korea. They make contributions to the reproduction of the nation, which has an aging population and a low birth rate. It becomes a question of how to assimilate, and how these foreign brides can be integrated into Korean society. Even though the rhetoric is inclusive, in reality it is not very much so. Foreign brides are taught to assimilate into Korean culture and society, for example, by learning the Korean language, how to make kimchi, and how to respect the elderly. Another respect is in migrant labor, especially unskilled workers from developing countries. They are basically on a temporary visa, have little legal protection, and face a great deal of discrimination. Lower-class ethnic Koreans from China and North Korean defectors are also looked down upon, even if they belong to the same Korean nation. There is a gap between perception and reality. While they are told that they belong to the same nation and ethnicity, in reality, what really matters is class. Class matters much more than ethnicity, nationality, or even citizenship in practice. Foreign brides, migrant workers, and North Korean defectors are treated much poorly in South Korea than say, middle-class Korean-Americans or professionals from developed countries.

Your article also features Park No-Ja’s argument that colorism and white supremacy are inextricably linked in South Korean society. Why is this phenomenon prevalent across East Asia and Southeast Asia?

It reflects the reality of who has power in the world. If you refer back to history, this is very Orientalist thinking. Orientalism is the understanding of the East from the Western perspective, and Asians have not been able to overcome Orientalism. Even in Korea as I mentioned earlier, there is much higher regard for white people coming from developed countries, in comparison to Asians from developing parts of Asia, or Africans. They are not shown much respect. Even with Japan challenging the United States as a competing power in the 1980s and now China, Asians are generally not respected on the international stage as much as Americans, for example. Ironically, that is quite true, or even worse in Asia. 

The Black Lives Matter protest movement that began in the United States has greatly expanded in its global reach, although less so in East Asia. Why has the BLM movement against racism found so little resonance or support in East Asian countries?

If you compare the Black Lives Matter movement to the #MeToo movement, the #MeToo movement had much greater impact in South Korea. BLM has not had very much impact so far in South Korea, Japan, or China for different reasons. Korea had a very strong feminist movement already. #MeToo was immediately embraced by feminists and developed very quickly, but BLM has hardly found any resonance or community in East Asia. 

For Japan and South Korea, ethnic homogeneity is still very strong. There are ethnic minorities, but the population is very small. There have been some movements from ethnic minorities in Japan, but they have very little voice and are not as well-organized as BLM here. In the case of Korea, once again, most ethnic minorities are foreigners and often temporary residents, whereas black people have a much longer history in the U.S. In Korea, the majority came as adults, rather than being born and growing up there. There are some NGOs advocating for the rights of those migrants, but their impact is still limited. China is a different case. The Chinese government officially recognizes 56 different ethnic groups, with Han Chinese being the majority. China is very nervous about the breakup of the national minority structure, which is why they are repressing Xinjiang and Tibet. China suppresses any movements advocating for independence of national minorities. Japan, Korea, and China have not been much receptive to the BLM movement, for these different reasons. 

We can learn a lot from the BLM movement in studying racism in Asia but there exists a separation between Asian Studies and ethnic studies. While race and ethnicity are popular topics of discussion in the U.S., they are not much talked about in Japan or South Korea, which may also explain why there is so little resonance in East Asian countries. We, Asian experts, need to learn from the insights of ethnic studies in addressing racism in Asia.

South Korea notably has no legal protections against racial discrimination. Is this likely to change in the future, given the changing values of the younger generation?

Overall, Korea is improving protection against discrimination, especially with regards to gender and sexual minorities. They are moving in the right direction. In contrast, racial discrimination does not get much attention from the public, the media, or the government because the ethnic minority population is so small. The same goes to religious minority. For example, there are more than 100,000 Muslims in Korea right now, but there are very few Koreans who even know that there are so many Muslims. Most of them do not really understand Muslim culture, and may mainly associate them with terrorists. It is a lack of understanding and ignorance, and even though they exist, Koreans just ignore them. The Black community in Korea is even smaller, so they do not see it affecting Korean society that much. They understand that it is a global issue, but do not see it as their issue yet. 

How has the outbreak of COVID-19 exacerbated racial inequalities in South Korea?

COVID-19 certainly made the situation much more difficult for the foreign unskilled workers in Korea. The majority of them are physical workers in non-office jobs, which means they cannot work remotely. Many of them have been forced out of jobs, so they either have to go back to their country of origin or stay in Korea without stimulus funds or medical and other financial assistance that are available to Korean citizens. Many of them are also illegal or unregistered workers, so they have to hide from the government even if they do have symptoms or come into contact with the virus. Recently, there has been a number of unassisted COVID-19 deaths of unregistered foreign workers in Korea because they avoided seeking medical treatment out of a fear that they might be deported. The pandemic has also increased inequalities for society as a whole, so those already suffering from racial inequality experience it even more. Even here in the U.S., it is one story if a white male spreads COVID-19, but it is another if a Chinese one spreads it. There are similar aspects of racial discrimination in Korea. It makes bigger news if a foreign worker spreads the virus, and feeds into the same kind of prejudice.

We often think of language as a democratic field, but it is not quite the common property of its speakers, argues Jeffrey Weng, APARC’s 2020-21 postdoctoral fellow on contemporary Asia. Rather, language is a skill that must be learned, says Weng, and it creates social divisions as much as it bridges divides. 

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What has shaped your interest and research into the study of language and linguistic dissemination?

As a first-grade student in the early 1990s attending Chinese school in central New Jersey on Saturday mornings, I learned how to write my first complete sentence in the language: “I am an overseas Chinese.” Now, this was a curious sentence to teach to a class full of American-born children of Taiwanese parents, and it’s a reminder that language is never a neutral conveyor of meaning. Language cannot but be freighted with social, cultural, and political import, a lesson reinforced in my high-school Spanish classes, in which I made my first forays into literature in a foreign language: stories by the great writers of Spain and Latin America not only spoke a wholly different language, but they told wholly different stories from those of their British and American counterparts.

Linguistic difference also is a signal of individual and social difference: my childhood visits with family in Taiwan opened my ears to a cacophonous Babel in the media and on the streets—though we spoke Mandarin at home, whenever we went out, people speaking Taiwanese were everywhere to be seen and heard. This was further amplified when I visited mainland China for the first time in my early 20s. Beijing, the supposed wellspring of the nation’s language, was bewildering—I could not understand much of the unselfconscious speech of the locals. And traveling several hundred miles in any direction would only deepen my incomprehension. And yet, on the radio and on TV, during formal events and on university campuses, there was always Mandarin to clear the way. I wanted to learn more about how this language situation came to be. For me, studying the social, cultural, and political nature of language is a way to a deeper understanding of how people are united and divided in vastly different contexts across the globe.

As you’ve looked deeper into how language shapes society and society shapes language, what is something surprising you’ve come to realize about that relationship?

People often see language as the ultimate democratic field when it comes to cultural practice. No matter how much you might tell people not to split their infinitives or end their sentences with prepositions, popular practice will always win the day. Or so we English speakers think. Ever since Merriam-Webster came out with its infamously descriptivist Third New International Dictionary in 1961, Anglophone language nerds have fought over whether dictionaries should be “prescriptive”—that is, rule-setting—or “descriptive”—reflective of popular usage. But really, these are two sides of the same coin. We take it for granted that privately-owned publishers of dictionaries spell out the supposed norms of our language. Not only that, we even think this ought to be the case. French is the usual counterexample: when government language authorities in Quebec or Paris try to stem the Anglophone tide, we think it absurd that so-called authorities would ever try to rule over something so fundamentally unruly as language.

In my research, however, I learned how fundamentally invented Mandarin as a language is—from its highly artificial pronunciation to the way its orthography has been stabilized. There used to be a lot of variability in how characters were written and how they could be used, much like English spelling before the 18th century. Mandarin, both spoken and written, was standardized only in the 1920s to facilitate mass literacy and national cohesion. So linguistic change might often follow and reflect social change, but the process can also operate in reverse—a government can change language in hopes of facilitating social change.

In your latest journal publication, you argue that language nationalization in Japan, Korea, and Vietnam between 1870-1950 was a state-led, top-down process directed at remaking society rather than the more traditional view of diffusion through trade, economics, and cultural exchange. Why is this an important distinction to make?

Again, we often see language as a democratic field, the common property of its speakers, but it isn’t really. Sociolinguists are often quick to remind us that linguistic differences reflect class differences—“proper” language is that of “educated” speakers. But language is a skill, and skills must be learned. Some people can learn skills more easily than others, whether through natural ability or, more importantly, the life circumstances they were born into. Rich people can more easily get a good education. Educational disparities are now part and parcel of today’s broader debates about inequality. But the very fact that we think this is a problem is a product of developments in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Before then, broad swaths of humanity were totally illiterate and had no chance at being educated, and most people did not think this was a problem. In Europe, the language of the Church and academia, even to some extent in Protestant areas, was Latin until the 18th century. Local vernaculars had gradually developed as independent media of communication in government chancelleries and popular literature since the Middle Ages, but they did not really gain ascendancy until the age of print-capitalism and nationalism in the 18th and 19th centuries. Marxian-influenced scholars have therefore concluded that the rise of national languages coincided with the rise of the bourgeoisie, whose own languages became those of the nations they constructed.

In France, for example, while revolutionaries in the 1790s advocated the use of Parisian French to unify a country divided by hundreds of local forms of speech, into the mid-19th century, even journeying 50 miles outside Paris found travelers having trouble making themselves understood to the locals. It took more than a century for French to gain a foothold in most of the country. Asia, too, was a polyglot patchwork for millennia, unified at the top by an arcane language much like Latin—Classical Chinese. This situation became politically untenable in the 19th century as European imperialism encroached on traditional sovereignties in China, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam. In order to counter the foreign threat, governments sought to strengthen their societies by educating their populations, which required making it easier to learn how to read and write. While standard languages have been described by historians and sociolinguists as “artificial” for less-privileged learners, Asia’s standard languages were artificial even to their bourgeois inventors.

Our understanding of the present is invariably colored by our interpretation of the past: if we understand a national language to be a bourgeois imposition that diffused via economic development, then we more easily see its continued imposition as a perpetuation of class prejudices. If on the other hand, we see an invented national language as a tool for bridging regional divisions and expanding economic opportunity for our children, then we feel much more positively about the spread of such languages. Both interpretations can be true at the same time, but we must remember that one is inseparable from the other.

Do you see any parallels between how language nationalization has occurred in the past to how language and society are shaping one another in the present?

The number of “standard” Mandarin speakers in the early 1930s could be counted on one hand. Today, it’s the world’s largest language by a number of “native” speakers. Though it began as an elite nationalizing project that was largely ignored by the masses of people in China, Mandarin is now more often seen as a hegemonic threat to local languages and cultures. Language can thus bridge divides, but also create new divisions. People in China are often ambivalent about the pace of change these days. When I visited cousins in rural Fujian during the Lunar New Year a few years ago, I noticed that all my nieces and nephews spoke Mandarin in almost all situations, to their parents, and especially to one another. Only my grandparents’ generation used the local Fuqing dialect as a matter of course. My parents’ generation spoke dialect to their parents, but a mix of Mandarin and dialect to their children—the cousins of my generation, who were able to speak the dialect, but were more comfortable speaking Mandarin among themselves and to their children. One of my young nieces who’d grown up in Beijing, where her parents had moved for work, even had a perfect Beijing accent. In a span of three generations, migration due to expanded opportunity had wrought enormous change in language habits. Much had been gained, but also much had been lost.

How has your time at APARC as one of our Shorenstein Postdoctoral Fellows aided your research project?

It’s certainly been a strange year to be a postdoc, given how we’ve all been operating remotely. Nevertheless, life and work have continued, and we’ve all been able to find new ways of building community and getting things done. I’ve personally benefited from the access to the vast academic resources of Stanford—library access, even online alone, is a lifeline to any researcher. Moreover, I’ve had the opportunity to chat on Zoom with Stanford faculty about research and connect with my fellow postdocs to support one another as we figure out how to move forward in our careers in these challenging times.

With your recent appointment as an assistant professor at National Taiwan University in Taipei, how do you anticipate your research interests growing and developing given the tension between Taiwan and China?

I am gratified to begin my academic career in a place of such diversity and openness as Taiwan. Language and identity are constant sites of contention in Taiwan's politics, and I look forward to expanding my on-the-ground understanding of these issues as I begin teaching in the sociology department at National Taiwan University. It is nothing short of miraculous that democracy has flourished at such an intersection of empires, colonialism, repressions, and struggles. And it is unsettling to see that flourishing takes place in such a precarious geopolitical location. NTU's sociology department is at the forefront of understanding all of these vital issues as we barrel forward into an ever more uncertain future.

This article by Kiyoteru Tsutsui was originally published by Nikkei Asia.

This was supposed to be the year that Japan would show the world that it is back.

The last few decades have seen Japan lose its prominence on the world stage, losing the lion's share of international attention to China. With the 2020 Summer Olympics as the focal point, however, Japan had planned on showcasing its technological advances, cultural assets, economic affluence, and social stability and efficiency, to dispel the notion that it has faded as an international power.

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COVID-19 changed everything. The outbreak in the Diamond Princess cruise ship in early February alerted the Japanese public to the power of the virus, and then the death of the famous comedian Ken Shimura in late March brought home its lethal impact. The early COVID domino saw K-12 schools closing on Feb. 27 and the Olympics postponed on Mar. 24. Quickly, tourism declined and the economy slumped as supply chains and production lines were disrupted and consumers mostly stayed home following emergency declarations.

Somewhat surprisingly, the number of cases did not grow exponentially in Japan as it did in the U.S. and Europe. Initially, a conspiracy theory was floated that the government was manipulating the numbers to leave open the possibility for the Olympics to take place, and soon the dominant narrative was that long-standing hygiene practices in Japan of wearing face masks and washing hands were the main reasons for the low number of cases. Despite the recent surge, the number of new cases in Japan has remained two digits below that in the U.S., and the country has avoided the worst of the virus's impact.

Yet, the public gave the government little credit for Japan's relative success. While the legislative measures and guidelines likely helped contain the spread of the virus, some missteps in the distribution of face masks and the economic stimulus package -- confounded by public relations miscalculations -- shaped the public perception that the government does not get what needs to be done.

This, combined with political scandals involving infractions of rules around political funds and elections, put then Prime Minister Shinzo Abe on shaky ground by the summer. But it was the recurrence of the same health concern that ended the first Abe administration that forced him to step down again.

After Abe announced his resignation on Aug. 28, jockeying for his successor ensued, and quickly Yoshihide Suga, Abe's right-hand man as Chief Cabinet Secretary, emerged as a near consensus candidate, earning the support of most of the Liberal Democratic Party's major factions. On Sept. 16, Suga succeeded Abe.

Seen as a scrappy, self-made man belonging to no faction and who cares about regular folk, Suga started off with one of the highest approval ratings for any new prime minister. The air was filled with talk of a snap election, with the LDP poised to win big. In the face of continuing corona concerns, Suga decided against it, giving up his best chance of securing his position beyond next fall when he will face an LDP presidential ballot and a parliamentary Lower House election.

In the few months since, Suga has faced some criticisms: his rejection of the appointment of six scholars to the Science Council of Japan -- seen as retaliation for their earlier criticisms of the Abe administration -- drew the ire of the intellectual community, mostly on the left ideologically, and his foreign policy team appeared soft on China, raising concerns among the right-leaning public. Suga's popularity took a major hit in December when, in response to a surge in COVID cases, he was too slow to cancel his signature Go To Travel campaign that was intended to stimulate the economy by encouraging tourism. His approval ratings collapsed, and all of a sudden Suga finds himself fighting for survival.

While these have been the major events that the Japanese public will remember about 2020, what are the three most consequential events that will have a lasting impact on Japan in 2021 and beyond?

First, the end of the Abe era. Becoming the longest-serving prime minister in Japanese history is a major accomplishment in itself, but Abe was a transformative leader beyond his longevity. In foreign affairs, Abe strengthened the U.S.-Japan alliance, passing significant laws that enabled Japan to play a greater role and managing his relationship with U.S. President Donald Trump better than any major political leaders.

Furthermore, Abe formulated the concept of the free and open Indo-Pacific and developed the Quad, a quadrilateral grouping involving Japan, the U.S., Australia, and India, in the security realm, and the Comprehensive and Progressive Agreement for Trans-Pacific Partnership, and the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership trade agreements, all as a way to counter China's expansionist ambitions.

Seen at first as an anti-China hawk, Abe soon mended fences politically and established good economic relationships with Beijing, working to develop multilateral frameworks to manage China's peaceful rise. These efforts constituted the first time in its post-World War II history that Japan led the world with a vision to build a world order governed by the rule of law, freedom, and democracy, an important legacy that should live on in the post-Abe era.

In domestic politics, Abe completed the process started by the government formed by the Democratic Party of Japan from 2009 to 2012 to strengthen cabinet's power to execute policies. The era of bureaucrats shaping much of Japan's future has ended, and politicians now pursue their own policies with electoral successes as their mandate. The personnel decision-making capacity was the critical component, and Suga, who was the main architect of the new system, will likely entrench politician-led policymaking.

The recent investigations into Abe-era political scandals, for which Abe himself had to respond to prosecutors, demonstrate the downside of concentration of power in the Prime Minister's office. Yet, his legacies will live on in the institutional frameworks his administration developed.

The second consequential event was COVID, not just for the obvious health and economic impact, but also for the unexpected ways in which it expedited a much needed social transformation in Japan. With the stay-at-home order, many Japanese workers experienced for the first time an extended period of telework and realized that it can be even more effective to work remotely from home.

Most employers also realized that telework is a viable option, especially in utilizing the hidden talents, particularly among women and the elderly, who cannot work regular hours but have much to contribute to the economy. Given the widespread concerns about Japan's work-life balance prompted by major instances of death by overwork, this offers an opportunity for the nation to achieve what the government's work-style reform policies had sought to accomplish.

The changes that COVID-19 has forced on Japan will likely expedite Japan's digital transformation too. Suga's administration has promoted digital transformation to cut meaningless red tape -- symbolized by the requirement for hanko, a personal seal, for official documents -- and to bring a more productive and efficient social system that can handle Japan's inevitable population decline.

This new system will offer customized support for citizens, depending on their personal situations, not just on their standardized demographic backgrounds. For example, elderly citizens can now receive different kinds of care and work opportunities depending on their health and career backgrounds, while children's school records can be used to identify areas of concern such as bullying or domestic abuse. With fifth-generation, or 5G, wireless networks becoming accessible to many, Japan is poised to achieve these social transformations and offer a model to the world.

Third-most consequential, but still underrated, was the decision to postpone the Olympics by a year. Until it was announced on Mar. 20, various possibilities surfaced from simple cancellation to postponement for two years. Considering that there was no precedent for postponement, this was uncharted territory.

In the end, the 12-month postponement may have been the best-case scenario. It was a gamble, however, since there were serious concerns about the possibility of the world not being ready by the summer of 2021. Now that COVID vaccines have begun to be distributed, things are looking quite promising for the Olympics to take place next year in Tokyo.

Beyond the actual staging of the games and all that will bring to Japan, the Olympics are important for their long term economic and social impact. Recent studies about the impact of the Olympics on a host country document positive economic impacts that can last as long as 20 years after the actual event, especially in tourism.

Japan had already started betting on international tourism as a major national economic focus and succeeded in increasing tourists dramatically until COVID struck. The infrastructure development required for increased tourism has largely been accomplished and had the Olympics been canceled, much of that investment would have been for naught. The economic impact would have been devastating. With the Olympics likely to be held next summer, Japan can still hope to show the world that it is back after all, just as it hoped to do in 2020.