The Greatest Crisis Since the Journey Began

Late at night. I was jolted awake by a nudge. When I lifted my head, I saw a large woman standing in the aisle of the bus. The immigration bureau emblem was embroidered on her polo shirt. As I attempted to show my passport, she ordered me to “get off the bus with your belongings.” Following her command, I stepped off the bus to find Mexican soldiers armed with rifles. It seemed to be a checkpoint. The soldiers urged me to enter a warehouse-like building by the side of the road. Inside the dimly lit space, there were around 30 people, all standing anxiously with their large bags. They were migrants.

We departed from the Guatemala border and were on a night bus headed for San Cristóbal de las Casas in southeastern Mexico. I sent a message to Maruo-san, my travel partner and editor, who was also on the bus with me. He seemed to have tried to get off in concern for me but was stopped. “The bus has already departed,” came the message. After reporting my situation, I received a message saying, “I pray for your safety,” and then communication ceased. It seemed he had fallen asleep on the bus. I couldn’t help but feel he was being callous, but there was nothing to be done. It was me who wanted to go to the border. The problem was the current situation.

The soldiers whispered something to the migrants. Each of them sighed as if in resignation when they faced each other. Then, I caught a glimpse of them handing something to the soldiers. This time, the soldiers approached me, brandishing their rifles, and spoke to me in Spanish. Although I didn’t understand the language, I caught the word “dinero” which meant money. It seemed they were asking for money in exchange for turning a blind eye to illegal entry. However, I was not a migrant. It was infuriating to be woken up in the middle of the night, deprived of my means of transportation, and then asked for money. I pretended not to understand the language.

Next to me was a group with East Asian features. There are indigenous people in Central and South America with similar features. They, too, paid and left. I was the only one left. He seemed frustrated with my pretending not to understand, but eventually, he showed a pleading expression as if to say, “Please, somehow, if you could just pay a little, that would be enough.” It was inevitable. As I tried to take out money while leaving the warehouse, the soldier hurriedly said, “I want you to take out the money in a darker area further inside.” Perhaps they didn’t want to be seen by regular passing vehicles. In the end, I was charged 400 pesos (about 3500 yen). The soldier handed all the collected money to the immigration bureau woman.

I checked the time, it was past 3 am. I walked along the road after the bus had left. Looking at my Google Maps, the road seemed to be a paved highway continuing from the Guatemala border called Highway 200.

It seemed to be like a national highway. I understood why immigration control was not functioning at the Guatemala border. They couldn’t openly take bribes at the border, so perhaps they wanted to efficiently collect money by intentionally allowing illegal entry first.

As I walked forward, I encountered the group that had been in the warehouse earlier. They seemed calm. Was experiencing such things a regular occurrence for them? They immediately began camping by the roadside. I joined them and lay down to rest.

One of the East Asian individuals I had seen earlier approached me and spoke. I was surprised by their words; it was Mandarin Chinese. I wondered why there were Chinese people in such a place. When I told him I was Japanese, he bombarded me with rapid-fire questions: “Why are there Japanese people here? Are you also heading to America?” Trying to evade the questions, he abruptly started discussing political issues, saying, “Taiwan is Taiwan. It’s not China,” without even being asked. He was a 36-year-old from Zhejiang Province, an immigrant with a wife and a seven-year-old son who was headed for the United States. He explained to me the reasons for being here.

The excessive lockdown measures during the COVID-19 pandemic in China ultimately resulted in numerous deaths. Feeling terrorized by the authoritarian political regime, they fled China. Their destination was Ecuador in South America, one of the countries where they could travel without a visa from China. They walked for nearly a month to reach Mexico. While trekking through the jungles of Panama, they found fellow Chinese migrants in similar situations, and now they are traveling together as a group of seven. They speak in horror about seeing many bodies of collapsed immigrants in the jungle.

“We don’t want jobs. We just want basic human rights,” they say. Although there is no guarantee they will be accepted into America, they left their country without knowing English or Spanish, believing “it’s still worth the challenge.” Their determination is nothing short of remarkable. I have also noticed other Chinese immigrants, such as groups of university students and couples with children, on the journey. According to what I’ve heard, there has been a significant increase in Chinese immigrants heading north through Central and South America. Perhaps the simple reason I was dropped off the bus is because I look similar to them. Come to think of it, Tony, whom I met under the bridge at the American border, was also talking about Chinese immigrants.

Continued Hardships

As dawn broke, people began to move. They were planning to walk to the next town, a distance of 120 kilometers. Somehow, amidst talking with many migrants, I had started feeling the urge to “aim for America” myself. It’s amazing how easily influenced one can be by the atmosphere. With that mindset, I started walking with them. However, the baseless bravado quickly wilted as the sun rose. It was too hot. My feet began to ache immediately. Walking another 100 kilometers was impossible. Feeling ashamed, I made up some excuse and parted ways with them.

Feeling dizzy, I entered a town called Mapastepec. It seemed I had managed to bypass the checkpoints successfully. With my tired body, I searched for a cheap inn. I figured this town would also be filled with immigrants at night. I managed to negotiate a stay until evening under the condition that I pay. Maruo-san contacted me, saying he had safely arrived in San Cristobal.

I left the inn after sunset. I found the bus terminal and bought a ticket for the 10 p.m. departure. While engaging in conversation with someone in the waiting area, I was stunned to find out that the bus I was supposed to board had left. When I informed the lady closing the ticket counter, she looked at me in disbelief. The next bus seemed to be scheduled for 10 a.m. the following morning. With no room available back at the inn, I found myself once again sleeping rough by the roadside with the other migrants.

Once again, the morning dawned. As I walked with my camera, I was called out, “Photo! Photo!” I ignored it because I didn’t want any trouble, but then a girl suddenly appeared. “Huh?!” I let out a surprised gasp. I recognized her face. It was Cecilia, the girl who had claimed to be “just a tourist” at the Guatemala border. It turned out her being a tourist was a blatant lie, as she had crossed the border river as an immigrant.

It seemed they had also been sleeping rough here since last night. “I slept next to you,” she said, laughing. I couldn’t believe we were meeting again.

It was worth missing the bus. They said they were also going to walk to the next town and waved goodbye as they left.

Finally, I boarded the bus. Through the window of the air-conditioned bus, I saw a constant stream of immigrants walking along Highway 200. I kept looking for them, those who had come from China, and Cecilia, but I couldn’t spot them. Exhausted, I fell asleep quickly.

Translation Elie Inoue

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Izumi Hoshi
Born in Chiba prefecture in 1967, Izumi holds a doctorate in literature and is a professor specializing in Tibetan language and linguistics. Since 1997, she has been working at the Research Institute for Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, Tokyo University of Foreign Studies. While continuing her research in the Tibetan language, she introduces Tibetan literature and films. She wrote and edited the Dictionary of Tibetan Pastoralism. She translated works such as Tales of the Golden Corpse, and Sunlight on the Path, Waiting for Snow by Lhacham Gyal. She co-translated Fantasy Short Stories from Tibet, Here Too Is a Strongly Beating Heart by Döndrub Gyal, The Search by Pema Tseden, A Story about Raising a Pet Dog by Tagbum Gyal, The Valley of Black Foxes by Tsering Döndrub. She is the editor-in-chief of Sernya: Tibetan Literature and Filmmaking.

Izumi Hoshi, a Tibetan researcher and translator, says that Tibetan literary works are very effective in capturing the feelings of people living in the contemporary era. It is often difficult to understand the daily lives of Tibetans because news reports are never sufficient to understand what people are feeling and what they are doing in their daily lives. On the other hand, Tibetan literary works skillfully depict the sentiments of people and many Japanese readers say, “Tibetan stories transcend religious and racial boundaries. We can relate to these stories as they give us clues on how we can deepen compassion, humor, and understanding of others. It’s something Japanese people living in today’s busy world tend to forget.”

Izumi translated several works of Tibetan literature into Japanese, including White Crane lend me your wings: A Tibetan Tale of Love and War, a full-length historical novel by writer and exiled Tibetan doctor Tsewang Yeshe Pemba, and, Sunlight on the Path, Waiting for Snow, a collection of works, published only in Japan, by Lhacham Gyal (aka Lhashamgyal), a leading figure in contemporary Tibetan literature. The short story “Faraway Sakurajima,” set in Japan, and included in Sunlight on the Path, depicts the anguish and struggles of a second-generation Tibetan woman living in exile in Japan who has never set foot on Tibetan soil. In the afterword to the book, Izumi writes, “This work has a powerful message that calls out to lonely young people living in cities for higher education, employment, or migrant work, which is a growing trend in Tibet in recent years.

Lhacham Gyal’s works are introduced as a kind of foreign literature that Japanese people are eager to read these days. However, many Tibetan writers remain unknown, including quite a few female writers and poets. When exposed to different cultures, Tibetan literature demonstrates an intellectual approach that is based on ideas cultivated by the history of persecution and oppression, which are essential for people today living in an era of diversity. We asked Izumi about how Tibetan literature gained the world’s attention and its uniqueness. We also discussed emerging female writers and how Tibetan writers intentionally use Mandarin and Tibetan in their creative process.

On the frontline of creative work, writers carry on the rich oral tradition

–Since the 2010s, Tibetan literature has been translated and published simultaneously in many parts of the world, including Japan. How did this happen?

Izumi Hoshi: Firstly, I’d like to highlight two significant figures in the discussion of contemporary Tibetan literature: Pema Tseden and Tsering Döndrup. This is my assumption, but I believe their engagement with scholars and translators in Japan, France, and the U.S. led to Tibetan literature being translated into different languages around the same time.

Pema was a writer as well as a world-renowned filmmaker. In the late 2000s, he started to work in the film industry, and his work was instantly highly regarded, which led him to work internationally. When I met him at a film festival in 2011, he gave me a copy of his novel. Since it was such an interesting piece, I felt that I wanted to translate it and share it with more people. Initially, I wasn’t planning to translate the book, but Pema contacted me and said, “Someone has started to work on the English translation, and it will be published next year. What about a Japanese translation?” It was my first experience where a writer anticipated a translation from me. I became close enough to him that we would contact each other casually, which led to the translation of his book being published in Japan. I assume the translators, who had received his book at film festivals in France and the U.S., were also drawn to his work and personality. He was the kind of person who brought joy to people around him. When he passed away last May, it was very sad.

The novels of Tsering Döndrup have been translated in New York and Paris. Whenever he releases his latest book, he contacts me. Additionally, he facilitates opportunities for me to meet with Tibetan researchers and translators, whom he knows, in other countries. This has led to expanding my network around him. Whenever I consult with him, he is very cooperative and responds instantly. He shares valuable information about Tibet. Thanks to these two individuals, who have worked behind the scenes with translators all over the world, we saw books of Tibetan literature being published simultaneously.

In addition to that, alongside the accumulated knowledge and translated books from past Tibetan research, it became much easier to communicate in the Tibetan language in the 2010s. This enabled writers to easily share their work with the world.

–In recent years, it seems that Tibetan literature has been garnering more attention in Japan. What are the characteristics of Tibetan literature?

Izumi: In Tibet, there is a culture that emphasizes storytelling. Tibetan literature was mainly passed down orally, and for the general public, stories were not meant to be read but to be listened to and enjoyed. Because of this background, people highly appreciate storytelling done by individuals using a voice with persuasive words.

I made an online Tibetan-Japanese dictionary with my colleagues called the Dictionary of Tibetan Pastoralism. In this dictionary, there is a term that refers to the nine abilities that men must possess. It lists that men need to be strong, good at swimming, agile, knowledgeable about the history of the land, skilled at telling funny stories and engaging in discussions, knowledgeable and intelligent, patient and brave, and articulate speakers. Five of these abilities are related to speaking. It demonstrates that if a man acquires a deep knowledge of the history of the land and can speak about it, he is considered a fully grown adult.

The Tibetan script is ancient, having been created 1,300 years ago. Due to a long tradition of classical literature being supported by Buddhism, there was no culture of ordinary people reading and writing literature. Instead, they preserved their experiences in their memories by passing them down orally.

Educated in turbulent times, the rare female writers who crafted stories

—One of the fascinating aspects of Tibetan literature, which was introduced in Japan, is the skillful use of proverbs. I hear that proverbs are an integral part of the Tibetan people’s lives, and being able to use them appropriately is a sign of maturity.

Izumi: In Tibet, proverbs are often used in fighting or resolving problems when they arise. In novels, proverbs frequently appear during scenes of conflict. For example, there’s a proverb, “An arrogant dog barks a lot, and an arrogant person speaks a lot.” This is used when you want to assert dominance and defeat your opponent. Essentially, proverbs, which encapsulate truths and outcomes accumulated over time, are used as a basis to justify that what you’re saying is correct. It’s used as a cover to support your point.

Another use of proverbs is as a tool to organize and simplify complex issues that are difficult to understand. When encountering unreasonable events and struggling to comprehend them, it can be overwhelming. In such situations, quoting an old proverb can provide a clue to understanding these events. Proverbs could evoke thoughts such as, “These words have been passed down for many years, so they must hold truth,” or “Similar things happened in the past, so I suppose it’s a common human experience.” This could help people understand the reality that they are facing.

–In Tibetan Women’s Poetry Anthology, which was published in Japan last year, I learned that it has been 40 years since women began publishing contemporary poetry. The book includes poems by seven leading Tibetan female poets born between the 1960s and 1980s. I understand that you consider the works of poets born in the 1960s to be very important.

Izumi: People who were born in the 1960s experienced drastic societal changes during their school days in the late 1970s. Women, who endured the Cultural Revolution in China spanning a decade from 1966, were prohibited from attending school in the 1960s. It wasn’t until 1976 that they were allowed to enroll. However, even then, only a handful of women had the opportunity to attend school, often with the support of their parents. Therefore, anything written by women from this generation is considered extremely precious. For instance, during that time in Tibet, where most Tibetans were engaged in cattle farming and agriculture, parents needed to pass down household skills to their children for survival. Mothers had to train their daughters in household chores so that their families thrived as cattle farmers and survived in the village. To ensure they didn’t miss out on this training, girls were not permitted to attend school.

Moreover, people believed that nothing good would come of it if a girl attended school. Dekyi Dolma, a poet born in 1967, caused a stir in her village when she expressed her desire to attend school. Rumors began to circulate that she might be possessed by a goblin for wanting an education, greatly saddening her. Her father took pity on her as she was determined not to abandon her aspirations. He escorted her to a boarding school on horseback and she could eventually go to school. The girls from this generation had to endure tremendous hardship and make extraordinary efforts to pursue an education.

In terms of creative writing, writers born in the 1960s, both men and women, faced numerous challenges due to the lack of predecessors who composed poems and stories in Tibetan. This was primarily because Tibetan was fundamentally a language for religious purposes and not for expressing the emotions of lay people.

–What was it like to write in Mandarin under circumstances that made it difficult to write in Tibetan?

Izumi: Although they are few in numbers, there are Tibetan women, who received education in Mandarin in the 1960s and 70s, attended secondary schools to universities, and were exposed to Chinese and foreign literature just like men.

In those days, one thing to note is that children of high-ranking officials were given priority to receive school education with the expectation that they would become bureaucrats. Both girls and boys could go to school, which led to Tibetan students enrolling in Beijing University. Among them was a female student who loved storytelling. After graduation, she wrote a novel in Mandarin. At universities in China, they teach the basics of classical Chinese, which probably helped her write a novel. With many predecessors having written novels in Mandarin, it must have inspired her that she could also do the same.

Storytellers thriving between different cultures

–I have heard that there are many full-length novels in Tibetan literature written in Mandarin. What are the reasons Tibetan writers use both Tibetan and Mandarin?

Izumi: Firstly, most Tibetans are bilingual in Tibetan and Mandarin. They cannot survive without using Mandarin, and there are no schools that solely teach Tibetan. Nowadays, thanks to television and the internet, it’s much easier to learn a language. However, Tibetan people were already bilingual before these advancements. Regarding reading and writing, it depends on the type of education you received.

When we look at the writers, some write only in Mandarin or only in Tibetan, and some write in both languages. Those who write in Mandarin typically attended Mandarin secondary schools in China, even though they might have grown up with their parents speaking Tibetan when they were young. In such cases, it was likely that they didn’t have opportunities to learn Tibetan, unless their parents made a concerted effort to teach them. Consequently, they might proceed to university without knowing how to read and write Tibetan. However, their identity remains Tibetan, and they write stories and poems about Tibet in Mandarin.

While this is not a common instance, most writers, who write in Tibetan, went to local schools for Tibetan, located in each prefecture, which teaches Tibetan. They received higher education in Tibetan, enrolled in the Tibetan course at the local university for ethnic minorities, and became writers. The writers who write in Mandarin and Tibetan are Pema Tseden and Tsering Döndrup, whom I have already mentioned. They also do translation between these two languages.

–Even if they are born in the same place, it seems that not only the language but also the knowledge varies greatly depending on the educational paths they chose.

Izumi: The input would be different depending on whether you are educated in Mandarin or Tibetan at a Tibetan school. Especially the exposure to classical works is totally different. The study of the classics creates the groundwork for a person’s education. Even if you grow up in the same location, learning reading and writing through the language education provided by your parents would lead to learning completely different types of expressions.

Pema, whom I have mentioned, attended a Tibetan school but wrote his first novel in Mandarin. This work was published in a literature magazine in Mandarin in the Tibetan Autonomous Region in Lhasa. After receiving high praise, he began to write in Tibetan. However, once he started shooting films in Tibetan, he returned to writing his novels in Mandarin to reach a wider readership among Mandarin speakers.

–Why did some writers insist on writing in Mandarin?

Izumi: Writing in Mandarin would lead to an increase in readership. Due to the educational environment, many Tibetans can only read and write in Mandarin. By writing in Mandarin, writers can reach these readers. Additionally, Tibetans tend to perceive stories as something to be listened to rather than read with their own eyes. I’ve heard that there are radio programs that read novels. During the extended lockdown period of the COVID-19 pandemic, many readings were uploaded on the internet, and a lot of people listened to a wide range of Tibetan classics and contemporary literature. Writers contemplate how to use Tibetan and Mandarin when writing a novel, while readers can choose whether to read or listen to the story. This is the current situation in Tibet.

As a culture that cherishes storytelling in literature, Japan also has similar traditions when it comes to reading classics, such as rakugo. I believe Tibetans enjoy literature in a manner similar to how the Japanese enjoy rakugo. I am considering whether I should adopt the Tibetan way and begin reciting Tibetan literature translated into Japanese.

—In the novel White Crane lend me your wings: A Tibetan Tale of Love and War, which was originally written in English, the term “green-brained” is used in the story. While in English it means environmentally conscious, in Tibetan, it is used to denote ideological corruption or backwardness based on what those two words mean in Tibetan. I understand that you translate a mixed language and words created by writers while also taking into account the conversion between Tibetan and English.

Izumi: Not limited to White Crane, Tibetan writers use parentheses for emphasis and also incorporate Tibetan words that were derived from English or English words influenced by Tibetan. They also treat Tibetans similarly to the English language, freely adopting various linguistic methods. We refer to this as the deterritorialization of languages. It’s not about the Tibetan language being overtaken by the dominant English language, but rather a way of expressing that Tibetan exists within the dominant language.

For example, similar language adaptations are observed in Singaporean English and Indian English when spoken. It demonstrates how a minor language can influence a dominant language. Therefore, even though the book is clearly authored by a Tibetan writer, it contains many expressions that would never be found in the writing of someone who only speaks English.

ーーI learned that there is a plan to publish a full-length novel by a Tibetan woman writer for the first time in Japan soon.

Izumi: In April, a long-form novel titled Flowers and Dreams by Tsering Yangkyi, a female writer, will be published. It tells the story of a sisterhood among four prostitutes working in a nightclub, living together in a small apartment. Despite their traumatic pasts and the sorrowful destiny that awaits them, the novel is written with a warm, protective gaze. Their dialogue is lively, making it feel as if they are right beside you. The novel will be published by Shunjusha Publishing Company as part of the new series Asian Literature Library. I hope readers look forward to it.

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The Colorless Mennonite Villages

The taxi driver dropped us off on a single road surrounded by vast farmland. We told him the address was “Campo 6A”. “Campo” means “farm” in Spanish, so this should be the right location.

Cuauhtémoc, Chihuahua. If you go even further into the remote area, there is a settlement of people known as Mennonites. There are some houses scattered as you walk along the gravel road. But unlike the colorful image of Mexico, these buildings were all colorless. One might call them “stripped-down structures” or “primitive concrete architecture”. You can’t help but use contemporary words like “minimalist” to describe its simple appearance because we live modern, materialistic lives. The Mennonites are not seeking that kind of lifestyle. Here, you won’t find any advertisements or billboards, either.

Mennonites are a Christian sect that emerged from the religious reforms of the 16th century in Central Europe. They live a simple, near-self-sufficient life in their community through agriculture and handicrafts. With highly conservative values, they abstain from alcohol and entertainment, choosing to settle in areas far from secular society. Some communities are so extreme in their conservatism  that they reject modern civilization by opting for horse-drawn carriages over cars, abstaining from using electrical appliances, and continuing to live a life reminiscent of the 19th century. The Amish people in the U.S. live in a similar way.

The history of the Mennonites is one of constant migration. The ones that settled in Chihuahua, Mexico were originally farmers in Russia whose lands were seized during the Bolshevik Revolution, causing them to flee to the U.S. and Canada. To protect their faith and ideal lifestyle, they eventually migrated south to Mexico as the U.S. and Canada began to modernize. Although they settled in Cuauhtémoc in large numbers in the 1920s, modernization in Mexico prompted some groups to settle even further south.

The South American immigrants I met in Mexico were bound North in search of freedom, money, and a better life. It’s surprising to think that, despite the different eras and beliefs, people took the opposite route for the same reasons only a century ago.

With that being said, my knowledge about the Mennonites is limited. I wondered what their lifestyle was actually like. In the city center, there is a Mennonite museum meant for tourists, complete with guides who recreate the past ways of life. That didn’t interest me much (not to mention that it was closed), so I visited the settlements instead.

A Building That Seemed To Prove Mennonite Roots

As I was walking through the settlements, there was an elderly white man who seemed to be wearing traditional Mennonite workwear. He glared at us while clutching a hunting rifle. Perhaps he’s wary of us outsiders. I attempted to speak to him in the broken Spanish I had picked up, but he remained silent. He started to load his gun with what looked like bullets. Tension filled the air. Growing anxious, I changed my pronunciation and greeted him again. The man, puzzled, interrupted me.

“Could you speak in English? I don’t understand Spanish”. His fluent English relieved me so much that I almost collapsed. He introduced himself as Peter, a 78-year-old from Canada who came here seeking the communal life of the Mennonites. Unfortunately, he seemed to be hard of hearing, which made it difficult to communicate. He had been shooting birds that flew into the garden. “You wanna try?” he said, as he handed me what was nothing more than an airgun.

A little while later, two boys arrived on motorcycles: Joshua, 15, and Tobias, 14. The school that they go to is also run by Mennonites. When I asked them about classes, they told me that they learn Spanish, German, High German, and English in school. They referred to their native, Lowland German, as “Germany”, and general standard German, as “High Germany”. Perspectives shift depending on where you’re looking from.

There was a gas station along the road, and a brand new four-wheeled buggy carrying a group of five youngsters caught our eye. They mentioned their grandparents also migrated from Russia via Canada. “They used to ride horses back then. Now, we have smartphones and live just like they do in the city”, they told us. We exchanged Instagram accounts with them, the most modern interaction we could’ve had.

I also noticed some families hosting elegant house parties in their yards. Their lives didn’t seem all that bad. Upon further research, it turns out that many families in the area have been successful in agriculture. In fact, the entire town has experienced significant economic growth thanks to the introduction of the dairy farming industry by the Mennonites.

It’s difficult to imagine the believers who first settled here in search of farmland away from the rest of the world. Nevertheless, I still managed to find a building that seemed to serve as evidence of their roots: a telephone booth. It was a relic from a time when Mennonites couldn’t make phone calls from their homes. Canadian and American flags were drawn proudly on the walls of the interior, suggesting they likely made international calls from there. I’m sure they were maintaining their emotional ties by talking to relatives from back home.

The Indigenous Tarahumara Women of the Mountain Region

As we took the bus to go further into the city, some people wearing vibrant clothing caught our eyes. They were indigenous women from the mountainous Tarahumara tribe. In contrast to the Mennonites, they wore bright primary-colored clothing and soft blouses and skirts that almost resembled pajamas.

I’ve tried striking up conversations with the Tarahumara women before, mostly to no avail. The Tarahumara people escaped from the Spanish conquistadors and found refuge by hiding in mountainous caves to preserve their traditional lifestyle. Those who have been coming into the city more recently may seem overly cautious to this day because of that history.

We saw a Tarahumara family attempting to get on a truck on the outskirts of town. Eventually, I greeted an elderly woman with a headscarf because her outfit intrigued me. When the woman’s daughter questioned why I wanted to take a picture of her mother, I sincerely replied, “because her outfit is beautiful”. Upon conveying this to her mother, she replied with something resembling, “it is what it is”, gave a nonchalant look, hopped out of the car, and posed on the street.

As the daughter watched her mother depart in the car, she took out her smartphone. “Send me the photo”, she said, as she showed me her WhatsApp screen.

Of course, expectations of “traditional lifestyle” always involve outsiders who selfishly create their own ideal narratives. Indigenous people deal with problems regarding land ownership while Mennonites deal with tensions with local residents. Sometimes, people grapple with nature and different cultures. And other times, people maintain a delicate harmony through being mobile, or so we pondered, while moving on to the next town the following day.

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A city surrounded by vast desert

The town of Samalayuca is located around 50 kilometers south of Ciudad Juárez on the national highway. It’s a lonely, quaint town surrounded by a desert landscape, where its main street is lined only with a couple general stores and auto body shops.

Feeling hungry, I found a diner and opened its door. The interior was dimly lit, but I could see the female employees were busy chopping heaps of cilantro at the back counter. I ordered a hamburguesa (hamburger) and a cola. Although there was only one family of customers besides me, there were five or six employees rushing to prepare food. When I inquired, one of the ladies said in quite a hurried tone, “many customers will come today because there’s a festival”.  I had completely forgotten the purpose of my trip here; tomorrow was Mexican Independence Day. While the capital, Mexico City, will be lively with grand fireworks tonight, I came to this small town to avoid all the commotion. They informed me that there will be a modest eve celebration taking place in the town square tonight.

“I heard there are sand dune close by”, said my travel partner and editor Mr. Maruo. When I checked Google Maps, the east side of the town was indeed surrounded by an enormous desert landscape, but the walk there would take around two hours. It seemed ridiculous to walk to see sand dunes from a desert town, but since we had plenty of time until the festival, we decided to head there.

We left the town and walked through the desert. The landscape stretched endlessly with shrubs and cacti sporadically growing through the dry gravel. The strong, no, violent sun mercilessly burned our skin, causing sweat to pour like waterfalls. I began to regret our decision immediately.

I’ve walked vast landscapes in Ukraine before. The soil there was more fertile and sticky, clinging to the soles of your shoes like mud after the snow melted. Back then, I even hesitated to go through patches of grass, since it was possible there were landmines and unexploded bombs still buried underground. I was repeatedly told by Ukrainian soldiers to “always walk in the middle of the road”. That fear still resides, and my legs involuntarily shake every time they trail off the road. I know in my head that this is a completely different soil I’m walking on, but I still carry that memory.

I saw some men harvesting watermelon, zucchini, and other gourd vegetables in the distance. One of them noticed us, picked up a rolling watermelon, then took out a knife from his pocket. He placed the watermelon on the hood of the car parked on the side and skillfully sliced it open. The inside glistened and reflected the Mexican sun. Apparently, this was his invitation for us to taste it. Gratefully, we both took a bite. It was milder than a Japanese watermelon, but it was so juicy that its juices spilled from our mouths. How could such crops thrive in a desert? They watched us with satisfaction as we enjoyed the fruit. Among them was a middle school-aged boy. I tried speaking to him, but after giving a shy smile, he looked down and silently returned to work. We asked them about tonight’s festival. Of course they knew about it.

We walked even further into the desert. There were some slight ups and downs, but the landscape remained largely unchanged. We relied solely on Google Maps on our smartphones to lead us through. My skin was tingling from the sunburns, but I felt an even sharper pain in my foot. It was a thorn from the shrub branches that were scattered everywhere. One of those thorns pierced the sole of my shoe into the bottom of my foot. The shoes I bought at a discount store in Tokyo for 1,900 yen served me well through the harsh landscapes of Ukraine, but they were ultimately cheap. I had worn them out, the soles deteriorating. I took my socks off to find blood oozing out of the sole of my foot. Fighting back tears, I pulled out the thorn and continued to walk the thorny path. The dangers of Ukrainian landmines and Mexican thorns don’t even compare – but it was painful nonetheless.

After repeatedly pulling thorns from my foot, we finally arrived at the sand dunes. They resembled the bottom of an ocean that had been drained of water. There were tall sand mountains in some places and some deep depressions in others. The landscape seemed to stretch endlessly, which felt more unsettling than moving. There was nothing to focus our eyes on among the boundless and desolate terrain. It was impossible to fathom how vast it really was. And we were only still at the entrance of the dunes. We climbed over one of them and saw transmission towers and power lines in the distance. All the way here. Humans are truly remarkable beings. I looked down at my feet and saw an empty bottle of beer. All the way here. Humans really are remarkable beings… It was an unexpected discovery that brought me joy.

The Eve of the Mexican Independence Day Celebration

The feel of the town had changed completely when we got back in the evening. It felt much livelier than the somber atmosphere of the daytime. Men were bringing in cold beers one after the other, and mothers were chasing after their mischievous kids running around. Vendors lined the square, their lights glimmering. As I was basking in the nostalgia, suddenly, I heard a horn. A train with headlights lit up on the rails extending to the horizon was visible beside the square. It was a freight train carrying hopeful South American immigrants we had encountered in Ciudad Juárez. There were men, women, and children in between the train cars and on the roofs. They were likely heading to the U.S. border. Someone on the train yelled, “VIVA MEXICO!”, and the townspeople waved back. We were witnessing a moment where locals who were enjoying the festival crossed paths with those who hopped on the train to leave their hometown.

The hustle and bustle of the festival returned immediately after the train passed. The music started, and the locals started dancing, expanding their circle. Unlike the dance we encountered by chance in the Northeastern Mexican town of Monterrey, which was meant to captivate an audience, this dance was for pure enjoyment. The moves weren’t flashy, but the people moved their bodies and engaged in a cheerful atmosphere. The boy we saw farming in the desert was there as well. He was dancing with a girl who was around his age. He looked more dignified, quite different from when he was carrying the watermelons.

We naively thought we would be able to hitchhike back to Ciudad Juárez after taking photographs of the festival. The dancing, however, would not cease even as the clock struck 2 am. There were no cars trying to leave, and no hotels to stay in. Our only option was to camp out. We had no choice but to wear all the clothes we had stuffed in our backpacks to act as a makeshift sleeping bag, and lay down in the shadows of a building next to the square. I regretted my lack of foresight, but camping out in this small town on Independence Day didn’t seem like a bad idea.

I awoke at around 6 am. It seems Mr. Maruo couldn’t sleep because of the cold. The now abandoned square was littered with trash, making it a feast for the stray dogs. Like the dogs, we were also hungry, and decided to peek inside yesterday’s diner. This place also must have been busy until late last night. I could still feel the presence of all the customers who had left. The female employees weren’t smiling like they were yesterday. They instead continued to work looking very tired.

Photography Hironori Kodama

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（Left to Right)
Yuriko Mori
Yuriko is a journalist and essayist specializing in Nordic countries. She has written guidebooks, travel essays, and articles about interior design and lifestyle covering five Scandinavian countries. She is the author of『3日でまわる北欧』,『北欧のおもてなし』,『日本で楽しむ わたしの北欧365日』and many other books. She also runs Sticka, a store that sells vintage Scandinavian tableware and textiles.

Junko Aoki
Junko teaches the Norwegian language and also works as a translator, interpreter, and lecturer. She studied at the Volda National College and the University of Oslo in Norway. Since 2000, she has been running the community website Norway Yumenet to provide information about Norway. Junko authored many books including,『テーマで学ぶノルウェー語』,『ノルウェー語のしくみ＜新版＞』,『ニューエクスプレスプラスノルウェー語』,『「その他の外国文学」の翻訳者』. She is a translator of Me and My Moulton and Threads among many other works.
https://www.norway-yumenet.com/

Goedele and Simon
They founded the design studio SAK design and publishing company trykkSAK. As graphic designers, they are involved in the production of books related to art and design. Their goal is to provide opportunities for people to think about current social and political issues through books. Their office is located in the suburbs of Stavanger, Norway, which is also known for its ceramics.
https://trykksakforlag.no/

Turi Gramstad Oliver is a prominent Norwegian artist who has been active since the mid-20th century. Last summer in Norway, a design book Turi was released, chronicling Turi’s lifetime of creative work. The book includes over 500 illustrations and photographs, along with archival images, anecdotes, and insights into her personal life shared with fellow creative collaborators. It was written by Torunn Larsen, a writer and art historian.

In November, Goedele and Simon, the head of the Norwegian design studio and publishing house trykkSAK, which handled the design of the book, visited Japan. Yuriko Mori, a journalist who specializes in Nordic countries, hosted an event titled “Welcome to Cute Norway: The World of Turi and the Enchanting Nordic Design” at her store Sticka, known for carrying Nordic merchandise. Junko Aoki, a translator specializing in Norwegian, joined the event as the interpreter and moderator.

Hugely successful work and the untold agony behind the scenes

The book turi is the result of five years of work by Goedele and Simon, who curated the content from a massive collection of Turi’s works and photographs. They compiled the book while listening to stories from that time, including untold struggles that Turi experienced. With a wealth of life experiences, she still has so many stories to share that there are plans to publish several more books.

At the event, the speakers discussed the history of Turi from the time she was an in-house designer for a traditional ceramics manufacturer Figgjo, which is located in a town with the same name in southwestern Norway. Turi designed the Lotte collection, which became a long-standing bestseller all over the world after it was launched in 1962. They say the popularity lies in the designs featuring charming girls and plants, which evoke scenes from a novel. However, Turi didn’t intend to create a story out of her design work. After the product line was launched, an enthusiastic fan wrote a letter asking, “What kind of story exists in Lotte?” Turi replied, “I am not trying to tell a story. I just want people to imagine dreamy places filled with birds and flowers and relax.”

After the full-scale overseas export of the Lotte collection began, the Figgjo brand quickly gained recognition in Japan, Canada, and other countries. While the brand became known worldwide, Turi left Figgjo in 1975 due to conflicts with branding strategy that prioritized sales. She created the prototype of the Elvira collection, which gained popularity over the objections of the sales department, and although sales were strong, it was not well received within the company.

Although crafts were not highly regarded as fine art in Norway at the time, Turi continued to produce handicrafts. After leaving Figgjo, she worked with local artists and produced a number of works in an effort to improve the value of handicrafts. As a result, the textiles she produced in her atelier were recognized as crafts.

Turi also worked energetically as a feminist, along with potters and teachers. According to the book, Sandnes, located in southwestern Norway, is known as where many feminists in this movement emerged. The Sandnes chapter of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF), the oldest women’s peace organization in the world, founded in 1915, displays a sign by Turi, “Release a Peace.”

Discovering Mingei in Japan

On her first visit to Japan in 1978, Turi, along with 23 other Norwegian artists, participated in the World Crafts Council General Assembly and International Conference in Kyoto. The conference featured 25,400 crafts exhibits, seminars, and workshops with 2,400 experts from around the world. In her diary, Turi wrote about a garden party attended by 2,000 people and her visit to the Shigaraki Pottery Village in Shiga Prefecture, where she was welcomed with two tons of clay.

The most exciting part of her trip to Japan was a visit to the Mashiko kiln of Shoji Hamada, one of the most important figures in the Mingei movement. Although permission to visit the kiln had not been granted, Hamada’s son allowed Turi to see the kiln because he saw that Turi and her group had the hands of a potter. Turi was not only inspired by pottery, but also traditional Japanese craftsmanship and artisanal techniques, showcasing their respect for nature yet maintaining practicality.

Inspiration from this trip led to the tapestry work My Japanese Garden (Minejapans Bager), and she also designed textiles with a Japanese theme. Furthermore, when she visited the home of artist Kanjiro Kawai, she was inspired by his poetic view of life in the English-language book We Do Not Work Alone and wrote a short poem: “What is beauty But joy found In all of life.” This is included in the turi book.

Reminiscing about the turi book production and Turi’s reputation in Japan

Goedele and Simon from trykkSAK said, “Through the creation of turi, we felt a high level of professionalism. Despite the many trials Turi went through as a woman and as a designer, the designs she created did not show the difficult part and depicted a joyful world.” Turi’s creative spirit has not waned to this day, and she has never stopped painting. They mentioned that she was planning to go to Oslo for the major exhibition of Louise Bourgeois’ work at the Norwegian National Museum. There is a telling episode about her life. While producing work, Turi always had a constant flow of visitors at her house to the point that the chimes never stopped ringing. Perhaps her love of meeting people and her gregarious nature, which entertained and brightened up people no matter how hard things were, is reflected in her designs.

A Norwegian student whom the pair from trykkSAK met in Tokyo a few days before the event had never heard of Turi. However, when the student saw the design of the tableware, he remembered seeing them at her grandmother’s house. Junko noted that tableware designed by Turi is often used as wedding gifts in Norway, but many people do not even know the designer’s name. Junko was also surprised that this was the first time that a design book about Turi’s work was published. She expressed her admiration that Turi continued her activities in the suburb of Sandnes away from the capital Oslo, and still her achievements were recognized globally even before the Internet. Junko, who has translated many Norwegian picture books, mentioned the difficulty in conveying the appeal of picture books to Japanese readers due to the aesthetic difference between what is considered cute in Norway and Japan and praised the high quality of Turi’s designs, which are loved in Japan.

Yuriko, who contributed to the book turi, is a big fan of Turi’s works. She also has customers, who often visit her store Sticka, and tell her that they have been using tableware from the Lotte series since the time of their grandmother or mother, confirming that Turi’s works have long been loved in Japan. According to Yuriko, who has been visiting Nordic countries for many years as a journalist and buyer of vintage items, Turi is a special presence. While Norwegian design is still not well known in Japan, many customers are interested in Turi’s work. Some people have become interested in Nordic design and vintage products because of her. She concluded that while many people generally associate Nordic design with modern furniture and simple interiors, the free, lovely world surrounded by nature created by Turi may also overlap with the image of Nordic countries that Japanese people have in their minds.

The post Why the World Can’t Have Enough of Norwegian Product Design appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

In Aquarium, the book portrays the daily life of a young girl whose mother is a goldfish in a realistic way. The girl cares for her mother in a fish tank, always staying in proximity. Her friends don’t believe that her mother is a goldfish. One day, when the school hands out an invitation for her parents to come to school, the girl tries to take her mother with her in a bag with water. However, the water spills from the bag and the mother almost dies. Alarmed by the experience, the girl stays by the tank, can no longer eat and stops going to school. One day, the teacher, out of concern, visits the girl and brings food for her. While they are eating together, the teacher says, “Your mother is lovely,” and the story ends.

When the book was published in 2014, young carers were not widely recognized, and it portrayed a parent, who could not raise her child, as a goldfish. Revisiting the book, the characterization clearly conveys that the artist wanted to portray the existence of young carers.

While dealing with a serious subject matter, the illustrations provide a sense of hope and salvation at the end. The ability to convey warmth is the unique aspect of picture books.

The world is starting to pay attention to picture books in Norway, which deal with social issues and diversity from the forefront—topics that are rarely addressed in Japan. We interviewed Gro Dahle, the author of Aquarium and Junko Aoki, who translated the picture book Me and My Moulton and Threads by Torill Kove. Torill is an internationally acclaimed animation film director and won the Academy Award for Animated Short Film in 2007. We asked them about the appeal of Norwegian picture books and their thoughts on working on them.

Junko Aoki
Junko teaches the Norwegian language and also works as a translator, interpreter, and lecturer. She studied at the Volda National College and the University of Oslo in Norway. Since 2000, she has been running the community website “Norway Dream Net” to provide information about Norway. Junko authored many books including『ノルウェー語のしくみ＜新版＞』『ニューエクスプレスプラスノルウェー語』『「その他の外国文学」の翻訳者』. She is a translator of Me and My Moulton and Threads among many other works.

Gro Dahle
Gro Dahle is a poet and author, born in Oslo, Norway in 1962. She graduated from the University of Oslo and has studied creative writing at the Telemark University College. In 1987, she debuted with Audiens (Audience)—a poetry collection that was very well received. She has since become a very well-known lyricist and novelist. She lives in Tjøme in Vestfold with her husband, Svein Nyhus.

Asking “what if” upon constructing narrative expands imagination

–How did you end up translating the picture books by Torill Kove?

Junko Aoki: It all started when I saw Torill’s animated short film My Grandma Ironed the King’s Shirt on a TV program in Japan. The film is a fictionalized depiction of when Norway became independent in 1905 and chose monarchy in a referendum. As a result, Prince Karl of Denmark was welcomed as King Hakon VII of Norway along with Queen Maud. In those days, servants did not yet exist in Norway, and the royal family’s problem was that no one ironed their shirts. Then an elderly woman became a dedicated staff to iron the King’s shirts, but Norway was occupied by the Germans during World War II.

The King and his family fled to England, but called on the Norwegian people to resist the German troops on the radio. The elderly woman, who loved the king, and her friends demonstrated their resistance by making holes with their irons or adding stains on the German soldiers’ uniforms. In the end, the people defied the occupation and the German soldiers withdrew. The King and his family returned safely to Norway.

Historically speaking, the resistance movement was not the single cause, which prompted the Nazis to retreat. And it was mostly men who were involved in leading the resistance movement. However, in the book, the author wanted to illustrate women such as the elderly woman and other fellow cleaning women who resisted the Nazis in their own way to take revenge on the Germans. Even if they are not recognized in Norwegian history, it’s a fact that these nameless women also joined the resistance. Since then, I read all the books by Torill whenever they were published in Norway.

–There is another book by Torill, Threads, which is popular among Japanese readers. It depicts the relationship between an adult and a child who meet each other by a red thread. A young girl catches the thread hanging from the sky and flies through the sky. She meets an infant and they grow up together as mother and child. In the end, the main character’s daughter follows the thread and becomes independent and all of this is expressed almost exclusively in illustrations.

Junko: The story is an adventure that starts when the main character stretches her hand and grabs a thread. The animation received high praise, including an award of excellence at the Hiroshima International Animation Festival. I think Torill was compelled to produce this work after adopting a child from Asia, and the theme is the connection between people that is not related by blood. There are people of all skin colors in the scenes where the child plays, and the book does not make any reference to nationality or race, making it easy for anyone in the world to read and feel an emotional connection. Torill said, “In this book, the setting is a mother and daughter, but I want the reader to imagine freely without being bound by that setting.” The story gives us a sense that it is possible to connect with people regardless of gender and race.

–In Japan, picture books often have a target age range.  However, I gathered that picture books in Norway are intended for all ages and that there is also a tradition of giving picture books as gifts among grownups.

Junko: In bookstores in Norway, picture books are not categorized by age, giving the impression that both children and grownups can enjoy reading picture books. There is also an environment where children are asked for their feedback after reading a picture book in order to foster their independence.

—The Angry Man by Gro Dahle portrays domestic violence by parents from a child’s point of view. Domestic violence is also becoming increasingly serious in Japan, and the book encourages children to seek help. I heard that this book was written based on an episode about children who grew up with domestic violence in Norway having a meeting with King Harald V. As is the case with My Grandma Ironed the King’s Shirt, there seems to be a closeness between the public figures and the people.

Junko: I agree. Some years ago, the King gave a memorable speech. He said, “In Norway, there are boys who like boys and there are girls who like girls.” Not only the King, but the Minister of Foreign Affairs visited the school of a student who sent a letter saying that he was heartbroken about Ukraine. It’s true that the population is small but there are many activities that allow the people to feel closer to their public figures.

In Japan, sexual violence is a huge problem much like in Norway. Many years ago, a politician addressed the matter explicitly on a state-run broadcasting channel, “Has anyone touched your penis?” This was an attempt to reach children, who are victims and needed support. There are many young ministers in their 30s, and when there are role models like them, it generates more interest in politics among children and makes them feel closer to the idea of becoming a politician one day.

When the picture book artists has the mastery to reveal the invisible in their work

—Recently, the term “young carer” has become prevalent in Japan, and I understand that a picture book featuring a child in similar circumstances was published in Norway.

Junko: While making school visits, Gro, the author of Aquarium, has written many books which portrayed social issues that children face. It has touched on situations where girls are forced to be well-behaved and are often burdened with the notion of “being a girl” based on the division of gender roles at home and in society. Her work includes jarring content, such as scenes of violence and sexual content. Gro believes that children have the potential to be receptive to stories.

On the other hand, some parents are wary and try to keep their children away from reading books that are too stimulating. Since it is the grownups who buy picture books for children, it is necessary to change their mindset so that her stories can be brought to the children.

–I have heard that it is common in Norway for well-known mystery writers to write novels for children. Can you tell us what kind of books are available?

Junko: Jo Nesbo, a world-renowned mystery writer whose novels have been translated into Japanese and published in many other languages, has also written many novels for children. Not only him, but other Norwegian writers actively engage in reading sessions at elementary and junior high schools and libraries, so perhaps they are naturally conscious of the need to expose children to authentic art and encourage them to read books. One children’s literature author talked about the amazing inspiration he receives from children, and said that as a result of the interaction, he created stories that anyone could easily understand, which naturally lead to novels for children. Thanks in part to the country’s strong cultural support, there are many opportunities for children to be exposed to the world of high quality narratives.

How rich the reading experience becomes for children often depends on the actions of adults, but I would like Japanese readers to be exposed to Norwegian stories in the form of translations, so that they can learn about the diversity of societies and ways of thinking.

Reasons why a renowned Norwegian author worked on picture books

–Gro, what prompted you to start creating these picture books?

Gro Dahle: I have been a well-established poet and writer of short stories and poetic prose. My work was published at Norway’s largest publishing house, Cappelen Damm, and they invited me to write stories about child neglect. The story centers around a selfish mother who just wants to have fun and her serious daughter who has to do the house chores to keep up the household. Although I received assistance from the publisher, it was a challenging project to get it right. After publishing four children’s books, it became clear to me that I wanted to write for children between the ages of five to 19. I also want to utilize my language skills and creativity to publish books that illuminate dark corners and shadows within children’s minds —harboring secrets and risky experiences they can share with no one.

I want to be there and support children in need and are in situations similar to those of the characters in my books. I hope they can become friends with the characters in my books and learn that they are not alone. I want my books to serve as lights, unlocking the doors in their minds, and dispelling shadows.

–In Aquarium, how did you come up with the idea of turning the mother into a fish?

Gro: My storytelling method revolves around the use of allegory and metaphor. Children up to the age of eleven or twelve typically interpret the story literally. As they get older, they begin to consider the characters’ emotions and relationships, examining psychological thoughts, ethics, values and codes of conduct. Adults compare the narrative to societal structure, authority, power dynamics, and aspects of identity and self-worth, and try to interpret various information by expanding their imagination through language.

In my work, like Aquarium, the allegorical method opens doors to various levels of experience, offering a spectrum of ages and different insights. For instance, the tale of Moa and her fish mom in a glass bowl appears curious and amusing on the surface. Yet, for children between the ages of 13 to 19, it represents the challenges of growing up with a mother incapable of providing essential care. Teenagers can further explore societal, and ethical aspects, drawing parallels between the wet life of a fish to, maybe, living with an alcoholic.

Children who were neglected may have flashbacks of their painful experiences and memories, recognizing signs of neglect depicted in the story. On the other hand, I can indirectly convey to readers who have not yet faced any harsh realities about the existence of these children, who are forced to live in difficult situations. The use of allegory and metaphor can foster various interpretations and discoveries within a single story.

—What are the challenges of writing children’s books?

Gro: The challenge involves maintaining a delicate balance between the adult and child perspectives. Striking a balance in language, aiming for a simplicity that is simultaneously poetic without veering into overly adult territory. This means navigating the fine line between art and psychology/pedagogy, steering clear of becoming too easy or difficult, or too banal and complex.

To achieve this, I draw inspiration from Piaget’s developmental traits of the preoperational mind, characterizing a child’s perception before the age of seven or eight. Children of this age believe in magic and recognize objects and creatures as the outside world, and understand them through a mixture of experience and fantasy. Therefore, I try to incorporate metaphors that attract children’s interest, while making it accessible for younger children and poetic for teenagers.

To craft a story that resonates with readers, I conduct extensive research, including interviews with psychologists and researchers. I also work with therapists, who share insights into the experiences of children growing up in homes with domestic violence or facing abuse.

Children freely express what they feel in words, such as portraying a sexual abuser as an octopus.

When I incorporate actual quotes from children into my story, it lends veracity and authenticity to the dialogue in the books. As a result, it makes the book more insightful and leads to a direct connection with the readers. The reason I take this approach is that I have not experienced anything that casts a dark shadow over my mind. Frequently, children express surprise, asking, “How did you know about me?” when reading characters in books such as The Angry Man, Dragon, or The Octopus. They saw themselves in the characters of the books.

The post Norwegian Picture Books: A Thought-Provoking Read on Diversity and Social Issues for Grownups appeared first on TOKION - Cutting edge culture and fashion information.

Korean author Kim Byeol-ah compares the food culture from different countries in her essay Eating in the K-Book reading guide 『ちぇっくCHECK　Vol.9』. She wrote, “There is an old saying that the Chinese taste with their tongues, the Japanese taste with their eyes, and the Koreans taste with their stomachs.” She concluded that Korean food is a gastronomic delicacy that must be savored with the heart, and not the tongue. As a cuisine meant to be savored with both the stomach and the heart, one of the tastiest ingredients with umami in Korean food is the traditional fermented seasoning, jang. This includes gochujang (red chili paste), doenjang (soybean paste), and ganjang (soy sauce), all of which are well-known fermented foods in Japan.

To learn about Korean food and fermentation techniques, we met Kim Suehyang, a third-generation Zainichi who has lived in Korea for 26 years and runs Qyun, a café in Seoul, which specializes in fermented foods.

Kim Suehyang
Born in Tokyo, Japan, Kim Suehyang has been living in South Korea for 26 years. While studying in South Korea, she began working as a media coordinator and writer to promote Korean culture in Japan. After launching the Korean culture magazine 『スッカラ』 as a project editor, she is now specializing in Korean food culture. She started the farmers’ market, Marche@, in Seoul, which opened doors to learn about Korean food through Korean farmers in a new way. This led her to expand her interest in grasses, fermentation, bean culture, and native seeds in South Korea. While running a cafe Qyun that focuses on fermentation, she writes about Korean food culture to her audience in Japan and South Korea. She worked as a coordinator for books such as 『食べる旅　韓国むかしの味』、『コウケンテツ　僕の大好きな、ソウルのおいしい店』.
Instagram：@sukkara_seoul, @grocery_cafe_qyun

Korean food culture reveals the ambience of people’s lives

—Doenjang and ganjang both have a strong salty flavor and a bean-like aroma. Could you explain to us about the jang, the fermented seasoning?

Kim Suehyang: One scholar stated that the food in the Korean Peninsula is 120 percent fermented to emphasize that the distinctive feature of all sauces is primarily due to the fermentation of soybeans. Soybean koji called meju, which is a brick of boiled soybeans inoculated with various wild bacteria such as Bacillus subtilis, is placed in a hangari (earthenware jar) along with salt and water. The jar is positioned in the sunniest spot of the house, exposing it to sunlight, rainwater, air, and wind. The liquid strained after fermenting, incorporating various wild bacteria during the fermentation process, becomes ganjang, while the remaining solid is transformed into doenjang. The complex flavors generated through the amalgamation of diverse strains during the fermentation process characterize these condiments. Jang is an indispensable condiment and it is a lump of enzymes rich in soybean proteins.

Cooked and seasoned vegetables are called suche (ripe greens). To get the nutrients from the vegetables efficiently, namul is dressed with garlic, green onions, and jang. Finally, a few drops of sesame or perilla oil and roasted sesame powder are added on top. When all of these ingredients are mixed, it brings out the umami flavor.

In Japan, most people seem to think that namul is seasoned vegetables, however, it is a general term to describe edible plants on the Korean peninsula. Traditionally, vegetables, grasses, and fermented foods are combined in a well-balanced manner to efficiently obtain the necessary nutrients. For example, all plants beneficial to humans, with mugwort and ginseng at the top of the list, have been used as food and medically as traditional Korean medicine.

—In South Korea, I saw rows of large hangari (earthenware jars) in the gardens of temples and ancient palaces. In Japan, fermented foods are kept in a cool, dark place and minimize exposure to air as much as possible, but in South Korea, jars are placed outside, some with glass lids. What are the differences in ingredients and production methods?

Suehyang: The hangari is designed in such a way that airflow can enter through the lid of the jar or the lids can be changed to glass ones to allow light to mix with all the bacteria in the air. On the Korean peninsula, each household made fermented foods using these jars in their own way. Each household had its own koji culture that made full use of the bacteria unique to each family, and homemade fermented foods were indispensable in ceremonies to honor ancestors. Literature shows that from the Goguryeo period, the taste of jang on the Korean peninsula was well known and highly regarded for its high fermentation techniques. That means the peninsula was blessed with the techniques to handle bacteria and the climatic environment to make exquisite jang with the wild bacteria from ancient times.

Japanese miso is made from beans, salt, and rice or barley koji, while jang on the Korean peninsula is made from beans, salt, and water. The Japanese use koji mold, however, on the Korean Peninsula, soybeans are steamed, pounded into clumps to prevent air from entering, and then laid on straw to ripen using a wide variety of natural bacteria to make meju (soybean koji). In Japan, wild bacteria was used originally. However it’s more humid in Japan than on the Korean Peninsula, so it was difficult to control the bacteria in the warmer climate. Therefore, there was a business called Moyashiya that managed the koji. They produce the seed koji, in which koji mold is cultured and dried. If the changes caused by the action of microorganisms are beneficial to humans, they are classified as fermentation and if they are harmful, they are considered putrefaction. Misuse of this can pose risks to human life. So each country has developed its way by choosing fermentation suitable for the climate of the country.

Basically, both ganjang and doenjang are made only with soybeans, and the taste is created by a variety of wild bacteria and the natural environment such as climate and temperature. In Japan, miso is added at the end of making miso soup, but on the Korean peninsula, when making soup with doenjang, it is added from the beginning and simmered to bring out the various tastes and flavors contained in it. The same is true for soups made with ganjang, where the diversity of flavors within the ganjang itself serves as a broth. Sprinkling a few drops of ganjang to boiled vegetables is like adding soup stock, which adds depth to the flavor of the vegetables.

—Many people in Japan buy miso and soy sauce from supermarkets and breweries. Do most people still make them at home in South Korea?

Suehyang: Until our grandmother’s generation, which is just a few decades ago, it was common to make jang at home, but this culture is disappearing due to changes in the housing environment and lifestyles. Jang made by masterful elderly women, who made it all their lives, were turned into branded products and are now available for purchase. Factory-made ganjang and doenjang, which have similar production methods to their Japanese counterparts, became common. The ones made with traditional methods and fermented with wild bacteria are differentiated and called Korean ganjang and Korean doenjang . In today’s Korean diet, traditional jang fermented with wild bacteria and factory-made jang coexist.

Some families insist on homemade jang, but it is a declining trend, and the same is true of many restaurants. On the other hand, some wealthy people have their jang made by their housekeepers. While Japanese miso and soy sauce are distributed and recognized overseas, jang from the Korean peninsula is distributed only by a few major manufacturers. The reason for this is the use of wild bacteria. Because it is wild, it is difficult to control, making factory production difficult, time-consuming, and inefficient.

With a few exceptions, such as barley miso from Kyushu and Hatcho miso from Aichi, there is a uniformity in the flavor of Japanese miso. However, Korean jang is difficult to control the flavor, so even if the ingredients are the same, each house has a completely different taste. That is what makes it interesting, but because of the wide range, it is difficult to focus on one and convey a typical flavor. I tell the name of the manufacturer to the people who try jang for the first time at my workshops. Strangely enough, good jang has a common taste of animal protein. With it, it is possible to supplement the umami flavor without chemical seasonings.

—From a fermentation standpoint, are there any other ingredients that you are looking at besides jang?

Suehyang: I have a great interest in beans native to the Korean peninsula, especially those of the genus Glycine. There are so many varieties that I think they may be the starting point of Korean Peninsula’s fermented foods. Since the Japanese archipelago was part of the Asian continent far back, there are many beans that originated in Japan, but the varieties originating from the Korean peninsula are far beyond that.The place of origin refers to where the plant was first cultivated and supplied. The history of beans in the Korean peninsula is very old, and the unique bean sprout culture, which is a home-grown vegetable, has sustained the lives of the people of the Korean peninsula during the long winter months, with Kongnamul being the most famous bean namul.

A distinctive aspect of the culture of the Korean peninsula is people’s strong fixation on plants. In the northern regions and around the border with China, vegetables could not be grown for about six months, and even in Seoul, nothing could be cultivated for at least four to six months a year. Jang, which has a long shelf life and is rich in protein, became a vital nutrient to survive the harsh natural environment and a source of vitamins. From this point of view, jang is a soy culture that people dedicated their lives to build.

−−Jang is made with wild bacteria and beans grown in nature with plenty of sunlight. I learned that the rich food culture of the Korean peninsula was developed and passed down in the family.

Suehyang: When complimenting a restaurant, there is an expression that “you taste the hands (that crafted the food).” Namul is meant to be mixed directly by hand, and they say that the traditional flavor has been nurtured by the hands of the ancestors. The best tool for making tasty food is the hands, and elderly women still use their hands to carefully prepare their dishes. If wild bacteria is also mixed in with the food, then the “taste of hands” could be the taste of the bacteria of the family. Sadly, many restaurants are now forced to cook with gloves, which marks a departure from the hands-on approach of the past.

Eating Korean food is about sensing the hands and the warmth behind the dishes 

−−Fermentation is also connected to alcohol. Could you tell us about the history?

Suehyang: The Korean Peninsula had a culture of home brewing, where sake was made at home before the Japanese occupation. Back then, the Japanese government made it illegal to brew sake at home or in local communities, and the sake production was regulated by the Japanese government. Shortly after WWII, the Korean War broke out, leaving the country in destitution. The Korean government banned the use of rice to make sake, which led to the decline of traditional sake brewing.

However, over the past couple of decades, through the efforts of many people, home-brewed alcohol has come to attract attention as a cultural heritage of the Korean peninsula. This is thanks to the valuable brewing techniques and wisdom that have been passed down in secret within the family through the turbulent times.

−−Do people still make fermented foods at home despite their busy schedule?

Suehyang: Fermented foods are once again attracting attention, and since home brewing is legal in South Korea, making makgeolli was all the rage during the pandemic. If you break it down into generations, those in their 60s and 70s have inherited the traditional art of fermentation, and they value the culture of fermenting foods at home. Those in their 40s and 50s have inherited some cooking methods including how to prepare, but are less familiar with making kimchi and the fermentation culture. The parent-child relationship on the Korean peninsula is unique, and it is not uncommon to see parents in their 60s and 70s cooking for their children in their 30s and 50s, so this environment is influencing the way each generation interacts with the fermented food culture.

I am a Zainichi living in South Korea. As a third-generation, who grew up in Japan, I can step back and have an overview of the fermented food culture of the Korean peninsula, as well as delving deeper into it. I was fascinated by the diversity and depth of the fermented foods of the Korean peninsula that I encountered when I started living in South Korea.

In the midst of all this, I am worried that the diverse wisdom and techniques to make fermented foods held by the women of the Korean peninsula will disappear. Experts know the importance of fermented culture, but to make as many people aware of it as possible, I run a cafe that specializes in fermented foods, and I continue to research and revive local dishes, and hold study sessions. I will continue my activities so that the flavors created by hand, which is based on fermentation unique to the Korean peninsula, will not be lost.

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“Trump’s Wall” separates the U.S. and Mexico.

We tried to negotiate at the border, but knew it was a game we had almost zero chance of winning. The one we were talking to was not an immigration officer, but a gangster. We were standing on the border drawn just on the hillside of a mountain, and there was nothing like a fence or landmark but sparse cacti and bushes. Even if we get murdered here, we would probably end up being left behind a rock. What went through my mind then was the phrase I had heard several times, “The price of life is cheaper in Mexico.”

Speaking of the U.S.-Mexico border, the immigration issue has long been discussed. Headlines such as “Surge in Prospective Immigrants,” “Escape from Violence and Poverty,” and “Focus of Presidential Election” no longer seem fresh to many people. In fact, the “wall” separating the U.S. and Mexico (the so-called Trump Wall) does not cover all parts of the border lying east and west. We learned that there are some areas where there is not even a fence, let alone a wall. One such area is the mountains outside of Ciudad Juarez in northern Mexico. The mountain straddles the border, but no wall is built because it is private property. When we actually visited the foot of the mountain, we discovered a gap in the steel wall extending from the western horizon.

What lies beyond that point? I went on the mountain path with Maruo, the editor who was accompanying me. Soon after, we saw about 10 people walking in the hollows while trying to conceal themselves. They might possibly be migrants trying to cross the border. One of them approached me and asked, “Are you a police officer?” The man who asked me this turned out to be a gangster. He was a member of a smuggling agent called coyote that had this territory in hand. It is said that immigrant smuggling started as a side business for the drug cartels. Those who wish to cross the border need to pay them a lot of money. When we explained how we ended up here to him, the man picked up a wire at his feet and struck a pose as if he were going to strangle us. We backed away and said, “I get it, I get it,” and walked down the mountain with drawn faces.

Two days later, we climbed the mountain again, this time from the American side. And we ran into the gang again. The story below follows the beginning of this column. Not only did we not learn from what we had experienced a few days back, but we were indeed ridiculous. What did we mean by “I get it, I get it”? In the first place, repeating the same words twice would be a sign of untrustworthiness. The guys we faced this time differed from those we met last time. They yelled at us, “Leave all of your U.S. dollars and Mexican pesos, plus your phones and cameras!” They were saying that if we did not comply, they would take us to the Mexican side. I wanted to buy time through negotiation, but I had only $25 in my wallet. This can never be the bargaining chip. I had no pesos on hand (my card was not accepted at the ATM) and explained I desperately needed a few dollars for the bus fare home, and they took $15 from me. When I showed them the dollars, albeit a small amount, the men forgot about the phones and cameras, and we were released.　Well, how little the price of my life was. The money I had was stingy, but the amount I paid was even more stingy. Maruo, who had been quietly witnessing how things went and whom the gangster hadn’t demanded dollars from, said, “Shall we split the bill?” I appreciated the offer, but I declined because that would have cut the price of my life in half. I went down to the foot of the mountain and spent $5 on the bus to the border. There was only one $5 bill left. We had no choice but to return to Mexico.

Locals were passing by on the border bridge. They cross the border to go to work or school. The city behind the wall is also a part of their sphere of life. Ciudad Juarez, which was once described as the most dangerous city in the world due to the drug war, now seems to be at peace. We returned to the Mexican side and walked along the border. Unlike the mountains we had seen earlier, iron walls and barbed wire were running across our view, and we could see border guards and armored vehicles watching us. Looking at them, I felt as if I were in prison. Scattered around the perimeter were rags of torn clothing, toothbrushes, and other household items. Following the trail, I found about 20 people hanging out under a bridge at the border. They were prospective immigrants, mostly young people from Central and South America. I had not noticed them when I crossed the bridge earlier, but it seems that they are camping out here.

The reality of prospective immigrants at the US-Mexico border

A man named Tony spoke to me in fluent English. He is a well-dressed 54-year-old from Honduras. He has been living here for almost three months. Tony said, “There are no bosses or gangs here. Everyone is like family.” He seems to be a big-brother type of person as he is spoken to in a friendly manner by his peers and shares his fruits with them. “The Mexican people have been very supportive in providing food and clothing, but the Mexican police are no good. They always try to kick us out of here. We’re not monkeys or dogs,” Tony said, shaking his head. Because of their positions, the police make it seem like they are serious about getting rid of them, but it is not easy for them to go along with their empty posturing. As soon as the police leave, he said, they will come back here. “In Honduras, cops kill people easily,” he said, “because gangsters ask them to do it, and they want to make some money out of it. Compared to the situation there, this city is good. America would be even better,” he said, laughing.

What is the purpose of their migration to the U.S.? When I ask them, the answer comes back as lightly as if I had thrown a ball at a wall. In the first place, we impose something undeniably heavy in the word “immigrant.” But in most cases, there is no reason to be surprised. They simply want to live a little better than they do now, and that’s what we hope for, too. The difference is their determination to take a chance, if there is a chance at all. Poverty, violence, and economic collapse. These circumstances probably make their will even stronger.

As the sun began to set, the young people hanging around started to run, shouting loudly. They looked up to see a passerby crossing the border bridge. “Give us a dollar, a peso, whatever! Give us money to eat!” After a few moments, the passerby stopped and dropped a bill through a gap in the railing. The bill drifted in the wind. A group of young people ran toward it. One of them jumped high and tried to grab it but failed. They struggled with each other, scattering a cloud of dust. The one who finally caught the bill just above the ground said to a passerby above him, “Gracias!”. Then another dropped another bill, which then flew in the wind.

The people who drop the money seem to be Americans going back to their country after spending some time playing in Mexico, where prices are lower, or people from Mexico who have returned to their hometowns and are going back to the U.S. again. Quite a few dollar bills are mixed in with the bills that fall. I wonder if they do it out of guilt or altruism. Unfortunately, those who fail to catch on show their frustration, but maybe because how they bite their lips looks funny, the group sometimes burst into laughter. So I didn’t sense despair among them. Looking back at Tony, I see him perched and chilled out on the folding outdoor chair that he has brought out from somewhere. I don’t know whether it was an elder’s composure or a middle-aged man’s reserve, but I was impressed by how he was leisurely watching the young people.

The next day, we went under the bridge again. I noticed a group of people we had not seen yesterday, watching us from a distance. “They must be newcomers,” Tony said with interest. I raised my hand in greeting, and one of them started talking to me. “We’re from Venezuela, and we finally arrived here today,” the fearless-looking man said happily as he smoked a cigarette. I tried to picture in my mind where in South America Venezuela was located. Colombia, Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico. There are seven countries they had to pass through to cross into the United States. Although that was beyond my imagination, I understood why they did not seem to have a sense of urgency about them. They had finally arrived here. Maruo, who was talking with the young people, said, “They have already succeeded 90% of the time, haven’t they?” All that was left was the wall. But how would they get through the wall? I talked about the mountain where we found the gap in the barrier, but no one knew anything about it. When I asked them how they would get through, they unhesitatingly answered, “We will jump over it.”

Tony took off his shoes and made himself at home. He has been here for three months even though he arrived all the way from Honduras. I wondered if he had already become comfortable in this city, so I asked, “When will you jump over the wall?” He instantly choked on his words. I was skeptical, but he halfheartedly said, “Look at that pipe! I may not be young, but I can move like a rat, crawl through holes, crawl up walls, and do anything else I want!” He pointed hurriedly to a drain that poured into the river, but from a distance, it was no more than 30 cm in diameter. I thought about his slumbering reaction. Given the long road they had traveled, it was only natural that they would be cautious. They cannot fail in this very last process. If I were him, I would be too frightened to do anything. Tony continued, as if to divert the conversation. “Just two days ago, a young Chinese man jumped over the wall. He made it!” He sounded as happy as if it were him. I’m not sure why Chinese people come here to smuggle themselves in. I thought it must be a misunderstanding since some people in Latin America look like people from the East with Indian heritage, and I didn’t listen to him seriously.

The man standing by me pointed to a passerby on the bridge, nodding in that person’s direction. He was like, “You do it too.” Unable to speak Spanish well, I waved my hands exaggeratedly and tried to appeal to the passerby for a while, but no money fell. The man snickered at my helplessness. The other man, who had grown tired of standing and raising his voice, began to lie down on the ground. He remained on his back and called out loudly to the people on the bridge above me. I lay down as well. It was uncomfortable, but the bridge offered the shade and a cool breeze blew. The smell of marijuana wafted through the air. As it began to get dark, more and more people started to “go home” under the bridge.

When I was leaving, I gave Tony the remaining $5.00 I had on hand as I shook his hand in farewell. It was an embarrassing amount for a farewell gift. He just said, “Thank you,” and didn’t even seem happy about it. It was no use giving him the money he could not use in Mexico, but hopefully, I wanted him to use it in the U.S.. Even if they could get over the wall, there are many checkpoints in the city center. It is just like a gamble as they have no idea whether their immigration application will be approved or whether they will be able to find work. Even if “the price of life is low,” it will be worth many times more if they continue to win the game. The young people running to grab the money are engraved in my mind’s eye.

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Leaving Ukraine and arriving in Mexico with a growing desire to continue an “uncomplicated journey”

Before I knew it, all the faces I recognized had changed.

The coach bus filled with passengers traversed countless terminals. The deserts, rocky mountains, and cacti that were once visible from the window disappeared from view. I yearned for a simpler journey, far from the war zones of Ukraine that I visited often for interviews. That desire eventually led me to Mexico.

“I asked the locals. They all said not to ride the bus”.

That was the advice I received from my travel partner and editor, Maruo.

I attempted to convince him at an inn in a small town called Matehuala in central Mexico.

He’s not wrong, either. This country is vast, more than five times the size of Japan. Even locals opt for airplanes when traveling to the countryside since taking a coach bus can sometimes stretch up to 24 hours. It’s also rumored that night buses are frequent targets for police and thieves seeking money.

“But taking a bus is a better way to experience contemporary Mexico”, I persisted.

If we book a flight, we would need to secure tickets in advance and adhere to a set schedule. Given our month-long stay, time is on our side. I envisioned an easy and spontaneous trip, void from any complex plans. Both Jack Keruouc, who wandered the streets of America in pursuit of freedom, and William Burrows, drawn to spiritual experiences, set their sights on Mexico. What was it that attracted them to this place? The recent perception of Mexico, with its drug, gang, and immigration problems, is far from great. Perhaps concealed behind this perception is the reality of the people living here. That’s precisely why I want to travel as my heart desires, to be able to shine a light and experience the current state of Mexico first-hand. I shared with him my genuine motivations for this trip.

Maruo let out a sigh and accepted my reasoning, even though he was eager to go to a show featuring Morrisey in Mexico City. Morrisey, as you may already know, is a British musician. I sensed that this could suddenly alter our course in Latin America, but he was also accommodating my selfish plans. I wanted him to enjoy himself, and we didn’t have any fixed route in mind. Either way, he was going back to Mexico City for a little bit. We agreed to fly into the Northern U.S. border town of Ciudad Juárez three days later to reconvene and commence our southbound journey.

In the meantime, albeit a little lonely, I decided to take a bus to Monterrey alone to get as close to Northern Mexico as possible.

It was nearly evening when I arrived at the terminal. As soon as I got off the plane, the humid air enveloped my body. The electric billboard I had just seen indicated the temperature as 39-degrees Celsius. Located in Northeastern Mexico, the U.S. border town of Monterrey is said to be an industrial city and economic center where many foreign companies, including those from Japan, have established operations. And yet, as I strolled around my hotel, I heard disco music blaring from nightclubs, prostitutes lingering in alleys, and sensed an overall seedy atmosphere.

I set off with my backpack to find another place to stay around the budget lodging area nearby, only to be turned away as all the rooms were occupied. Apparently, many South American immigrants hoping to make it to the U.S. were staying there, and a number of them were congregating around the hotel entrances.

I eventually found a hotel with a spare room, but I can’t say it was clean. There was graffiti all over the door, and the ceiling fan that attempted to ventilate the room merely circulated the hot air. The stifling heat persisted even after taking a cold shower, prompting me to leave the room immediately.

I ate a taco from a nearby food cart alone and returned to my room. Unfortunately, the heat turned my room into a sauna, interrupting my sleep several times throughout the night. I tried to go outside to cool off, only to find the hotel’s exits locked for safety concerns. After multiple showers attempting to cool off, it was already morning.

A Memorial Day parade with 2000 horses and 1000 dancing people

The following day was a Sunday. I strolled down the main street, still sleep-deprived. There was not much foot traffic, perhaps due to the holiday. As I walked along the avenue lined with commercial buildings, a police officer appeared and abruptly began to enforce road restrictions. As I pondered if there had been an accident, I was startled by a rapid succession of pounding sounds on the asphalt.

It was a herd of horses. The sheer number overwhelmed me as they surged forward like a wave. Cowboys atop the horses showcased their skills, and spectators spontaneously emerged out of nowhere. Was it a parade? The horses’ hooves kicked the ground, and the cowboys posed proudly. Each adorned blue jeans, boots, and a sombrero. Some of them even sipped cans of beer and recorded videos on their smartphones while mounted on their steeds. I followed the parade along with the crowd. According to the man beside me, it was Monterrey’s municipal anniversary. Allegedly, they brought 2000 horses into town just for this occasion. Cowboys, referred to as “vaqueros” in Spanish, have deep roots in the history of Spaniards in Mexico.

“The vaquero is a symbol of our confidence, pride, and freedom”, the man proudly declared. Upon arriving at Plaza Zaragoza, the parade’s final destination, the number of horses resembled a ranch. I smiled to myself and thought, “stumbling upon an event like this is a great omen”.

Maria, a female staff member, addressed me in English.

“You must come back here at 5PM tonight. There will be 1000 people dancing”, she said.

1000 people dancing? What does that mean? It was so unexpected that I couldn’t comprehend her words.

After exploring the area, I returned to the square earlier than the designated time and found several groups already gathered, chatting. The girls were dressed in traditional skirts, while the young men sported tight pants and sombreros. I was impressed by their elegant appearance. As I marveled at them, other groups gathered one after another.

I noticed photographers from local newspapers and TV stations convening with their colleagues behind the makeshift stage in the plaza. As I tried to sneak up on stage to secure a place to shoot, a loud voice approached me from behind. When I turned around, a large man suddenly burst out in Spanish. Oh, no. Did I need permission to take pictures? As I searched for a suitable response, he grabbed me by the shoulders and led me over to the other photographers, giving me a thumbs up. He seemed to be saying, “Wait here, I’ll let you go up on stage later”. My worries were unfounded.

The dancing commenced with the start of the band’s performance. The dance featured captivating steps, like kicking the ground with the toes of their boots and twirling their outfits. Witnessing a thousand people dance to the rhythm of the polka was breathtaking. Perhaps it was the carefree spirit of the Latin people in action. Rather than a single, unruly group dance, each dancer genuinely appeared like they were relishing the experience. The local audience, also observing the performance, seemed to be enjoying themselves as they danced along.

As I walked off the stage past the group of photographers, I spotted Maria from earlier, standing in front of the speakers.

“What do you call this dance?” I asked. “It’s Ballet Folklórico!” Maria answered candidly. According to her, the event itself started three years ago with the aim of creating a new trend in an industrial city where traditional culture is difficult to establish. The number of dancers they had was impressive, even for a town celebration

After an hour of dancing, the dancers grew tired and headed for the catered meal. What awaited them was surprisingly, or perhaps predictably, a large quantity of tacos – enough for a thousand people! They joyfully bit into their tacos, their smiles beaming. Although I knew I was jumping to conclusions, I was surprised by the Mexico I was witnessing. While I was reveling in my thoughts, someone approached me and asked if I could take their picture.

The horse parade, the dancing, and these tacos. I felt like I fortuitously experienced the people’s identity just by roaming the streets.

Later that night, Maruo messaged me, dejected. Morrisey’s show had been postponed. I had no choice but to say, “that’s too bad”, and continued to tell him about my day as if to console him.

Two days later, the plane landed at Ciudad Juárez Airport in less than two hours. The runway was wet with rain. My cell phone picked up a signal and sent me the address of a motel where my travel partner Maruo was waiting for me. In the past, Ciudad Juárez was known as “the most dangerous city in the world” because of the drug wars waged by the cartels.

As soon as we got off the plane, Mexican immigration officials promptly began inspecting our IDs and directed foreigners, including myself, to wait at the airport. After the officer carefully checked my passport, I was released without incident, while others were escorted away from the airport in an immigration convoy. What lingered was an atmosphere thick with unease.  Nevertheless, fueled by the excitement of embarking on my journey, I gathered my spirits and  ventured into town in the drizzle.

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Kim Seung-bok
Kim is the CEO of Cuon. She majored in contemporary poetry in the Department of Creative Writing at Seoul Institute of the Arts. After graduating in 1991, she moved to Japan and enrolled in the Department of Literary Arts at Nihon University College of Art. Having been a voracious reader of Korean poetry and novels from South Korea and her love of literature led her to launch the publishing company Cuon in 2007. In 2015, when she relocated the office, she took the opportunity to open a bookstore with a café called Chekccori, which specializes in South Korean books in Jimbocho, an area known for bookstores.

South Korea is considered both geographically the closest and yet one of the most distant countries from Japan due to its historical conflicts and divergent political views. On the other hand, there are many Japanese who enjoy visiting the country on vacation.  The younger Japanese generation is drawn to the Korean lifestyles and values through their exposure to K-pop, K-dramas, and movies. It is not surprising to encounter Japanese students, who diligently follow South Korean culture with enthusiasm and actually consider it as their dream country. In recent years, Cho Nam-joo’s novel Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982 (2020), sold 1.3 million copies in South Korea and was translated and published in 16 countries around the world. It was also made into a movie. The novel’s success sparked interest in South Korean literature among avid fans of K-pop, K-dramas, and films. The novel, which is regarded as a South Korean feminist novel, engendered deep sympathies among women around the world, with some saying that it gave them hope for the coming future era.

Why are Japanese people attracted to novels from South Korea? Makiko Saito, the translator of Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982, noted in her book,『韓国文学の中心にあるもの』(2022), about the strength of South Korean literature, that the popularity of South Korean literature is bolstered by the broad and enthusiastic support of readers. She wrote that the readership is so diverse and cannot be summed up in a single reason or thought. Upon reviewing their feedback, she realized that many people enjoyed reading the books, but more importantly, they provided sensible support in a world filled with absurdity, violence, and perplexity.

The place to find and enjoy South Korean literature in Japan is Checkkori, a bookstore located in Jimbocho, Tokyo. The bookstore’s name is taken from Korean and means “a place for children who finished studying a book at a Korean terakoya (a small private school) to celebrate and express their gratitude for the teacher’s guidance.” The store is a magnet for readers, researchers, and Japanese publishing professionals. It is managed by Cuon, a publishing company specializing in South Korean publications, which was started by the owner, Kim Seung-bok, 16 years ago. At that time, only about 20 translations of South Korean literature were published per year. She spoke of the days going around bookstores tirelessly to get the books placed. She carried on believing in the origin of the store name, which means: “All good things are loved by all and live a long life.” Today, many bookstores have a section dedicated to South Korean literature translated into Japanese, but Kim’s eyes gleamed with passion as she said, “There are still many excellent South Korean books yet to be published in Japanese.”

The world of South Korean literature in Japan relies on connections built by curiosity, passion, and solidarity of interests and ideas.

–-The books published by Cuon cover a range of fields and are usually offered in the form of a series. There are books by South Korean and Japanese intellectuals that evolve around their dialogue and delve into the differences as well as the similarities between the two countries. There are also books on humanities and society that offer insight into the history and psyche of South Korea from different perspectives. I heard that the book series of South Korean literature is highly acclaimed for the book design and the first book that came out was The Vegetarian (2016) by Han Kang, who was the first South Korean author to receive the Man Booker International Prize.  

Kim Seung-bok: On the cover of The Vegetarian, I put the number “01” since it was the first book of the series. I was once asked by a bookstore staff, “I see ‘01’ on the cover. How many books are you planning to publish? I need to make space on the shelves.” On the spot, I replied, “24 books.” The plan was to start with six books and then use the profit to publish additional six books. It was not easy to get to where we are today, but we managed to publish 23 books so far. After The Vegetarian was published, I heard someone saying, “My worldview on South Korean literature has changed.” This made me happy. We have to go to bookstores directly to pitch the books and ask to carry them. Otherwise, the readers will never come across the books we published. We have to keep on trying.

–It’s been 12 years since the first book. What are the projects that you are currently focusing on?

Kim: In addition to running the bookstore, publishing books, and connecting Japanese publishers to South Korean publishers, we organize book events and South Korean literature festivals as well as Korean translation competitions to discover and nurture translators. We also published a series of books under the name of “South Korean Literature Short Short,” targeting customers, who are not big readers but are interested in learning Korean. In this series, we featured a short story in Korean along with a Japanese translation so it’s accessible to any readers. In addition to that, we made readings in Korean available on YouTube.

When we find something interesting, we involve other people, who want to be part of the project. We are always looking for something new. If we meet someone that we want to work with, we are persistent about pursuing that person. I think these efforts have led to who we are today. It’s not just me, but it’s thanks to the passion of everyone involved.

–I attended an online event organized by Chekccori the other day. I heard that you hold about 100 events a year, which I believe is a lot of work. How are you managing the projects? And have you noticed any change in your readership? 　

Kim: We organize events to nurture a sense of solidarity in the community. It’s not only the readers, but we are also close to our translators and editors, who are on the production side. With them, we often discuss the concept of our next book and how to market it. Over the years, we have built mutual relationships with people who are involved in publishing to expand the market of South Korean literature. Nowadays we can find the South Korean literature section at bookstores in town.

It has been eight years since we started Chekccori, and I feel that the age range of our readers has dropped dramatically with the recent Hallyu boom. Teenagers who are fascinated by South Korea have a sparkle in their eyes from the moment they enter the store, and many readers are looking for books recommended by BTS and Hallyu stars as their favorite reading material. On the other hand, the number of customers interested in history and politics has also increased. Since the start of video streaming services, South Korean movies, and dramas have become readily available, so people seem to feel more cultural familiarity with South Korea. More and more people are saying, “South Korean literature is interesting,” and readers want to pick up different books. Not all books are easy to read, but they are gradually becoming known.

Brave words transcend borders and have the power to make society better

–I saw that there is a collection of poems published by Cuon. I sensed that literature and essays strongly appeal to the readers’ societal awareness. When it comes to poetry, how is it positioned in South Korean literature?

Kim: South Korea is a country that follows the tradition of Confucianism. In that context, reading books, composing poems, and reciting them are considered something very important. Literary figures are still respected today. So far, we published two books of South Korean poetry from Cuon as part of our poetry series, “Selection Korean Poetry.” The first one is Han Kang’s Put The Evening In The Drawer (2013). On the book band, it says, “Words of poems lead you to recover.” South Korean novels in Japanese are published in Japan nowadays, but there are very few contemporary South Korean poems in Japanese. We hope to introduce more of them. If our poetry books do well, I am sure Japanese publishers will be interested and that could lead to having more of them published.

In Japan and South Korea, the ways people express joy and sadness are slightly different. In Japan, tanka and haiku are popular. I saw that tanka is still popular among the younger generation, especially on social media. However, in South Korea, it’s poetry. People post short poem-like sentences with sleek backgrounds online. It almost feels as if this format is a staple of contemporary poetry in South Korea. Many people call themselves poets. (laughs) In other words, people of all ages are writing poems daily.

–Many South Korean feminist books, such as Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982, have been translated into Japanese. Readers commented that they were encouraged or started to think about feminism and history in Japan after reading the works. It feels that South Korean literature created an opportunity to catalyze solidarity among women. Do you think Japanese readers feel a sense of affinity with the works of contemporary Korean authors? Conversely, did Japanese literature have any influence in South Korea?

Kim: The reason why so many essays by contemporary writers are read in Japan is that South Koreans and Japanese have similar sensibilities and can easily empathize with each other. In addition, the number of Japanese books translated and published in Korean is more than 10 times greater than the number of Korean books translated into Japanese, indicating that young South Koreans identify with Japanese literature. Although we speak different languages, I feel that we are in the same cultural sphere.

There is a well-known episode of Kim Yeon-su, one of the most famous novelists in South Korea today. He decided to become a novelist because he learned a new way of writing novels by reading Haruki Murakami. He was born in the 1970s and the novels he had read until then were mostly weighty works about North and South Korea, the Korean War, ideological battles, and so on. This naturally left an imprint on him on how novels were written. Therefore, when he encountered Murakami’s works, he felt that he could write novels with a sensibility that readers may understand his feelings without touching on complex themes. 

Murakami’s works, written in the first person, have had a major impact on Kim Yeon-su to the extent that they completely changed his concept of what a novel is. It’s not only Kim Yeon-su, but also Han Kang, Kim Jung-hyuk, and Kim Young-ha, who are now writers in their mid-50s, have written superb novels, which are greatly appreciated all over the world. One of the most appealing features of South Korean literature is that their works depict personal stories while at the same time cleverly incorporating the history and social issues of the country.

Japanese people seem to feel that heavy and painful South Korean novels express their thoughts. On the other hand, South Koreans are drawn to Japanese novels that depict soothing moments in daily life and happiness. It is the same with movies. While most South Korean movies are intense and have a strong message, Japanese movies are also very popular, and some get fixated on the leading male characters. It’s interesting as they are complementary.

“Good books prompt people to act after finishing reading them”

–In addition to Cuon, you also serve as an intermediary between Japanese and South Korean publishers. At the end of last year, three books by Kim Won-young, translated into Japanese were published around the same time. The first book, Desire Instead of Hope: Why Desire Should be Equal (2022) was published by Cuon, followed by The Case for ‘Wrongful Life’ (2022). If the first book was about the power of freedom and solidarity, the second one was about defending the disabled, the poor, and the sexual minorities. The third book, Becoming a Cyborg (2022), was co-authored with Kim Cho-yeop, the rising star of the new generation of South Korean science fiction writers. It presents a stimulating dialogue on examining technology not as a treatment to reach perfection but to live better with imperfection. What prompted you to introduce these books to Japanese publishers?

Kim: I came across Desire Instead of Hope as I was looking for a book written in Korean by an author with disabilities.  This was after I read『家族だから愛したんじゃなくて、愛したのが家族だった』(2020) by Nami Kishida, a delightful account of the author’s daily life with her brother with intellectual disabilities.

All of Kim Won-young’s books were deeply thought-provoking, unlike Kishida’s book, which was enjoyable to read. After I read them, several Japanese editors came to my mind who might be interested in the topic or see them as a way to expand the distribution channels. I immediately sent a proposal and asked them to read the book to which they responded promptly. They decided to publish the books right away. Good books prompt people to act. In my case, if I think it’s fun, I will take action instantly. If it’s not fun, I quit right away and start something else right away. (laughs)

We are planning to move to a larger store in the near future. The plan is to feature books from different countries every month and organize events. In 2019, we organized an event with book critics and translators titled, “Invitation to Asian Literature @ Chekccori” to introduce works from Thailand, Tibet, and China. This led to our involvement in the publication of 『絶縁』(2022), an anthology of popular authors from nine cities in Asia. Thanks to the book, it generated interest in Tibetan literature, which led to having the novel being nominated in the translation category of the Japan Booksellers’ Award and eventually to the publication of a book. These are good trends. I heard that South Korean literature is a model case for how to draw attention to Asian literature in Japan. I would like to collaborate with those who are involved in Asian literature in Japan to build momentum. The people who will benefit the most are the Japanese-speaking readers who can read Asian literature in their language.

Earlier this year, I introduced a North Korean novel, Friend: A Novel from North Korea (2020) by Paek Nam-nyong to a Japanese publisher and the book came out. Since Korean is spoken in North Korea and Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture in China, I would like to introduce a variety of works written in places other than South Korea to readers in Japan in the future.

*Kim Won-young was diagnosed with osteogenesis imperfecta at a young age and went through a number of hospitalization and operations while growing up. He lived only in the hospital and at home until age 14. When he was 15, he entered the middle school of a special needs school. After attending a general high school, college, and graduate school, he went on to become a lawyer. He is also a writer and performer.

Photography Seiji Kondo
Translation Fumiko.M

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