By Kang Bang-Hwa

Professor at Literature Translation Institute of Korea

In the first week of August, I visited Osaka, Japan, for a business trip. I served as a judge at a Korean literature contest that began last year at the Korean Cultural Center there. Korean literature has recently received the spotlight in Japan, with many news media using the term "K-literature" after K-pop. A surge of Japanese have begun to learn Korean through Korean songs, music acts, films and K-dramas. Those interested in a language usually want to know more about that tongue's culture, a passion that seems to extend to translation. Since the contest's success last year, many have entered the contest, and I believe the winners were vindicated for their hard work and dedication.

As a judge, I generally told the contestants in a comment, "Through we live in different countries and worlds, we receive comfort from literature by finding common human traits. But perhaps translation isn't about finding things in common but instead differences to help us understand each other."

Korean and Japanese are considered languages with much in common because both use Chinese characters, have similar word order and use honorifics. But do such linguistic similarities mean commonality in every way? Of course not. A closer look shows many differences such as those in speech and gestures depending on relationships and situations, as well as in the methods and degrees of emotional expression. For example, questions that Japanese fans of Korea often have include why Koreans say they feel "cool" when taking a hot bath; how they feel when calling someone by his or her full name; and why a husband calls his spouse "wife" in English. Personally, I find that Koreans tend to get angry when they suddenly change to informal speech though they usually use polite speech, whereas Japanese often turn cold and abruptly use honorific language even if they usually use informal speech.

As 2025 marks the 60th anniversary of the normalization of bilateral ties, both countries are hosting related events throughout the year. So what changes have we made so far? I was invited to a lecture hosted by the Korean Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and this prompted me to reflect on this, though from a very personal perspective.

I grew up in an environment relatively full of books. This is because my father was a bookworm, and even the children's room had not just kids' works but also Japanese and world literature translated into Japanese mixed together. So naturally, we began reading translated works and found strange names, cultures, scenes and plots not experienced before. One such book was "Diary of Yunbogi" (ユンボギの日記" in Japanese), a work I picked from a bookshelf one day. I thought it was a children's book, and happened to open it without thinking. Soon afterward, I was overcome by a strange feeling that I never felt from any translated book I'd read before. It made me want to unconditionally deny something, asking, Is that us? No, absolutely not."

The book's protagonist bravely lives through the scars of the war, extreme poverty and separation from family. At the time, I was in a lower grade of elementary school and knew that I was Korean, but couldn't speak a word of Korean. To me, Korea was a distant country where I traveled to once a year with my family to meet relatives. I wondered if the word "we" (uri in Korean) in my mind was "we" as humans or "we" as a third generation of jaeil gyopo, or ethnic Korean residents of Japan.

Perhaps from that moment, I tried to distance myself from Korea. The book's content was so terrible to bear for a little girl like myself at the time, and by turning away from it -- and Korea -- I hoped to stay in a comfortable world. But like we all do after growing older, I gradually understood that nobody can live in such a world forever. After graduating from university, I moved to Korea for study. I initially thought I'd feel satisfied with learning just the language but after doing so, I started craving Korean novels, which made me more curious about the lives of Koreans. Though we used the same vocabulary, the countries and cultures we grew up in were so different, so I wanted to explore if I was truly using the same words with the same emotions as the other person.

My identity is a third-generation jaeil gyopo and neither Korean nor Japanese. These three traits are similar and alike but also quite different. Ultimately, I thought my life was similar but was surprised to find it so different. Perhaps such differences led me to where I am today driven by the curiosity that ensued. For me, literary translation has been a process of helping readers understand while satisfying my curiosity little by little.

While working hard in my life, the world has apparently changed. It feels like suddenly seeing a sunset while looking out the window at work. In Korea, I can hear many Japanese songs on TV, while classes in Japan teach Korean makeup techniques. Every day, I see people like me brave enough to ask questions and seek understanding when they find something curious instead of being afraid of differences, erecting walls or distancing themselves. This brings me a personal sense of satisfaction.

I believe a translator is someone who dreams along the writer while traveling between reality and the realm of work. When we grow curious about the new and unfamiliar and learn from, accept and embrace it, we can truly understand each other and dream of a future together.

Professor Kang Bang-Hwa has taught Japanese since 2016 at the Literature Translation Institute of Korea. Translated by Korea.net staff writer Yoon Sojung