Lessons from Korea’s historic city of Gwangju

I had never heard of the term hallyu when I met my would-be husband, a Korean, in 1999. Seven years later, when we walked down the aisle, the phenomenon it describes was just taking off in the Philippines courtesy of Korean TV dramas, or Koreanovelas, as they were known. In those early days, when people learned I was seeing a Korean, I would sometimes be asked, “Are you sure he’s not a Moonie?” Nowadays, when I mention where my husband is from, I am more likely to hear references to K-pop, and to be told, “Wow, you have an oppa!” It’s funny, because though I love Korean food and was briefly infatuated with the TV series Lovers in Paris in the mid-noughties, I have not really caught the K-bug.

A month ago, while in Glorietta to meet a friend over drinks, I stumbled upon a K-pop dance fest sponsored by Spotify.  K-pop blared from speakers while crowds of young people milled around the atrium. Every now and then, on some cue indecipherable to my untrained ear and eye, the milling would cease and a dozen or so teens would gather at the center, dancing to the beat in perfect sync. Sometimes, the posse would break up and a lone dancer would be left in the limelight, moving in a manner both graceful and robotic, as seemed to me typical of K-pop.

It was hard not to get caught up in their enthusiasm. I knew some of those fans had not only mastered the choreography and assumed the dress code of K-pop, but actually learned to speak Korean out of…