“I spent two months teaching English to North Korean refugees and economic immigrants.”
Such was the refrain I recited throughout the summer to anyone who inquired about my time in South Korea. Looks of admiration or nods of approval would almost certainly ensue, if not effusive displays of praise. I played the part, sporting a tight smile, while my insides churned with discomfort at the excessive compliments and embellished perceptions.
When I applied to DukeEngage, I was not unaware of the prevalent criticism of the program, at least within the Duke community, for being a vehicle for “voluntourism." Nor can I wholeheartedly deny that my desire to participate stemmed, at least in part, from the allure of immersing myself in Seoul’s culinary delights, vibrant culture, scenic beauty — and, of course, the bustling metropolis’ linguistic landscape. The prospect of living in an environment where I would have plentiful opportunities to practice a language I had been learning since I was twelve was indubitably enticing.
Needless to say, the program’s motivations struck a chord with me. I empathized with the struggles of linguistic discrimination and cultural exclusion that I had witnessed or experienced personally. But it seemed disingenuous to be passionate about a cause I barely understood, having only scratched the surface of its history and context through a couple of pre-departure meetings back then. I felt disconnected and wondered if I would truly be of any help to the students. The transient nature of our intervention, split across several schools at that, only stoked my skepticism.
These doubts lingered even after I arrived in Seoul and listened to the school leaders’ elaborate welcome addresses, in which they illuminated various social and legal issues surrounding the education of students from multicultural families, including that of North Korean refugees and their children. The more I learned about the students’ backgrounds, the more I struggled to wrap my head around the significance of the contributions that we, as privileged Duke students who knew next to nothing about them, could make in such a short period of time. Were we really doing them any good by intruding into their lives and forcing them to learn a language with little immediate relevance to their circumstances — especially while they were still struggling to attain proficiency in Korean? Despite the repeated emphasis from our professors and the vice principal that teaching English was not the primary focus but a platform for connecting with the students, I couldn’t shake off my reservations.
Alas, throughout the short week spent with each group of children, their disinterest in our lessons could not be more apparent. Even with all their smart devices stowed away safely in their teacher’s custody, we constantly competed for their attention with comics, sketchbooks, water guns, slime, Rubik’s cubes and the like. Apart from the handful who participated actively, albeit begrudgingly, in class activities, most would muster lackadaisical responses only when called upon before retreating into a state of slumber or reverie. Only during the ten-minute breaks between periods was the classroom enlivened by boisterous chatter and resounding laughter, as the children savored the brief respite from the dreariness of our lessons. As much as imparting English was supposed to be a means to a greater end, forging meaningful relationships with them in such a setting seemed impossible. The listless faces and limp attitudes that resurfaced as soon as the chime of the dreaded school bell summoned them back to their seats begged me to question the effectiveness of our methods.
Interestingly, however, the end of each week always marked a transition point in our relationship with the children, as we bid each class farewell and moved on to the next group. Once they no longer perceived us as figures of authority, whose primary responsibility was to instruct them in a sterile, academic setting, we were showered with generous displays of affection during every little encounter we had with them.
The first and second graders eagerly waited for us to arrive every morning and sought great amusement in playing round after round of hide and seek in the nooks and crannies of the computer room. The third and fourth graders pulled no punches with their loving embraces, sweet professions and incessant requests for us to draw their favorite cartoon characters. On the other hand, the fifth and sixth graders often ambushed us warmly with sneak water gun attacks, their mischievous howls of laughter ricocheting through the hallways as they hastily fled the scene. Lunchtime in the cafeteria was a chaotic affair, as various groups of children fervently beseeched us to join them at their tables, and continued clamoring for our attention even as we sat down to eat with them.
Despite our growing rapport with the children, we were careful not to broach the subject of their families, having deduced from contextual cues that this might be a sensitive topic for many of them. But they had a way of opening up at the most unexpected times and bringing tears to our eyes with unprompted, heartbreaking disclosures about their living situations. What struck me the most was the indifferent, matter-of-fact tones in which they related their experiences. It was hard to tell if these stemmed from sheer naivety or desensitization, but either way, their stories instigated me to perceive them in a different light. I began to understand the importance of making each child feel valued, loved and cared for to fill the void left by a lack of parental attention. It was this feeling that endeared us to them, in spite of our clumsy communication skills and pathetic knowledge of cultural references — not to mention the boring English classes we put them through.
The eight weeks I spent in South Korea certainly weren’t long enough for me to get to know each and every student, let alone drastically improve the lives of their communities. But the program facilitated the establishment of unprecedented networks of connections, by acquainting me with people and places I probably never would have encountered on my own. It laid the groundwork for potential future engagements, should I choose to continue pursuing this passion. I was heartened to see that the children still vividly recalled and spoke fondly of DukeEngage teachers from previous years. It was a reassuring sign that my work would be carried forward by future cohorts of Duke students, a glimmer of hope that the collective culmination of all our contributions would create a lasting impact over time.
On a final note, I would like to reiterate that the work I did last summer was far from volunteering. I consciously steer clear of the term when describing my experience to other people, especially to the children I worked with. It feels condescending and pretentious to imply that I was doing charity work by teaching and befriending them; that simply wasn’t the case. In fact, I was duly compensated for my skills, time and effort. The airfare coverage, free accommodation and decent stipend I received were certainly incongruent with the selfless and unpaid sacrifices typically associated with volunteerism.
But does social work always have to stem from altruistic motivations? Is it selfish not to be selfless? Should I be condemned for confessing that these financial benefits, coupled with the linguistic exposure and cultural experience, were pivotal in solidifying my choice to participate in DukeEngage over a summer engineering internship or research stint? As much as we like to cling to the idea of humanitarian work as pure-hearted and selfless, such a lofty ideal would seriously restrict participation in social causes to an affluent minority, leading to the exclusion of many, like myself, who rely on compensation to afford such opportunities.
The next time someone criticizes DukeEngage for promoting “voluntourism," let us take a moment to reassess the nature of the program and reevaluate the standards we impose upon it. DukeEngage, at its heart, is not a volunteering initiative. For all its limitations and imperfections, there is one thing the program deserves due credit for. It succeeds in fostering effective altruism by increasing the financial accessibility and practical appeal of social work to Duke students.
Valerie Tan is a Pratt junior. Her column typically runs on alternate Wednesdays.
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Valerie Tan is a Pratt junior and an opinion managing editor of The Chronicle's 119th volume.