Living in Korea as a foreign student is a daily exercise in profound readaptation. Over the past (almost) two years, I have been living in a society built on rhythms and hierarchies completely different from those in which I was born, raised and had grown accustomed to.
Even so, despite several glaring differences, I have found that cultural nuances are obstacles that can be more easily navigated compared to the imposing barrier of the Korean language.
I never expected Korea to adapt to me. On the contrary, I dedicated myself to studying the language even before moving, hoping to overcome this barrier through sheer effort.
However, reality often overpowers the attempt to communicate. To avoid the silent, desperate moments between my intentions and my expressions, I found myself held hostage by artificial intelligence (AI). And so I realized that, today, I have become a ghostwriter of my own life, letting prompts speak for me when my own tongue fails to find the words that, at other times, flow naturally.
Insecure, I get stuck even in the smallest interactions. When I say to a colleague, "You worked really hard today," the feeling is mine, but the syntax belongs to a machine. This digital shadow follows me especially in the high-pressure environment of my master's seminars, where academic debates are filtered through a screen before they reach my ears. Or eyes. And lips, since the words don't come out of them. There is a persistent melancholy in realizing that the more I depend on these tools, the further I drift away from my authentic self.
Today, AI has become an umbrella. It is a practical necessity that keeps me dry and my dignity intact during a seminar or a meeting. It ensures that my ideas don't get lost in the storm of a debate. Yet, there is a melancholy in realizing that, while the umbrella protects me, it also keeps me separated from the world I am trying to become part of.
They say life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, but learning to dance in the rain. Dancing, then, would mean venturing out without this digital shelter, even if that means getting soaked by the frustration of a wrong phrase or a strange accent. It is the choice to be vulnerable, but to be authentically "me," even if that version of me is grammatically incorrect or mispronounced.
There is a joy in letting yourself get drenched. I might "catch a cold", whether that means not understanding a full sentence or experiencing a moment of deep embarrassment after saying something wrong, but there is a profound happiness in feeling the world directly on my skin and, in the end, managing to get the message across myself, not through a black screen. Not that there is anything wrong with keeping these tools, but I am also learning now that, while the umbrella is useful for the walk to the university, the most vital parts of my soul are found when I close it, step out into the rain and finally find my own voice, however trembling it may be when speaking Korean.
Antonio Alves de Medeiros Neto is a Brazilian master's student at Yeungnam University and a researcher in social communication.
Source: Korea Times News
