I was listening to an NPR podcast about the global rise of South Korean pop culture while driving passengers around as an Uber driver. It was a late night, nearing midnight, and I’d already picked up a few riders, ferrying them to their destinations as I absorbed pieces of their stories and perspectives.
Just as the podcast was reaching its conclusion, I got a new request: a passenger needed a ride to Fairfax, Virginia, from a restaurant in Northern Virginia. I arrived and picked up two young men. They spoke quietly to each other in the back seat, leaving me to my thoughts and the end of the podcast. Not wanting to disturb them, I thought it was a good opportunity to finish listening.
I asked, “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”
“No problem,” one replied.
Turning up the volume, I caught a segment on South Korea’s booming cultural exports: “South Korean artists don’t just aim to be the best in Korea; they aim to be the best in the world. Cultural exports from South Korea—movies, music, and more—reached over $13 billion in 2022, signaling a shift as U.S. dominance in global entertainment declines.”
After a moment, one of the passengers leaned forward and asked, “What’s this station?”
“It’s an NPR podcast,” I replied.
He smiled. “Thank you. We’re from South Korea.”
“Really? What a coincidence!” I said, laughing.
They chuckled, amused by the unlikely situation of an Uber driver listening to a podcast about their homeland. “Well, maybe you can teach me about South Korea instead of the radio,” I joked.
The older passenger nodded and explained, “I’m actually here to promote South Korean cultural exports in the U.S. I’d be happy to share what I know.” Then he asked, “And where are you from?”
“Afghanistan,” I replied.
“Oh! Are you familiar with any Korean movies or music?”
“Yes, actually. The show Jumong was very popular back in Afghanistan.”
They both laughed, surprised. “Jumong reached Afghanistan?” they asked.
“It wasn’t just Jumong,” I said. “Many South Korean shows had a fan base in my country.”
“I heard Dae Jang Geum was popular in Iran,” the younger one added.
“It was. And in Afghanistan, too,” I replied.
They seemed genuinely surprised and pleased to hear their culture had touched lives so far away, in a place many would never have imagined.
Earlier in the podcast, NPR had mentioned the hardships that Korea endured in the 20th century. Like many East Asian nations, its history was marked by occupation and war. Korea was unified until 1905, when it was occupied by Japan after the Russo-Japanese War, and remained under Japanese control until the end of World War II. In 1945, Korea was divided into North and South, not based on any historical rationale but split ideologically by the United States and the Soviet Union.
North Korea developed as a Communist state under Kim Il-sung, while South Korea embraced a market economy. Competing with economic giants like China and Japan wasn’t easy, so South Korea took a different path: investing in cultural production—film, music, and television—that would appeal both locally and globally. Over time, South Korea became the cultural powerhouse of East Asia, and its reach only expanded, especially as Western audiences became fascinated by K-pop and Korean dramas.
Thinking of another memorable South Korean export, I asked, “I remember when the song Gangnam Style was huge, even with kids in Afghanistan. What does Gangnam mean?”
The younger passenger explained, “In Seoul, there’s a river. South of it is a commercial district, which has become the capital for fashion and beauty. It’s packed with clinics for cosmetic surgery. People from all over come for cosmetic procedures.”
“So what does Gangnam mean, exactly?” I asked.
“It’s Korean for ‘south of the river,’” he said.
Mystery solved: Gangnam Style literally means “south of the river style.”
As we neared their destination, I asked a question I’d always been curious about: “The media always portrays North and South Korea as on the brink of war. Do you feel that threat in your daily life?”
The older passenger replied, “North Korea attacked us in 1950. The fighting lasted until 1953, and it hasn’t resumed since then. But technically, the war hasn’t really ended.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.
“It’s an armistice, not a peace treaty. Both sides are always ready for conflict,” he explained.
“So the risk of war is constant?” I asked.
“When you live with a threat long enough, it becomes part of your life. You stop noticing it.”
Hearing that, I thought about Kabul, my hometown. For years, we lived with the constant threat of bombings and attacks. What once filled us with dread slowly became part of daily life, an ever-present danger that we somehow learned to live with.
As the car came to a stop, I asked, “So what’s it like with North Korea these days?”
He laughed and replied, “Recently, we received some ‘gifts’ from them, delivered by air.”
“Gifts?” I asked.
“Yeah, balloons filled with trash and sewage.”
“Seriously?” I said, laughing in disbelief.
“Seriously,” he replied, grinning. “Apparently, it’s payback for the leaflets South Korean defectors sent over the border by balloon.”
“So, they gave you back something even ‘stinkier,’” I said, and we all burst into laughter.
As we reached their destination, I felt the strangeness of the moment. Here we were, three strangers from distant corners of the world, laughing together over the absurdity of international tensions—a poignant reminder of our shared humanity.
On the Road in America is a series of letters from Afghan immigrants, sharing their encounters and observations across the United States.
