Recently, a line from the film Friend featured a line that caught my attention: “Am I your shidabari?” Set in Busan, the film incorporates a mix of Busan dialect, bringing up memories of how commonly Japanese expressions were used in the region. The term shida is likely derived from the Japanese word "下 (shita)," referring to an assistant or a helper in Japanese. The word was often used among workers, especially during labor movements like Cheonggyecheon’s garment unions in the 1970s, to describe a subordinate role.
In Busan dialect, shidabari combines shida (下, "under") with hari (張, "underling" or “junior”). Over time, the phrase came to mean someone who always follows orders or acts as a “lackey.” Similarly, another common expression, ttongkerai, can be translated roughly as “am I your errand boy?” The term may have originated from the Japanese word “gerai” (下來, meaning "subordinate") with a derogatory ttong (feces) prefix added.
Busan dialect also includes phrases like binsichukgu, roughly translating to “Do you think I’m an idiot?” Although the exact origins of binsichukgu are unclear, it likely evolved from byeongsin (病身, "cripple") with gwichuk (鬼畜, "brute" or "beast"), a wartime Japanese term for Allied forces, possibly transformed into chukgu through phonetic shifts.
Another Busan expression, cheonji bikkari, is used to describe something abundant. Cheonji (天地, "heaven and earth") clearly signifies “as vast as the entire world,” but bikkari remains ambiguous. Some argue it stems from the Japanese hikari (光, "light"), possibly connoting brightness or vastness, while others suggest bikkari could derive from byeokgari, originally referring to a “pile of straw.” Variants like ssi bikkari add another layer: ssi may be a transformed form of ssaeda (“to stack up”), reinforcing the sense of overwhelming abundance.
It’s one thing that older generations from Busan may use such expressions, given their historical context. But seeing today’s younger Koreans in Seoul use similar Japanese-derived terms without realizing their origins is surprising. For example, the term sorasaek (“sky blue”) clearly originates from the Japanese sora (空, "sky"). Similarly, Koreans use nashi for sleeveless tops, a term shortened from the Japanese sodenashi ("sleeveless") but lacking any actual meaning in Korean.
Such examples show how foreign words can permeate a language, often without much resistance. While language borrowing is a natural process, the unconscious usage of these terms can sometimes lead to a dilution of cultural and linguistic identity. As Korean continues to evolve, it may be time to consider more deeply the origins and appropriateness of the terms we adopt.
Japanese speakers are known for their inventive shorthand, which follows certain recognizable patterns. For instance, meiku shortens "make up" (화장하다), pokémon condenses "pocket monster" (주머니 속 괴물 장난감), and risutora simplifies "restructuring" (구조 조정). Even unfamiliar terms like sekku hara—for "sexual harassment"—make sense once the meaning is revealed.
In contrast, Koreans often adopt foreign words without much regard for consistency, leading to terms like kompu (compressor) or bihuda (distributor), which don’t follow any cohesive structure. Consider punk—derived from "puncture," a term the Japanese shortened to punku. Over time, it morphed to imply flakiness or skipping obligations, a leap from its original meaning. Recently, I heard nabi in a taxi, only to realize it referred to "navigator." Similarly, donkasu ("pork cutlet") derives from "pork" (돈, or pig in Sino-Korean) and "cutlet," and katsudon evolved further by incorporating cutlet (katsu) over rice (donburi). This creative shorthand sometimes verges on excess.
However, I worry more about how misuse of Korean grammar undermines the structural integrity of the language, particularly the overuse of passive forms. Alarmingly, even respected intellectuals tend to say, “…라고 생각되어집니다” (“it is thought”), a cumbersome phrase that sounds overly formal and unnecessary. The term bohyeojinda (it is seen as) further illustrates this issue—often used by journalists, it overcomplicates simply saying boinda (it appears). Then, there are phrases like “…하도록 하겠습니다” (“I will make it happen”) instead of a direct “하겠습니다” (I will do it).
These circumlocutions seem to add a veneer of sophistication but result in a language that’s convoluted rather than elegant. When reading my own writings from my 20s and 30s, I cringe at my overuse of the possessive particle ui (의) in phrases like “the future political and military relations of Korea in Northeast Asia.” Overuse of ui often arises from clumsy translation influenced by Japanese syntax, where the possessive is frequently attached to nouns.
In Korean, we tend to overuse expressions like “...에 있어서의” or “...으로의,” phrases that echo Japanese constructions and convolute meaning. Phrases like “同行의” (“with the companion”) sound unnatural compared to the smoother “동행한.” Expressions like “나의 고향,” “축복의 땅,” or “한잔의 술” demonstrate the elegance that Korean language can achieve when used naturally. Through conscious effort, I’ve discovered that reducing the use of ui results in writing that flows more naturally.
In sum, while borrowing words and adapting foreign expressions is inevitable, the indiscriminate use of shorthand and convoluted grammar risks muddling our language. It may be time to consider the impact of these practices and strive for clearer, more authentic Korean.
A long-standing issue in Korean society is the influence of Japanese language habits, notably in the way couples address one another. It has become customary for Korean wives to call their husbands “So-and-so’s father” once a child is born, which mirrors a similar Japanese tradition. This practice often feels like a convenient solution for overcoming the awkwardness of marital address in early marriage; however, it effectively turns one's partner into a figure resembling a "third person," a linguistic shift that blurs the lines between “husband” and “father.”
Recently, a new trend has emerged: younger women now address their romantic partners as oppa (older brother), a term that was once strictly reserved for elder male siblings. Even after marriage, many women continue calling their husbands oppa, and some younger husbands seem to prefer this term—ranked second only to "jagiya" (honey). Conversely, women dating younger men may call their partners nuna (older sister), an unusual choice that also persists post-marriage, creating a paradoxical language habit in which young couples linguistically appear as siblings rather than spouses.
This blend of familial and romantic terms has made it increasingly challenging to distinguish kinship from relationships in terms of address. This issue finds parallels in everyday vocabulary, where scientific and technical terms—introduced decades ago—remain largely unchanged from their Japanese equivalents. The same can be said for many social sciences, law, and humanities terms that entered Korea via Japan and have since gone unexamined in their linguistic appropriateness or cultural relevance.
Take the term siksa (食事), which essentially means "eating" or "meal" but has seeped into the home environment in place of the more endearing “Jinji” (진지). Another example is sugo hasimnida (수고하십니다), a phrase derived from military language that implies effort or exertion but has now become a catch-all, including as a greeting between students and professors. The term’s military origins are unmistakable, yet it is now used so widely and indiscriminately that it sounds disrespectful in certain contexts.
Additional examples include financial terms like income (수입) and expense (지출), which feel impersonal and lack warmth. There are even suggestions to rename mountains like Taebaeksanmaek (태백산맥) to reflect traditional Korean concepts, as the original term sanmaek (산맥) comes from Japanese classifications.
Many colloquial phrases also carry Japanese origins. Journalists, for instance, frequently use susun (手順), which directly translates to "procedure" or "steps" and is borrowed from the Japanese tesujun. Likewise, jingeom seungbu (진검승부), a phrase meaning “showdown with real swords,” is a direct translation of the Japanese shinken shobu (眞劍勝負), which subtly reflects a Japanese worldview.
Another amusing but significant example is dakdoritang, a dish name that combines dak (chicken in Korean) with the Japanese tori (bird or chicken), creating a redundant hybrid that reveals a linguistic overlap with little logical basis.
Perhaps the most pervasive Japanese-derived pattern is the suffix ...jung (中), meaning "during" or "in the middle of," which has become an effortless way to denote ongoing actions in Korean. Terms like siksa jung (식사 중), kangui jung (강의 중), sumyeon jung (수면 중), and unjeon jung (운전 중) effortlessly apply jung to indicate a state of being occupied, despite its distinctly Japanese flavor. This usage is so widespread that even the late language advocate Lee O-Deok did not address it specifically, raising the question of whether my stance could be too conservative.
One can observe the nuances of jung in Japanese contexts, such as signs on clocks or payphones in Japan. Rather than bluntly declaring an item "out of order," the Japanese opt for phrases like shuri-chu (修理中), meaning “under repair,” suggesting politeness and a willingness to make amends for the inconvenience. Such usage conveys an indirect yet positive spin that veils a potential flaw with a note of reassurance.
Ultimately, while these language conventions may seem minor, they reveal a broader question of linguistic identity. It’s worth contemplating how far foreign influences should permeate daily language, especially in expressions that alter perceptions of relationships, etiquette, and even practical communication.
Korean language continues to wrestle with foreign-influenced linguistic habits, seen in Japanese-inspired expressions that subtly challenge native usage. For instance, Japanese signage for a store that is not yet open might state junbi-jung (準備中, meaning “under preparation”) instead of a clear opening time or a notice of closure. While polite, such phrasing often feels excessive to the Korean sensibility, which favors more direct communication.
The influence of exaggerative language in Korea reflects another interesting shift, especially in public signage and general discourse. For example, all bridges along the Han River are labeled daegyo (大橋, "grand bridge"), and speed signs stress jeoldae gamsok (絶對減速, "absolute slowdown") as if regular “deceleration” might not be heeded. This tendency extends into spoken language, where “neomu” (너무) has evolved from negative connotations like “too big” or “too dislikeable” to positive phrases like “neomu yeppeo” (“too pretty”) and “neomu saranghae” (“I love you so much”). Exaggeration also emerges in expressions like “neomuneomu gamsahaeyo” (extremely thankful), where neomu is multiplied for emphasis. Young people’s use of “jjang” (짱) as a superlative is another example, translating roughly to “awesome” or “the best,” evident in terms like eoljjang (얼짱, “pretty face”) and momjjang (몸짱, “fit body”).
The origin of jjang remains debated; some trace it to Japanese children’s suffixes like “-chan,” or from jeong (장, leader or top) in Korean, intensified by sound reinforcement.
Television often amplifies these trends, introducing words that blur meaning, as with saengbangsong (생방송, “live broadcast”). While similar to the English “live,” saeng directly translates to “raw” in Korean, evoking “raw meat” (saeng gogi), “raw eggs” (saeng dalgyal), or “raw fish” (saeng saengseon), creating a potentially confusing association with uncooked food. Historically, namakashi, a term adapted from the Japanese namagashi (生菓子, “fresh sweets”), shows similar foreign influence, as do terms like namabiru (生ビール, “draft beer”).
The prevalence of “saranghae” (I love you) is another case of linguistic inflation, becoming a public phrase on television and social media, as if shouted sentiments of love represent sincerity. This echoes in a tragic instance of a young girl’s parting words to her mother, "Mom, I love you," in her suicide note—an act contradictory to love’s essence.
The Korean language’s evolution under foreign influence calls for a balanced approach, protecting native expressions without rejecting linguistic diversity, and being mindful of when language serves its genuine purpose or becomes an unintended distortion.
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