This week, I had the incredible opportunity to visit the South Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), the tense and heavily fortified border between North and South Korea. It was an eye-opening experience that allowed me to witness firsthand the historical and emotional weight this area continues to carry. While I had read about the DMZ before, being there in person brought a whole new level of understanding.
One of the most memorable parts of the trip was going down into the 2nd infiltration tunnel. This tunnel was secretly constructed by North Korea in an attempt to invade South Korea after the armistice agreement was signed in 1953. Walking through that narrow, dimly lit tunnel, knowing it was built with the intent of a surprise military attack, was both fascinating and deeply unsettling. You can still see the drill marks where dynamite had been placed, and even though the tunnel is now blocked off, it felt eerie to stand at the very point where South Korea sealed it to prevent further threat. There was a lingering tension in the air, as if the fear of conflict still lived within the tunnel’s walls. That moment captured the essence of the DMZ for me: a place filled with unresolved tension, where South Korea still clings to hope for peace and unification, while North Korea remains closed off and resistant to that future.
Later, at the Unification Observation Deck, I looked out across the border into North Korea and saw the stark differences that define the two sides. On the North’s side, there were empty propaganda villages, structures built to appear occupied but reportedly never inhabited or only inhabited by soldiers, surrounded by untouched, barren land. In contrast, the South Korean side was filled with life: rice fields, small towns, and vibrant green farmland. It was surreal to stand in a place where you can visually observe the political and ideological divide so clearly. Even from a distance, North Korea appeared distant and secretive, like a nation frozen in time.
We also visited Wangshimi Station, a symbolic reconstruction of a railway station that once connected the two regions. Being at the station felt like stepping into the past and getting a glimpse into a time when movement and connection between the North and South were still possible. The station now serves as a poignant reminder of all that has been lost: the freedom of travel, family connections, and a sense of unity. Seeing the train tracks abruptly come to an end and the destroyed train car was symbolic of the rupture caused by war and division. It forced me to think about how many lives were affected not just by bombs and battles, but by the sudden tearing apart of communities and families.
The final stop on the tour was the ruins of the former North Korean Labor Party office, a building once used for political operations and reportedly for the torture of prisoners of war. The site was quiet and surrounded by nature, but the stories associated with it were chilling. Learning about the atrocities committed there and realizing this was only one of many such sites across the peninsula made the human cost of the Korean War feel even more real. It wasn’t just a geopolitical event; it was a deeply personal and painful experience for millions of people.
That night, we stayed in a nearby peace village, where we had a traditional Korean dinner. The next morning, we learned how to make rice cakes by hand, a cultural tradition that has been passed down through generations. Spending time with people who live so close to the border brought a human dimension to everything I had seen the day before. Many of them spoke of hope for unification in the future without resentment for the North Korean citizens. And that truly moved me by hearing how many South Koreans still genuinely hope for reunification. They don’t see North Koreans as enemies, but as family, Koreans who share the same history, language, and culture, despite decades of separation. For them, the divide is political, not personal.
Before coming to Korea, I was aware of the conflict between the North and South in a general sense, but I didn’t fully grasp the emotional depth or the ongoing impact of the division. Being physically present in places that still carry the weight of history gave me a much deeper and more personal understanding of what happened during the Korean Wars. It was powerful to see how much the hope for peace continues to shape the identity and values of South Korean society.
These experiences have also helped me make sense of some of the day-to-day communication differences I’ve encountered during my internship in South Korea. The country leans strongly toward high-context communication, where messages are often implied rather than spoken outright. Much of the meaning in conversation comes from nonverbal cues, tone, shared cultural understanding, and hierarchical awareness. Even though my company primarily uses English, the communication style remains distinctly Korean in its indirectness.
For example, feedback is rarely given straightforwardly. At first, I thought that silence meant approval, but I later learned that suggestions or concerns were simply being communicated more subtly. I’ve also had to adjust to small but important cultural gestures: bowing slightly when greeting someone, using both hands when handing something to someone, and avoiding prolonged eye contact with supervisors. These actions might seem minor, but in Korean culture, they carry a lot of weight in showing respect and understanding social roles.
To adapt, I’ve made a point of asking clarifying questions, observing how my Korean coworkers interact, and taking time to learn proper workplace etiquette. It’s been a learning process, but one that’s made me more thoughtful and intentional in how I communicate. The combination of cultural immersion through travel and the daily realities of working in a different culture has challenged me to grow in ways I never expected. I know these lessons will stay with me far beyond this internship.