Throughout “The Monk and the Gun,” there are many references to Western culture, specifically emphasizing its insertion into a country that, for many years, remained relatively isolated from the influences of Western traditions due to their geography, making foreign visitors difficult, and less of a presence of modern technology as a result. This commentary is most prevalent in the movie through the gun motif. When Tashi is asked to acquire a gun by his lama, the movie suggests that it will be used for a violent purpose. However, later in the film, Director Dorji contrasts the audience’s expectations, as the gun is used in the film’s climax during a ceremony of peace and embracing change. The weapon is buried deep into the ground. In several instances, the film emphasizes the monk’s innocence toward the capacity for violence of the weapon he is holding. Being unexposed to the impacts of mass weaponry, such as the assault weapon he acquires, the monk serves as commentary for what Bhutan once was before Western influences started to become more widely circulated. 

This theme of isolation is present in much of the film. The Bhutanese people are portrayed as an isolated nation where even the presence of a television is seen as a symbol of wealth. As the director points out during an interview, at the time that the film is set in, Bhutan was “the last country in the world to allow television, the last country in the world to allow internet.” Therefore, the film emphasizes a transitional period where Bhutan was becoming more open and interactive with the broader international community. This evolution is emphasized in several aspects of the movie’s mise-en-scene, such as a scene depicting an action movie playing in a convenience store. The movie introduces how Western influences began integrating into the nation. 

While “The Monk and the Gun” tells a simpler narrative, the film’s rich historical context speaks of Bhutan’s democratization. Dorji notes that this is a film about a loss of innocence, with Bhutanese audiences “crying because they related to that period in [their]history when [they]tried to become modern and [they]were losing their innocence.” 

The story of how Bhutan transitioned to democracy is incredibly unique, demonstrated in “The Monk and the Gun” through the mock election plot, which serves as a backdrop to the film’s events. The king who ruled during the early 2000s in Bhutan, Jigme Singye Wangchuck, was very popular. When he decided to abdicate the throne shortly before Bhutan’s first democratic election for prime minister, citizens were devastated. In interviews, one citizen described being “shell-shocked and cry[ing]when [they]heard the news of [their]king deciding to step down.” Others, “unable to come to terms with the news, joined hundreds of Buddhist monks to hold prayers.” However, the King insisted that the world was changing, arguing that “the king becomes the leader only by accident of birth and not by merit or virtue, and that the future of a country in the hands of such a person is not in the long-term interest of the country.” Unlike many other nations, there was no revolution in hopes of establishing a democracy, instead, the monarchy decided on its own to transition the nation into a Constitutional democracy. 

This shocking transition is reflected in “The Monk and the Gun” in several scenes, including a moment near the beginning of the film in which it is noted that voting registration rates for the mock election are very low. However, as the film progresses, registration rates sharply rise as the country acclimates to its new system of government. The mock election specifically references a true mock election that the country of Bhutan held in which over 125,000 citizens showed up to vote. At the time of Bhutan’s democratization, other South Asian countries trying to transition to a democratic system were facing government destabilization with coup-d’etats taking place throughout the early 2000s, such as Thailand in 2006. Because of this, many Bhutanese were content to keep the stable monarchy they already had. 

The unique circumstances in Bhutan involved a monarch voluntarily relinquishing control against the people’s wishes. The king decided to establish a new system based on what he saw as the newfound culture of the 21st century. Because of this decision, Western culture started flowing into a previously unintroduced country to outside influences. Since democratization, several reforms were made, such as decreasing the rate of extreme poverty and increasing focus on healthcare, education and infrastructure within the country. However, “The Monk and the Gun” reminds the public that this came at the expense of a loss of isolated culture as Western democratic traditions and technologies are now largely incorporated in the country. Today, Bhutan is proportionally one of the most technologically connected nations which has perpetuated systematic disadvantages to some groups. For example, the new age of internet in Bhutan has disadvantaged women who often left school earlier on than boys and thus have less of a technological education. 

Given the reactions of Bhutanese audiences to “The Monk and the Gun,” it is clear that while the country looks different today as more power is given to the citizens, nostalgia for the past remains.

Discrimination based on race or nationality is not illegal in South Korea. Frequently, business owners will put similar “no foreigner” signs on their front doors and many nightclubs are notorious for outright refusing to let non-Koreans inside.

For the past 16 years, there has been a push for the introduction of a comprehensive anti-discrimination bill; however, all attempts have been rejected by the South Korean Parliament. In 2014, the UN called out the government for breaching its treaty obligations, yet almost ten years later, action still needs to be taken. 

There are also many nuanced yet significant challenges of living as a foreigner in Korea. Without a Korean national identity card or phone number, people cannot reserve tables at restaurants, order delivery or book a taxi in advance. This has resulted in the creation of apps specifically to help foreigners navigate and warn others of discriminatory establishments around the country. 

The number of exclusionary nightclubs has significantly increased in recent years—with some even banning specific nationalities and races. In a viral TikTok video, a foreigner in Korea shows a sign listing “Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Egypt” as nationalities forbidden from entering a Seoul nightclub. Another viral TikTok post shows a man walking by an infamously discriminatory club and getting pinned against the wall by security. Actions like these are beginning to raise many red flags as blatant acts of racism.

As a largely homogenous country, xenophobia and prejudice against non-Koreans is not a new phenomenon. With a foreign population of only 0.5% in 2000, the country is still adjusting to racial diversity in its population. The nation’s foreign population has tripled in the last decade (with most immigrants coming from China, Vietnam, Thailand and the U.S.) and is expected to increase in the upcoming years. 

Yet multiculturalism is becoming an integral part of Korean society. Popular neighborhoods in Seoul, including Itaewon and Hongdae, have grown diverse and include businesses owned by many foreign nationals. Upon entering Itaewon, a giant blue sign hangs over the street that says “Welcome to Korea!” and sidewalks are filled with gold plaques representing countries from all around the world.

Famous Korean shows like “Itaewon Class” have raised awareness for tackling the ‘taboo’ of racial discrimination against many foreigners. The character Toni, who is half Korean and half Guinean, has to explain to customers why he doesn’t speak English at his restaurant. This show received overwhelmingly positive feedback for the portrayal of struggles experienced by minorities, even in Korea’s most diverse neighborhood, Itaewon.

Looking into the future, the government plans to attract 300,000 foreign college students by 2027 through the Study Korea 300K Project. Multiculturalism is integral to that goal and is becoming increasingly important for the economy. South Korea also intends to have these students stay long-term—offering a fast-tracked path to permanent residence if they study at a Korean university. This project has been put in place to increase economic activity by increasing the amount of high-skilled workers. 

Though there is a push to embrace diversity and migration for college degree individuals, the South Korean government treats its migrant workers poorly, subjecting them to dangerous living conditions and providing few worker protections. This system has been cited as “modern-day slavery” with over 500 Thai national deaths alone since 2015. 

Migrant workers typically enter the country through the Employment Permit System (EPS) that legally ties them to their usually abusive employers. Currently, around 500,000 migrant workers are doing the so-called ‘dirty work’ (manufacturing, agriculture, and construction, among others) that South Koreans frown upon as an occupation. Half of these workers are there through the EPS and the other half are undocumented—usually overstaying their tourist visas. Documented or not, there are no legal systems in place to protect labor rights nor protections from arbitrary expulsion. 

In the past couple of years, there has been a dramatic increase in protests showing support for migrant worker rights. Many of these demonstrations have been fighting against the thousands of “unknown” manufacturing workers’ deaths. These large-scale demonstrations portray that Korean nationals are concerned about the well-being of foreign national workers. The government must realize that the future relies on foreigners working blue and white-collar jobs in the country. 

South Korea’s tug-of-war with becoming an increasingly multicultural society goes beyond just the need to implement anti-discriminatory policy. With the world’s lowest fertility rate, at 0.78, immigration may be the only answer to ensuring South Korea’s future as a nation. The number of foreign-born residents is expected to reach 10% by 2030, meaning the country must address these issues now and spearhead inclusivity from the workplace to nightclubs.  

The entire definition of South Korea’s national identity is changing at an exceptional rate. This tug-of-war is the result of these growing pains that were bound to happen. Rapid globalization coupled with the expansion of Korea’s soft power has had massive outreach to various demographics—something Korea has not previously experienced. 

There is a difference between discrimination and rejecting Westernization that Korea must acknowledge when considering the impacts of racism within the country. Further, there are ways to implement anti-discriminatory policy without using Westernized frameworks that the country can consider. Putting up a sign that states “no foreigners allowed” is designed specifically to bar people from entry due to the color of their skin.

Looking past the deaths of thousands of foreign national migrant workers is racism and a massive human rights violation that both Korean citizens and international institutions are beginning to become alarmed about. 

How will South Korea adapt to the transformation of its culture and identity? It’s up to the government to figure it out, and they should act hastily—to secure the economic and social goals they outline in the Study 300K Project and to hire a needed 300,000 migrant workers by 2030. It is crucial that the government stops the harm it allows migrant workers to endure and it must end the mistreatment of foreigners by businesses.

This past December, I was stirred awake from a jetlagged-induced nap by a booming noise outside. I noticed people outside of my window and fire? I rushed out onto the verandah to get a closer look: crowds of men marching, torches in hand shouting past the ambalam. I’d never seen anything like it. Pressing my aunt for more, she passively replied, “Oh that’s just the RSS. They march out here everyday now.” 

The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, or the RSS, is an Indian right-wing nationalist militia belonging to the larger Sangh Parivar, a body of organizations that has now ingrained itself into every facet of Indian society. The Sangh Parivar has even reached the highest office in the land through its political party, the Bharatiya Janata Party, or the BJP, and its leader Prime Minister Narendra Modi. 

The RSS is the progenitor of this movement and helped popularize the Hindutva philosophy now proudly touted by Prime Minister Modi in national and even international venues. Hindutva can be translated as “Hindu-ness.” This term was once understood as defining a place for the Hindu community in a newly independent, secular India. Hindutva has now become an “imminent threat to freedom, equality and democracy.” 

The theological component of Hindutva was not a part of its original conception, and intolerance is even more recent. The Sangh Parivar has appropriated Hindutva to advance a divine mission: to protect the “Hindu nation” and its interests at all costs.

You might ask, how exactly has the BJP and its co-conspirators “protected” said interests? They have passed amendments to the national citizenship laws aimed at discriminating against Muslims; removed autonomy provisions granted in the 1950s to the Muslim-majority state of Jammu and Kashmir; perpetrated “vigilante” attacks on selling or consuming beef and enforced policies to restrict marriages between Hindus and Muslims. And they’re only getting started. 

Hindus have a clear majority in the country — 80% of the population, compared to 15% of Muslims. Yet, the Sangh Parivar remains threatened, and continues its shows of power across the country from local ambalams to the Supreme Court of India. One thing remains clear: “[t]he rise of Hindu majoritarian politics and the government’s willingness to trample Muslim-minority interests has cast a shadow on India’s reputation as a liberal, secular democracy.” 

I’m a Hindu, but I’m not a Hindu nationalist. I will never forget my 90-year-old grandmother proudly proclaiming to a BJP candidate at her doorstep: “I have never voted for the BJP in my life and I never will.” She even bellowed at the protestors this past winter to keep it down so as to not interrupt her television serials. And she’s not the only one. Kerala doesn’t have a single BJP representative in India’s parliament, and the state has been largely governed by leftist coalitions since the late 1970s. That doesn’t change the fact that throughout the country, Hindu nationalism has become an unstoppable force, and the Sangh Parivar will not be silenced or deterred. 

In a sense, I’ve been able to regard the rise of Hindutva from a pinnacle of privilege. I’m a part of the religious majority and I live abroad, free of the harsh realities faced by my Muslim counterparts in India every single day. But, as an Indian and as a Hindu, witnessing this oppression in the name of Hinduism shakes me to my core. It goes against everything I’ve learnt and believe. I was always taught that Hinduism advocated for ahimsa, or nonviolence; it is a faith that at its core believes in not just tolerance, but acceptance. 

Hindu nationalism is decisively destroying that vision. It is seeping into the politics and people of the world’s largest democracy, the land of my ancestors. It has corrupted a centuries-old tradition of peace and permissiveness. It has turned my places of love into places of hate. 

My earliest memories were spent with my grandma, or my Močiutė. For several years she lived in a vacant room in our basement after emigrating from Lithuania, and that made her my babysitter during my most formative adolescent years. Afternoons were spent feeding ducks in the park while she’d try to teach me Lithuanian words in broken English. 

Goodbye is “ate!” Bye bye ducks!

We spent enough time together that at three years old, I actually responded to Lithuanian commands as much as English ones.

Throughout my entire life, I’ve lived in a multicultural household. My very upbringing was born out of a cross-cultural exchange. My mother — a Peace Corps volunteer — met my father while serving as an English teacher in Vilnius. Because of this, Lithuanian heritage was woven into the fabric of our home. Every year we celebrated Kūčios, or Lithuanian Christmas Eve, where dinner was a heaping spread of herring, beet salad, poppy seed milk and sauerkraut. Grandma was to be called Močiutė and Dad was Tete. Our walls were decorated with memorabilia like ornate sashes and handmade ceramics that my mom collected during her time in Vilnius.

As such, my pride in my father’s country was unwavering. Most kids at school didn’t know what Lithuania was, but that was the only country I could point out on a map.

My other side of the family is more traditional American, mostly Italian and Hungarian. My maternal grandma swears by her Italian heritage, with dozens of cousins and a tendency to pray to Saint Anthony every time she loses her iPad. Even though our Italian family arrived at Ellis Island three generations ago, her affinity for heavy lasagna recipes and gold jewelry would have you convinced her last name is Soprano (DNA evidence actually proved that we have no Italian blood in our family — they emigrated from Albania). 

“It’s from this side of the family that you get those dark circles under your eyes!” she’d always say. But there was certainly truth to her European roots, and it influenced the way that she and my mother raised me. Standing around our table to make a gnocchi recipe passed down from my great grandmother or making Hungarian meat patties with my mom after school were some of my favorite memories as a kid.

Family had a loose definition. While my mom had five biological children, we later adopted three siblings from another family. My mom previously fostered a few kids from abusive or neglected backgrounds, so she was familiar with the system and its flaws. A year later, we had another addition to the family when my godsister — who lived in Mexico City — moved in with us because her mom wanted an American education for her but she was the only person in her family with American citizenship. Her only connections were in Akron, where her grandma and uncle lived. This meant that although she lived with us, her grandma would send down big batches of tamales, mole — and during New Year’s — some pozole. By middle school I was well acquainted with the peppery taste of cilantro, the tartness of fresh lime and the creamy, oily flavors that thick Mexican stews provide. 

Beyond my family, I also just grew up around a lot of people. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how bizarre my upbringing was. While I lived in suburban northeast Ohio, my family was anything but nuclear. Our home had a revolving door for family, friends, and at times, strangers. After my Močiutė moved out, the vacant room was quickly occupied by some friends from the Peace Corps — a newly-wed Hungarian couple — after they won the green card lottery. I’m told that I would put on a show for them during dinner time in my high chair (dumping a bowl of spaghetti on my head was apparently an audience favorite). They liked to make us traditional Hungarian dishes, especially goulash. The smokiness of paprika — married with the sweetness of onions and carrots and blended with the nutty, sharp flavor of caraway seeds — made for a homey stew that could even warm your soul. It’s a recipe I still use today on a cold winter night.

Our broad definition of family opened our doors to anyone who needed it. For a year we had a Lithuanian family friend staying at our house while she fled an abusive marriage. They occupied the same room that my half-sister lived in two years prior, where she raised her newborn baby after quickly emigrating to the States following an abrupt teen pregnancy. Sometimes, we even housed complete strangers. We had five exchange students from France, two from Ireland, and even several members of the American Boychoir for a couple weeks. At any given time, there was someone, somewhere, speaking in another language. The long, stretched sounds of my dad’s Lithuanian made his words feel like a viscous fondue in my ears, while my godsister’s Spanish had a more melodic cadence that bounced quickly off the tongue. It was as if my house was a symphony of sounds, accents and dialects.

But a porous family certainly doesn’t come without its problems. When I was 13 years old, my parents divorced and the dynamic of my household was rattled. My mom was unemployed and raising nine children by herself, while my dad was growing increasingly distant. Kūčios was now celebrated in my dad’s one bedroom apartment and without my mom, which felt much more hollow than the boisterous family event it used to be. Similarly, my dad’s absence from our house meant that the linguistic and cultural energy was also absent. The air of our home felt still, the atmosphere was dry and the remnants of my previous life were quickly disappearing. My world was crudely cut in two: one American, Mexican, Italian and Hungarian — and distinctly separate was the Lithuanian one.

I’d like to think that this began to change in 2017. My mom reconnected with her fiancee from 22 years earlier — a Puerto Rican chef with a thick Bronx accent and an upbringing shaped by the Caribbean. He had a family of his own, but of course, that was nothing new to us. I gained another (step) sister, a nephew and roughly a dozen cousins. My mother’s remarriage kick-started a unifying period for our home. The kitchen regained a familiar sound of metal clanking and its aromas saturated the walls again, but this time with pungent West Indian curries, stewed goat and a sofrito seasoning of cilantro, garlic, onion and sweet aji peppers. 

At the same time, I began to reconnect with my dad a lot more. By high school I was able to process his idiosyncrasies with a much more nuanced perspective. His Soviet upbringing was responsible for a lot of his behaviors that put strain on his marriage, whether it was excessive alcohol consumption or emotional unavailability. 

But in talking with him, I began to appreciate some of the ways in which he raised me. In third grade my MP3 player was full of Aerosmith, Kiss and AC/DC, but it wasn’t because I was an avid punk-rock fan. It’s because it’s all that he blasted in his ‘99 Ford Taurus. I now realized why he loved the music so much: it was banned in the Soviet Union. It’s the same reason why he loved Catcher in the Rye, Animal Farm and Robinson Crusoe — it was literature that could only be read by mischievous teenagers eager to defy the regime through black markets. It was these experiences that led him to prioritize education in his children and ensure that they were avid readers and critical thinkers (and punk rock fans).

While moving boxes into his new apartment, I stumbled upon a trove of photos and posters that he had collected as a college student. The papers, delicate to the touch and yellowed from age, were from the Lithuanian independence movement. They read slogans like “Red Army Go Home!” and “UN Abolish Colonialism,” which pushed to repudiate the 1940 annexation by the Soviet Union. I’d later find out that he actually protested against Soviet aggression in Vilnius in 1991, which quickly turned violent as Soviet tanks bulldozed the city and fired shots into the crowd, killing 14 and injuring over 700. It was a testament to the strength of Lithuanian statehood, and would later become one of the most well-known confrontations between the Soviet Union and Lithuania. He was there.

By the time I entered college, I had discovered my passion for the democratic cause. I pursued international relations because this was a vehicle for me to support this through policy, research, advocacy and scholarship. My courses in international law, geopolitics and political risk analysis help me understand important global events like democratic backsliding and conflict because they have direct effects on my family and friends living in places like Lithuania, Hungary, France and Germany. When I study human rights and politics in Europe, I am thinking about my cousins and old foreign exchange students that are affected by radical policy changes or growing authoritarianism. With the hopes of later becoming a diplomat, I wanted to get involved as much as possible. I joined a research lab on campus to study civil war, I started writing about international issues through campus publications and I spent my summers interning with Congress, think tanks and the foreign service. I threw myself into the world of diplomacy in an effort to become a true global citizen.

When I come home, this feeling is beaming from my home. Now Kūčios is no longer the traditional Lithuanian holiday that it was, and that’s okay. My Močiutė brings the usual spread of fish and eggs, but because of my stepdad, the spread now includes warm, flaky Jamaican beef patties and sizzling skirt steak with vibrant chimichurri. We sing Lithuanian songs before blasting upbeat Cuban rumba. The walls struggle to fit the 30 of us that come from all around the world, and the melody of accents and languages saturates the air again.

I used to think that I only became passionate about international affairs in the last four years, but now I would argue that this is who I’ve always wanted to be: a global citizen, a diplomat, a researcher, a teacher, and above all, an explorer. And I have my family to thank for that.

When I was a kid, something felt off. But, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “What even is my culture?” is a question that was always in the back of my mind. Growing up with Mexican and Spanish roots has always been uncomfortable to begin with. 

Constantly surrounded by Mexican restaurants, going to school in the middle of Old Town San Diego (the oldest Spanish settlement in California) and seeing the hacienda-inspired buildings of Balboa Park meant that my culture was always physically visible. Even so, I didn’t notice its importance to my identity until truly moving away from my hometown. 

San Diego’s culture is one that is incredibly rich and vibrant. There is nothing quite like it. The blend of Mexican and American cuisine exhibited in its fish tacos and carne asada fries (my personal favorite) is something you can’t find anywhere else. The celebration of Mexican-American culture can be seen in the neighborhood of Barrio Logan where people came together to build the famous Chicano Park to stop the I-5 freeway from splitting the community in half.

Yet the nearly 30-foot border wall —  visible from many parts of San Diego and Tijuana — serves as a reminder of the political standoff between the United States and Mexico that makes up the culture of my hometown. It’s like a constant tension that you can always feel, even when it can’t be seen.

Although a fence between the two countries has existed for a while, it didn’t become a political battle until 2006, when President George W. Bush signed the Secure Fence Act into law. This allowed the construction of a border wall for 700 miles. Domestic United States tensions rose drastically, and Mexican politicians were not thrilled with the decision. 

For instance, in 2006, the City of Laredo, Texas mayor Raul Salinas exclaimed, “These are people that are sustaining our economy by 40 percent. And I’m going to close the door on them and put a wall? You don’t do that. It’s like a slap in the face.” 

This physical barrier tears people apart – literally and figuratively – causing pain for thousands of people that call border towns home. 

When the border is treated like a military threat, and when politicians make this situation into an ‘us versus them’ scenario, people who live their everyday lives on the border are dehumanized. Growing up in a border town divided by a wall and political turmoil distorted my view of my identity.

In the present day, I am reminded of this strained relationship whenever polarizing events occur that emphasize the divide between San Diego and Tijuana. When the City of San Diego sheltered 500 unaccompanied migrant girls in the downtown convention center, it caused massive backlash from San Diego residents across the county and anti-Mexican sentiment peaked.  

The border between San Diego and Tijuana is the busiest crossing in the world, with over 106 million individuals moving across it each year. It is normal for hundreds of thousands of people to cross it each day for school, work or even just to go shopping and grab a bite to eat.

As a result, when this new wall was built, it felt uncomfortable (and honestly a huge waste of money, costing the United States over $11 billion) to try and keep people out. As a political strategy, this wasn’t the best move either, considering the massive economic interdependence the two cities have on one another. They generate a GDP of $230 billion annually and even use the same power grid for all electricity.

Tijuana is also Mexico’s leading exporter and electronics manufacturer largely due to the city’s strategic location acting as the gateway between the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. The signing of the Trans-Pacific Partnership in 2015 meant that the number of exports from Asia to the United States and Mexico expanded significantly, with the majority of economic activity increasing at the border port of San Ysidro. The signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement, and later the United States-Mexico-Canada Agreement expanded the role of manufacturing in Tijuana and had the potential to stop some of the environmental concerns in the region. 

This deal included $300 million to help with Tijuana sewage spills that have created toxic water in the south of San Diego for years. The effectiveness of this agreement, however, is currently under question, as just last February, millions of gallons of sewage contaminated San Diego once again. Although this sewage problem is ongoing, such crises show the intrinsic interconnectedness and the need for cooperation in addressing real solutions between the two cities.

Although the solution to these issues is rather complicated, separating our cultures and identities only furthers the problem. Placing a 30-foot slab of concrete between the two cities shows politicians’ fear, and it was an unsuccessful attempt to solve the issue with the only seemingly feasible solution. When a threat emerges, the United States needs to begin changing security policy to advocate for human rights and inclusion, rather than military intervention and closed doors. 

There has been a multitude of binational agreements between the two cities in the past few years. In May 2022, the mayor of San Diego, Todd Gloria, and the mayor of Tijuana, Montserrat Caballero Ramírez, signed a memorandum agreeing to cooperate on improving many areas of the respective cities. 

“We are an interconnected region that is stronger together, and agreements like this are a symbolic representation of our binational strength,” stated Mayor Gloria. 

Compromises like these revive my hope that bilateral policy is headed toward the direction of unity rather than exclusion. With shared cultures, languages, foods and histories, it is clearly impossible to separate these two cities. 

There are a lot more similarities than differences between the two cities. Celebrating my heritage as a multigenerational San Diegan is how I found love in my community on both sides of the border. Although the challenges are complex and healing may take a while, recognizing the inseparable bond the cities have in common is the first step toward change.

The Dutch houses line the streets everywhere, adorned with beautiful large windows that don’t ever have any curtains or any sort of cover. Not only can anyone walking on the street see the minimalist and rustic decor outside of the home, but any passerby also has an open gateway into the home and a personal look at how the inhabitants choose to decorate their home. 

As I walked down the street at night, I could see into the windows of all of the homes and apartments that line the streets, and got an intimate look at the families dining inside or the elders watching TV. When I mentioned the open windows concept and how beautiful, yet exposed, the interior of each home is, my instructors just laughed and said “Yes, they’re just displaying how normal they are.” 

Following an intense night of reading up on Dutch norms, I came to recognize that the intention behind this open exposure was to demonstrate the normalcy of the families that lived within these homes. Many believe this practice is rooted in the values of Calvinism, which insists that an honest person will not need to deceive people or hide. To many Dutch people, this display of getting breakfast or working in their home office is a demonstration of their ability to “be normal” and show that they are accepted into Dutch standards during their personal time, as well in their public lives. In a culture where demonstrating decency is so valued, leaving your windows open is a primary example of showing your possessions and the decent living standards you set for yourself.

This mindset is not only limited to the open exposure of nearly every window in the street. Slowly but surely, I started to see how this “be normal” mentality surrounded me everywhere in the Netherlands. When someone next to me was walking the wrong way on the street, an old lady told her to “do normaal.” When my friend talked a little too loud at brunch, the man next to us similarly said “nou nou,” a signal that you’re behaving outside of the norm and you need to adhere to Dutch norms. Even the bread at the grocery store labeled “normal” bread is priced much higher than cultural bread and other bread types that have more ingredients and labor costs associated with them. There seems to be constant signaling and expectation of how one can fully adhere to the Dutch norms and not ever stand out.

Coming from the United States where showing extravagance and individuality is valued and seen as desirable, the Dutch interest in behaving within a thin spectrum of what is considered “normal” is not just intriguing but unusual. Shouldn’t you desire to stand out from the crowd? How will you succeed if you don’t? 

After living here now for a month (wow, so long…) I have also learned how this acceptance and expectation of normalcy is also embedded into the governmental structures at hand. Mark Rutte, the current Prime Minister of the Netherlands, has now held the position for more than 12 years. This officially makes him the longest-serving democratically elected leader in Europe. His center-right politics and his efforts to keep things as they are, combined with his personal love of all things Dutch such as biking and waffles, keep the voters on his side year and year again. His ability to not only avoid causing conflict but also his ability to fade into the background is seen as a positive. This is not to say he is not charming or successful at swaying the public opinion, as he has held power for so long and been able to accomplish a lot during his time. 

However, his center politics are more fascinating because not only is he able to keep power, his government has maintained its position for so long and he has avoided following the path of extremism making waves through the EU right now. He has even been nicknamed “Teflon Mark” because nothing seems to stick to him and his image as his control continues. His political positions have been characterized by pragmatism, which is in line with Dutch culture that prefers practical solutions to ideological ones. His approach has helped to maintain a sense of stability in the country, which has been attractive to many Dutch voters.

However, his approval ratings have recently taken a dip in recent years. In 2021, his government resigned after a scandal involving the child welfare benefit system. Essentially, due to negligence and a lack of oversight, many were wrongly accused of tax fraud. Rutte’s involvement in this situation and many people’s impression that he tried to hide these incidents affected his political strength. But, despite this major incident, he was still subsequently re-elected and still holds the position. For many across the globe who know the impact that one major scandal has had on a politician’s past, this situation seems unfathomable. The ongoing approval of such a center politician for so long in a government signals the uniqueness of the Netherlands in maintaining a status quo and pursuing the ideals of normalcy.

And when we look at the decisions of the Netherlands internationally this past decade, this expectation of normalcy is also prevalent. The demonstrated resistance to incoming EU members and against the widening process of the EU is also attributed by many to be a result of Dutch complacency. As the European Union is in the process of deciding how to stop the influx of international immigrants, whether it be through greater border control or increased security measures within, there is still a demonstration that being outside of normal within the Netherlands carries greater weight. Dutch citizens are coming to believe that as the demographics of the Netherlands change, holding onto that same feeling of normalcy will also be a different experience. 

So, from the amount of houses exposed to the public or the type of bread bought, social customs show the stagnant growth for the Netherlands in terms of pioneering social acceptance. When the lines between expecting normalcy and expecting sameness begins to blur, it becomes clear that the Netherlands might not be as socially liberal as it might initially seem. 

These ideas of adhering to a status quo can often skirt the line of desirable and discriminatory.  It will be interesting to see how the government changes in the future and in a post-Brexit world, and how the role the Netherlands plays in European politics might shift with new developing powers.

Once the largest colonial empire in the world, the United Kingdom once owned territories from Pakistan to Jamaica, projecting its political and cultural influences upon its colonies. After World War II, Britain gradually renounced its colonial possessions, sprouting the creation of new states across Africa, Asia and the Caribbeans. 

In search of better economic opportunities, immigrants from former colonies began to move into British cities. In 1948, the ship HMT Empire Windrush brought a group of 800 Afro-Caribbean migrants to the port of Tilbury; thus, the wave of Caribbean immigrants is named the “Windrush Generation.” The arrival of Windrush passengers seven decades ago became an iconic moment in British history, marking the beginning of a multicultural Britain. 

As immigrants found new homes in the British Isles, they brought over their distinct and different cultures and traditions. Developed by Bangladeshi immigrants in the 60s, chicken tikka masala became the United Kingdom’s national dish and is beloved worldwide. 

Curry houses and chicken shops —- both immigrant inventions —- are widely popular across the United Kingdom, and as such cultural phenomenons became integral to British society. Islam became the second largest religion (3.3 million Muslims) and the fastest-growing religion in the United Kingdom (2.7% in 2001 to 4.4% in 2011), with over 100,000 converts to Islam. In 2019, a record number of 19 Muslim MPs were elected, and the first Muslim mayor of London was appointed three years prior.

The new generation of immigrants is mainly born and raised in the United Kingdom and, for the most part, speaks English as their first language. As their parents and grandparents struggled to integrate into British society and build stable foundations for their children, the new generation became the torch-bearers of their elders’ legacy with their renewed abilities to make a cultural impact upon British society. 

Emerging from the streets of 1980s London, the Multicultural London English (MLE) dialect soon made its way across the country. It was a new dialect rooted in Cockney but heavily influenced by Jamaican patois from Jamaican communities in London, where young and multiethnic societies adopted this new tongue. As young people from different immigrant communities interacted, different words and phrases from other languages were added into the mix. 

Nowadays, the MLE dialect has become a trademark of urban London culture, as it is a living and breathing example of the ever-evolving pop culture scene of the United Kingdom and a true legacy of the Windrush Generation. However, this reasonably new cultural development faced backlash from commentators. 

During a BBC program, historian David Starkey commented, “The whites have become black…Black and white, boy and girl operate in this language together. This language which is wholly false is a Jamaican patois, that’s been intruded in England and this is why so many of us have this sense of literally a foreign country.”

Language is fluid and ever-changing, where new phrases reflect upon a place’s societal development and change. The versatility of MLE and its ability to connect and relate to youths of different backgrounds exemplify the evolutionary nature of language. 

This phenomenon of language contact is relatively common amongst modern multicultural communities, where two or more languages interact and influence each other, creating new idioms and popular phrases. This phenomenon is not just in the United Kingdom. Urban environments all over the globe have also undergone linguistic changes, with examples like the Arabic influence in French and the usage of Turkish slang by Berliners. 

With the linguistic transformation in urban British society, the music scene of the United Kingdom is, in turn, revolutionaized by trailblazing artists with immigrant backgrounds. One of the United Kingdom’s most popular genres of music was grime, a real-life testament to a homegrown British cultural product synthesising genres from former British colonies, most notably from the Caribbeans.

To “de-Americanize” hip-hop music in the United Kingdom, trailblazers of the genre sought to develop a distinctive sound that highlighted what British pop culture was like at the time. Interestingly, the Guardian describes the genre as “post-punk angst on wax—a heady mix of dancehall, jungle and United Kingdom garage, inspired by Jamaican ragga toasting and the storytelling of US hip-hop.” 

Alongside the popularity of grime music, which put British artists with immigrant backgrounds and their experiences into the spotlight, the rise of the drill genre since the start of the 2010s exemplifies the fluidity of culture in the 21st century. Drill music originated from Chicago, yet it had made its way into the studios of London, where the genre had swiftly taken over the country. 

Characterised by a fast BPM and rather dark melodies, drill music appealed to younger and upcoming artists. In spite of the genre’s American origins, British artists could incorporate their specific experiences and lives into their tracks. U.K. drill sets itself apart with its intricate wordplay and unique references, which brought the renewed British urban culture to the rest of the world. 

In a way, the rise of U.K. grime and drill brought attention to the British music scene. Artists like Central Cee, Skepta and Unknown T are known worldwide for their art, and youths worldwide (even in the US) sought to emulate their artistry. The popularity of British music genres signifies a brand new version of the United Kingdom, where different backgrounds and experiences can bloom and thrive as a part of the mainstream urban culture. 

Coming from a Nigerian background, Skepta often employs cultural references in his tracks; his hit song “Greaze Mode” features the lyrics “I’m gonna need some palm wine, I’m gonna need some pepper soup,”referencing palm wine and pepper soup, both delicacies popular in Nigeria and other West African countries. Central Cee often features other immigrant artists from European countries, most notably from his track “Eurovision,” where he collaborated with Spanish, Italian and French artists with origins from countries like Algeria, Senegal and Morocco. 

The new wave of British artists and genres exemplifies a rejuvenation of British cultural products, as immigrant artists inject a new sense of vibrance and appeal to British pop culture. The multitude of influences in the United Kingdom’s music scene shows the importance of decolonization, in which the brand new cultural relationship between the Global North and South signifies a new dynamic in terms of cultural influence. As an effect, cultural products with influence from post-colonial states around the world made its way into the mainstream of their former colonial masters, especially in the case of Britain.

In this new and spirited society, cultural products with Caribbean or African influences and roots are celebrated and popularized. Subsequently, youths from all backgrounds begin participating in such cultural phenomena, with those cultural products becoming the new mainstream of British pop culture.

Yet, the newfound popularity of fusion genres like grime and drill did come with controversy. Many have labeled drill music as a genre that glorifies and incites gang violence, where the explicit lyricism from drill tracks causes younger listeners to adopt dangerous lifestyles. In 2018, YouTube removed over 30 drill music videos as they were overtly violent. 

In a way, the appeal of music genres like drill comes from its reflection of real-life experiences, where youths with immigrant backgrounds strive to survive in an often unforgiving and harsh environment. The new wave of British hip-hop encourages young artists to focus on their artistry and divert them from possibilities of gang violence. In the face of marginalization of immigrant communities, drill artists continue to defy the odds and carve out an important legacy in Britain’s cultural fabric.

Genres like drill dare to confront the bleak realities of life in suburban Britain, where such genres  bring listeners with similar experiences and backgrounds together, creating messages that resonate with a broad group of people. As the U.K. music scene familiarizes itself with a wider variety of experiences, especially amongst crowds with immigrant backgrounds, it forms a new mainstream that reflects the demographic of modern Britain and speaks to a much wider audience. 

As British pop culture evolved, the United Kingdom’s shifting cultural landscape brought a new mainstream, headlined by Brits with diverse backgrounds. The “cultural revolution” of British pop culture exemplifies the shedding of Britain’s old, as British society enters a new era where whiteness is no longer the norm. 

At the end of the day, multiculturalism is what keeps British culture alive, where the sons and daughters of immigrants are now the beating heart of the United Kingdom’s cultural fabric. For the Brits and its culture to thrive amongst the world, its heart shall keep beating as long as it can.

Just look at the film Uncharted, released earlier this March. Uncharted, directed by Ruben Fleischer, is a film adaptation of the popular video game franchise of the same name. The events of the film focus on Nathan Drake  (Tom Holland), or Nate for short, who embarks on an adventure to find the lost treasure of Ferdinand Magellan with treasure hunter Victor Sullivan, or Sully for short (Mark Wahlberg). 

The film Uncharted reached the Netflix Top Ten list upon being released on the streaming platform, and it also achieved a successful box office run in March. Yet beyond the commercial success of the film, the inspiration for the story has to be commended for its depiction of international developments, particularly the historical expedition of Ferdinand Magellan.

Magellan, a Portuguese explorer, was best known for his journey leading the expedition that circumnavigated the globe in 1519. After departing from Spain, Magellan, who sought to establish trade routes, perished along the way. Despite the fact that he did not complete the journey, his legacies remain. 

According to the Council on Foreign Relations (CFR), Magellan’s expedition is relevant to international affairs because it illustrates the concept of globalization in the past — and where it can develop in the future. In fact, CFR’s writers Stewart M. Patrick and Kyle L. Evanoff label Magellan’s journey as a “seminal moment in the history of globalization” that “inaugurated the threading of the planet.” 

In other words, Magellan’s expedition — which the Uncharted story pays tribute to — established the burgeoning relationships across the globe. This link between Europe and the world contributed to European imperialism and colonization. These developments should not be overlooked for how such power relations have shaped international history and the inequalities that persist today.

Magellan’s role in globalizing the world is perhaps not the crux of the Uncharted film, but an important background to the storyline nonetheless. It is noted that the supposed “treasure” of Ferdinand Magellan in the film is not real and was in fact a creative liberty taken with the film for cinematic purposes. By using this device and incorporating it with the adventure genre elements typically associated with video games, the Uncharted film is able to spotlight a historical event that fundamentally shifted perceptions of what the world was back in the sixteenth century. 

Along with this, the video game franchise transports viewers to “breathtaking locations across the globe,” as advertised on the Playstation website. Representation of what the website names as “iconic locations” like the Himalayan mountains within the video game can help shed light on globally relevant spots. Within both the video game and the film, this is executed in an intentional way that may otherwise be overlooked. 

Other video game adaptations, like the Resident Evil film franchise, are also relevant to the discussion about video games and their relationship with global politics and public health. The Resident Evil franchise is based on the premise of a T-virus impacting the world. 

Both the Resident Evil films and video games center on this virus that turns people into zombies. This is, of course, fiction. Still, during the coronavirus pandemic, many writers noted the connection between the events of Resident Evil as well as events going on in the real world. In this case, the video game world was able to offer a striking parallel with pressing international concerns.

The Netflix television series The Witcher is more known for its grounding in fantasy than its political connotations. The series does involve the politics characteristic of fantasy worlds, such as battles between kingdoms and warfare. In examining the international implications of the series, the case of The Witcher is significant not because of the content, although that it is important. It is significant for the fact that the story behind The Witcher, which began with Polish writer Andrzej Sapkowski’s books and were later adapted into video games, has become internationally recognized as Poland’s cultural “soft power.”

Nikola Đorđević at Emerging Europe describes the gravity The Witcher possesses as a product from Poland, expressing that it is “Poland’s most successful cultural export.” Additionally, the fact that the books have become adapted into video games and into a Netflix show reflect the power of entertainment in the international space. 

Back in January, season two of the Netflix series became one of “Netflix’s most-watched shows of all time.” By reaching viewers across the world, the success of The Witcher shows the strength of media and entertainment globalization as a national asset, especially as a means of Polish cultural representation.

As video games continue to exhibit their relevance as source material and intellectual property in the entertainment realm, they have also proven to be much more than forms of entertainment. They are game changers that simultaneously show the effects of globalization and supply understandings of a global world. 

“True Beauty” was hotly anticipated even before it hit screens. 2018’s “My ID is Gangnam Beauty” had a high level of viewership within South Korea and was labeled “the most memorable TV series of the summer” by The Korea Herald. 

What do all these shows have in common? They began as adaptations of South Korean webcomics, comics published online in digitally interactive modes. 

Webcomics are available all over the Internet and are produced by creators in many different countries. Yet it’s the South Korean version of webcomics, usually called webtoons (a mash-up of the words “webcomic” and “cartoon”), that have spearheaded the popularity of the art form and actively brought Korean culture to the world. 

Webtoons are the selling point of many digital platforms: WEBTOON, Tapas, Manta and Tappytoon, among others. Their growing presence in the online space hasn’t gone unnoticed. 

Established entertainment publications like Variety have labeled South Korea’s webtoons as “the next big thing in the global K-culture takeover.” The Hollywood Reporter has even commented on the marketability of webtoons for the global economy, calling them “hot properties” that have captured the attention of China’s expansive film industry and more than 18 million foreign users of Korean platform Naver’s webtoon services. 

Although many of these webtoons were originally written in Korean, English translations are available, usually through the assistance of hired translators and proofreaders. Translators should be credited with bringing webtoons beyond the domestic national market of South Korea and into English-speaking (and other) markets worldwide, a reach that has increased global awareness of Korean culture. 

Creators, both the original authors and the translators, deserve monetary compensation for their work, which means that reading webtoons online is often not free. However, these business models seem to be relatively effective thus far. According to 1-Stop Asia, the Korean webtoon market is worth around a hefty 368 million dollars. 

Manta, a webcomics app, operates on a subscription basis, where a subscriber can access all of the platform’s currently available webcomics by paying $3.99 per month. WEBTOON, on the other hand, requires consumers to purchase coins. These coins can then be used to purchase selections of episodes within each webcomic, rather than providing access to all of the webcomics at once. 

Upon entering these platforms, one will discover that there are a wide variety of genres that cater to audiences’ diverse tastes. From mystery to thriller to romance, each platform houses multiple types of webcomics. With the expansive selection of content, it’s no surprise that entertainment studios and companies have begun noticing the immense amount of intellectual property on these platforms, especially when the content often speaks to relevant social issues.

For example, “True Beauty” was originally a webtoon by Yaongyi. It centers on a high school student named Im Jugyeong who is initially bullied for her ugliness until she learns the art of makeup. Jugyeong finds that makeup can transform her into a whole new person, and she begins assuming the persona of a beautiful, flawless girl — until a popular male student named Suho finds out what Jugyeong looks like without makeup. In order for Suho to keep her secret, Jugyeong agrees to be his servant, setting off an entertaining sequence of high school drama. 

The webtoon was widely popular with millions around the world, and “True Beauty” was adapted into a Korean drama starring popular K-pop male idol Cha Eun-woo and actress Moon Ga-young. It was praised by audiences for its social messaging about South Korean society’s preoccupation with outer appearance. 

Although often marketed for teenagers, similar webcomics have tapped into pre-existing issues in South Korean society. “My ID is Gangnam Beauty,” another beauty-centered webcomic, focuses on Kang Mi-rae, a college student who is stigmatized for having plastic surgery. Plastic surgery has long been a contentious topic in South Korea, and, similar to “True Beauty,” the drama tapped into those concerns about conformity to strict beauty standards as a means of social status. 

Although a completely different genre than “True Beauty” and “My ID is Gangnam Beauty,” the Netflix survival-horror zombie show “All Of Us Are Dead” also provides social commentary. Adapted from the webtoon of the same name, the show follows a group of high schoolers struggling to survive when their high school succumbs to a zombie virus. 

It was noted for containing implicit statements about the police’s lack of intervention and disregard of the teenagers — a message thought to allude to South Korea’s 2014 Sewol Ferry tragedy, in which 250 Danwon High School students perished after the ferry’s captain and members of the crew abandoned the ship without evacuating the passengers. 

Webtoons and their stories are becoming the next face of South Korean entertainment. By representing different aspects of South Korean society, webtoons not only amplify conversations about social issues but also serve to positively reinforce the global nature of their audience. 

In the maneuvering of the digital space and the Internet to create content, South Korea has shone a spotlight on its culture as a key strength of its national identity. As a platform, webtoons are given the opportunity to critique the country’s domestic and internal issues as well. 

Webtoons have become a resource for the South Korean government to elevate its presence in the global entertainment market. As more and more webtoons become adapted for the screen, it is clear that webtoons will continue to serve as one of South Korea’s greatest national — and global — cultural assets.