Summers Written by Mosquitoes

By Franceska Duong

The summer of my 2023 Gwangju year was one of peace. Aside from the small battles against mold, I was fortunate enough to have an insect-free apartment. As someone that screams at the sight of a large ant, the idea of being stuck in a small one-room apartment with a spider or cockroach was terrifying. Fueled by my knowledge gathered from my years with this borderline phobia, I consistently poured hot water down the pipes and accidentally breathed in toxic fumes of moth balls for over half a year. I believe for those reasons, I was able to survive without a single intruder in my living space.

That same survival instinct carried me through my first year abroad. Whether it was asking for a plastic bag at the convenience store, holding a ten-minute conversation with the bunsik-jip¹ owner, or somehow making it home after taking the bus forty-five minutes in the wrong direction, I survived. Actually, I thrived. My experiences piled on top of each other to build me into a more independent and proactive person. With glistening eyes, I looked at the city around me, excited to say “yes” to every new opportunity.

My move to Seoul the next year was motivated by the same ambitions – I wanted to keep growing. After all, a foreigner’s time is limited. Our eyes are constantly on the clock, and we are always aware of our time slowly approaching “0”. Time to us is like a currency, and each decision we make is a transaction that must be weighed. In a place where each decision feels irreversible, I wanted to invest my time in growth, even if it meant embracing uncertainty.

Leaving Gwangju was bittersweet. It had been my first real home in Korea, a city that had quietly stitched itself into my life. But the moment I arrived in Seoul, I was faced with not only the challenge of adapting but also the problem the previous tenant had warned me about: mosquitoes. Unfortunately, they were not exaggerating.

With a hand-me-down mosquito net, I covered my bed and used it as my safety net when the summer just started. As I laid in bed contemplating my purpose in Seoul and missing the warm faces filled with jeong2 in Gwangju, I would watch mosquitoes try to pummel their way into the net to reach me. Sometimes we would make eye contact, me and the mosquito. “You’re dead,” I would signal over.

Still, no matter how many I swatted, I ended up with fresh bites every week. On my most successful days, I killed three to seven mosquitoes, only for new ones to appear. My bites here were nothing like the ones back in the States. Instead of fading in a day or two, these ballooned to triple their size, even when untouched. I was not sure if it was due to a lack of immunity to a new regional variety of mosquitoes, the climate, or simply my bad luck, but my irritation grew from fear to full- blown vendetta.

However, just as quickly as they had appeared, they soon disappeared as the green leaves became painted with red and orange. I, too, had been painted by new experiences. I found new hobbies, became deeply involved in my new school’s community, and cultivated new friendships. The initial stuffy, dust-filled air of the city soon became a crisp autumn breeze that was easier to breathe.

Turning the calendar page to 2025, I had already anticipated the resurgence of the mosquito summer infestation. My electric fly swatter was already charged and ready to go. My mosquito net covered my bed even before the first mosquito came out. I had an emergency can of bug spray just in case. If I were a game character, I was power-upped at the highest level.

However, interestingly enough, The Korea Herald reported, “The number of mosquitoes in Seoul has more than halved over the past decade, with experts pointing to extreme heat and a shortened monsoon season as key factors behind the sharp decline in mosquito activity.” I noticed it too.

My nightly mosquito battles shrank from five opponents to just one or two. Each time I saw them, I took a deep, exasperated breath and smacked them with the electric fly swatter in one swoop. It was automatic, my reaction. Not a single thought was spared, just reliance on my newfound ability as a mosquito-killing expert.

Similarly, this summer of 2025 marks my third summer in Korea. My Korean flows much more fluently now, enough to chat with the neighborhood convenience store owners and go on day-long trips with my local friends. The convoluted Seoul subway system is now easily ingrained in my mind. I carry with me not only more language but also the confidence that comes from years of navigating a life far from home.

Just like it once was in Gwangju, my days began to feel peaceful and light again. Similar to the quiet buzzing noise of the mosquitoes I could no longer hear, the noise and pressure of the city still existed, but it no longer pressed in on me. Instead, I found comfort in the ordinary. Just like it once was in Gwangju, I felt at home.