April 21, 2025
Berkeley Language Center
We would like to thank everyone who participated in this contest that asks undergraduates to name a word they consider to be untranslatable and to explore the linguistic, cultural, social, and affective reasons for its untranslatability. We received many thoughtful submissions from a wide array of languages that demonstrated an extraordinary breadth of linguistic and historical knowledge as well as sensitivity to how meaning is made across, through, and in languages.
Congratulations to the winners! Please scroll down to read the full submission.
1st Place
Lucy Eunhyul Kim: 눈치, "nunchi" (Korean)
2nd Place
Joshua Rezneck: 缘分,"yuánfèn (Mandarin Chinese)
3rd Place
Sungmin Kim: 답답하다, "dap-dap-ha-da" (Korean)
Full Submissions
Lucy Eunhyul Kim
The Art of Nunchi: The Silent Language of Perception
There’s a moment in every conversation that’s more important than what’s being said: the space between words, the flicker of an eyebrow, the hesitation before a response. Nunchi(눈치) lives here. It’s not a word you hear often, but it’s a skill you use every day, whether you realize it or not. If emotional intelligence and social awareness had a love child, it would be nunchi, the elusive Korean concept of reading the room and responding accordingly.
Growing up between two cultures—Korea and the United States—I found that nunchi was both my greatest asset and my biggest source of confusion. In Korea, silence is not empty; it is charged with meaning. A well-timed glance can convey more than a paragraph. In the U.S., words often carry the weight of clarity, yet the nuances of body language, tone, and pauses still shape the undercurrent of every interaction. I learned to navigate both worlds through the quiet, unspoken dance of nunchi, where the ability to adjust to an ever-shifting social landscape meant the difference between harmony and awkwardness.
Unlike its rough English equivalents—"tact," "intuition," or "social intelligence"—nunchi is not just about being polite or perceptive. It is about survival, adaptation, and, at its best, power. The sharpest politicians, the most beloved friends, the most effective leaders all have excellent nunchi. It’s why a seasoned teacher knows when to pause mid-lecture to regain a class’s attention, why a host senses when a guest is feeling out of place, why a comedian understands exactly when to deliver the punchline. Nunchi isn’t manipulation; it’s presence. It’s knowing that what is unsaid is often more important than what is spoken.
I think about nunchi when I step into a new room, when I sense the weight of a mood shift, when I read the air between two people mid-conversation. It’s a superpower without the theatrics, a skill honed not by speaking but by listening with every sense available. The best nunchi practitioners are not the loudest in the room but the quietest—the ones who know when to step forward, when to step back, and when to say nothing at all.
In a world increasingly dominated by algorithms and artificial intelligence, nunchi remains defiantly human. Machines can translate words, but can they interpret the silent, weighty pause before a confession? Can they sense the barely perceptible shift in atmosphere when someone is about to say something that changes everything? Perhaps this is why nunchi resists translation—it is not just a word, but a way of moving through the world, an art of presence in an age of distraction. And maybe, just maybe, the best way to define nunchi is simply to practice it.
Joshua Rezneck
The notion of 缘分 (yuánfèn) likely emerged during the Tang dynasty, when Buddhism was widely promoted by Chinese emperors. In Buddhist teachings, the idea of 缘 (yuan) is closely related to the doctrine of dependent origination (缘起, yuánqǐ), which posits that all phenomena arise through interconnected causes and conditions. During the Tang dynasty, this doctrine was heavily promoted, and 缘分 arose to prominence—particularly within literary contexts—with poets using it to describe the joy of serendipitous encounters and the sorrow of fleeting relationships. Over time, its meaning expanded beyond literary and religious contexts, extending to friendships, family bonds, and professional relationships. Today, 缘分 remains an integral part of Chinese thought.
缘分 consists of two components. 缘 (yuán) refers to an underlying cause or affinity that brings people together. 份 (fèn) generally means "portion”, but that translation is not particularly well-suited for 缘分. Instead, in this context, 分 functions as a resultative component, which means it indicates the outcome or realization of the action implied by 缘. Put otherwise, 缘 represents the potential for connection, and 分 determines whether that potential materializes.
I first learned about this word in Chinese school when I was seven, and my teacher described it as “fate”. Since then, I’ve encountered a different translation from everyone I’ve asked. That ambiguity is why I chose this word. What makes 缘分 “untranslatable” is the lack of a direct English equivalent that captures both the cause-and-effect relationship and the impermanence inherent in the term. It is not merely “fate” or “destiny”, as those terms imply inevitability, whereas 缘份 suggests both potentiality and contingency. Similarly, 缘分 occurs regardless of divine intervention or a theistic cause, so words like “predestination” do not work either. English also lacks a term that distinguishes between the initial (缘) and its realization (分).
I think that 缘分 can best be described as an “invisible string”—a concept that, interestingly, has gained popularity in Western culture following the release of Taylor Swift’s 2020 album Folklore. The "invisible" aspect represents the intangible nature of 缘. Like an unseen thread, this connection exists before people even meet, representing the underlying causes and conditions that might bring two people together. It's not a visible, predetermined path, but a potential waiting to be realized. Furthermore, the "string" represents the conditional nature of 分; just as a string can be stretched, slackened, or cut, so too can 缘, depending on circumstances.
Sungmin Kim
Languages are deeply tied to culture, and some words carry meanings that are difficult to translate seemlessly. One such word in Korean is 답답하다 (dap-dap-ha-da), a term that conveys feelings of frustration, mental suffocation, and physical constraint. While English has words like “stifling,” “frustrating,” or “suffocating,” none fully capture the breadth of 답답하다, making it a uniquely untranslatable concept. The term “답답” is believed to have originated from Sesotho, one of the precursor origins of the Korean language, in which the word “thaba” in Sesothoan translates to “mountain” in English. The term “답답” originates from the repetition of “thaba”, which can be translated into ‘첩첩산중’, which may be interpreted as a person wandering around a stack of mountains, conveying the frustration and irritation of the lost man. 답답하다 is used to describe an experience of confinement or restriction. For example, when someone is stuck in a small, airless, and hot room, they might say, “이 방 답답하다,” meaning the air feels stifling. Similarly, a person who struggles to explain something to someone who does not understand may express their frustration by saying, “이 사람 답답하네,” conveying deep exasperation. The word also applies to situations where someone feels mentally trapped, such as experiencing stagnation in life or being unable to express one’s emotions freely; for example, one might say “나 요즘 답답하게 지내” to suggest that there is something that makes them feel uneasy. The untranslatability of 답답하다 arises from its inability to seamlessly convey the different meanings of discomfort. For example, English words like “claustrophobic” emphasize the physical aspect of 답답하다, while “frustrated” captures emotional distress, but neither conveys the blend of both. Additionally, 답답하다 is deeply rooted in Korean cultural values, where indirect expressions of emotion are common. Instead of explicitly stating anger or dissatisfaction, Koreans often describe their feelings through states of being, making 답답하다 (state of feeling discomfort) an essential term. Additionally, this term conveys another complex feeling to reflect the Korean psyche, where speediness is valued. For example, Koreans often refer to themselves as the 빨리빨리 민족, suggesting that they prefer things to flow smoothly and cannot withstand time loss. In essence, 답답하다 is an intricate expression of how Koreans perceive and express a sense of discomfort. Its lack of a direct English equivalent illustrates how language shapes
thought and experience, making it a fascinating case of cultural and linguistic uniqueness.
With gratitude
We would like to extend a warm thank you to the following members of the review committee:
- Vesna Rodic, French instructor, Director of Lower Division, Coordinator of Second-year French Language Program
- Kimberly Vinall, Executive Director of the Berkeley Language Center (BLC)
- Emily Hellmich, BLC Associate Director
- Rosa Norton, BLC Postdoctoral Fellow
Finally, many thanks to the generous financial support provided by the Found in Translation (FIT) working group, led by Vesna Rodic and Michel Arrigo, and sponsored by the Berkeley Language Center and the Townsend Center for the Humanities.
Exploring the Boundaries of Translation
This contest, organized by the Berkeley Language Center (BLC), encourages UC Berkeley undergraduate students to critically explore the boundaries of translation and the relativity of cultures. Participants will name an “untranslatable word” and engage with this boundary by exploring its (un)translatability by humans and machines.
Essay prompts:
(1) If known, what is the history of the word?
(2) Recognizing that you have identified the word as untranslatable, how would you best describe the meaning of the word in English (feel free to also include an image) and in what contexts is the word used?
(3) Why do you consider this word to be “untranslatable”? Why did you pick this word?