Why so many young
South Koreans think of their country as “hell.”
Ben
Forney *
When
Moon Jae-in became South Korea’s president last May, he inherited a divided
country, and that’s not just referring to the physical demarcation of the
Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), which has split the Korean peninsula since 1953. South
Koreans themselves are fragmented and increasingly pessimistic about the
future.
At
first glance, these problems seem hidden beneath the country’s remarkable
achievements. Over the past 70 years, South Korea has developed into one of the
world’s largest economies, despite lacking natural resources and facing
continuous threats from the North. Thirty years ago, South Koreans
achieved a (mostly) peaceful transition from dictatorship to democracy and have
emerged as a regional leader in Asia and a competent “middle power” nation.
Today,
South Korea can boast the fastest internet and longest life expectancy in the world. It is a country
where you can walk alone at night in nearly any neighborhood without feeling
threatened. Its culture of quick, friendly customer service and its
comprehensive public transportation systems make it one of the most convenient
countries in the world.
Korean
pop culture is the envy of Asia, from its tear-jerking melodramas and films to
its sadistically sugary K-pop music. Korean students are among the highest
performing in the world; Korean companies like Hyundai and Samsung are global
leaders in their fields; and next year the country will host the Olympics for
the second time. The national healthcare system is inexpensive and effective,
and their high tech hospitals have become a new center for medical tourism. And
when Koreans unwind, they do so with unparalleled vigor. HiteJinro, a company
specializing in the Korean rice-based liquor, soju, is the world’s best-selling spirits brand.
But
beneath this veneer of “Gangnam Style” glitz and first-world efficiency lies a
different story. Ask most Seoulites in their 20s and 30s about living in Korea,
and you’re likely to hear a litany of complaints. This trait is especially
acute in the country’s highly educated youths, particularly amongst those who
have worked or studied abroad.
The
2016 IMD World Talent report ranked South Korea 46th out of 61 countries on
its Brain Drain Index, placing it below less developed nations like India and
the Philippines. The same report listed South Korea 47th countries on quality
of life, and a pitiful 59th on worker motivation.
In
recent years, young South Koreans have begun referring to the country as “Hell Chosun,” a reference to the Chosun Dynasty that lasted
on the peninsula for 500 years, until the late 19th century. While
“hell” is certainly hyperbole, if not outright offensive to those who live in
war zones and abject poverty, the emergence of this phrase provides insight
into Korean youths’ perceptions of their society.
Heo
Seung-hee left South Korea in 2011 and now works as a registered nurse in
Sydney, Australia. Before emigrating, she was employed at one of the most
prestigious hospitals in Seoul.
“My
strongest motivation to leave was the work culture,” she said. “There was
really bad corruption. The doctors and nurses only get jobs because they
graduated from a specific university or knew the right people.”
This
idea of earning the right credentials and making the right contacts is drilled
in from an early age. South Korea places enormous pressure on its youth. From
elementary school onward, most students must attend an array of extracurricular
cram schools to help them outpace their peers, often working late into the
night to complete their assignments. These years of effort have only one goal:
to prepare them for the ultra-competitive and life-defining college entrance
exam.
After
a brief stint of soju-infused bonding at university, the men are sent off
for around two years of national service, usually in the military or police. Later,
when they begin to look for work, Koreans of both genders must slog through
months or years of part time jobs, unpaid internships, and qualifying exams
just to enter a workforce that is conservative, as hierarchical as the
military, and dominated by men.
“There
was really bad gender discrimination,” said Heo. “Anyone that was male would
ask me to bring them coffee. When we went to a hoesik [a company
dinner], I had to sit next to them and pour alcohol for them. I felt
uncomfortable, but it was a very common practice.”
Low
wages in a country where living costs have risen precipitously also add to the
burden of the youth. In order to survive on their meager earnings, many South
Koreans live with their parents until they get married. Even after starting
their own families, the obligation to fulfill filial duties is a deeply
ingrained societal restraint that can force people into careers and
relationships that they find deeply unsatisfying. A culture of conformity and
respect for authority (which is often based on age, rather than qualification)
can give the feeling of entrapment under an endless array of shifting
responsibilities. This sense of helplessness has resulted in South Korea having
the highest suicide rate in the OECD.
Seoul
native Heo Minyoung (no relation) attended university in the United States
before completing her Ph.D. in biophysics in France. Today she lives in Paris.
“People
in Europe respect the balance between work, free time, and family time. Koreans
don’t really respect that,” she said. “You don’t want to be sticking out. You
just want to be in the flow. If you stick out, you won’t be happy in Korea.”
On
top of these personal pressures, there is a sense that the social contract has
been broken and the system stacked in the interests of the powerful. As
the outpouring of frustration against former President
Park Geun-hye illustrated earlier this year, South Koreans are fed up with what
they view as endemic corruption between the government and the seemingly
omnipotent conglomerates. With democratization, Koreans had hoped that the
rampant cronyism of the country’s post-war boom decades would become a thing of
the past. As this recent scandal showed, the problem had only become more
deeply embedded.
The
Millennial generation in South Korea grew up with different expectations than
their parents and grandparents. As the country developed, everyone was
guaranteed a steady, if difficult and perhaps menial, job. By contrast, today’s
youth have no such guarantees and wouldn’t likely take such a job if they were
offered it. No one wants to study every waking hour of their childhood just to
work in the same factory that their parents did 40 years ago. They want
well-paying, white collar jobs, and just as in other developed countries, there
aren’t enough of those jobs to go around.
On
top of all this, South Korea’s air quality has rapidly deteriorated in recent
years, and in this health conscious country, Koreans are increasingly frustrated about the government’s lackadaisical
response to the problem.
Since
coming to power, President Moon has taken steps to address some of these
issues. For the moment, he enjoys broad support and has pledged to end the
corrupt practices that toppled the previous administration. He has promised to
dramatically increase public sector jobs and shut
down ten of the country’s coal power plants. So far, his cabinet includes
four women, twice as many as the previous administration.
But
once this honeymoon period is over, Moon will be forced to make some difficult
decisions. Today, South Korea’s challenges include dealing with North Korea’s
nuclear and missile programs, managing a sluggish economy overly reliant on
fickle export markets, and boosting one of the lowest birthrates in the world. The
overseas flight of its brightest young minds will only make these problems more
intractable.
And
yet the country has overcome greater hardships before. What remains to be seen
is whether the new president can restore confidence in Korea’s institutions
while making his country optimistic again. It is a tall order.
According
to South Korean émigré Heo Seung-hee, “If the country changes what it values,
it would be great [to return]. The way people think is the reason why I left. That
is something the government cannot fix.”
* Ben
Forney is a research associate at the Asan Institute for Policy Studies, a
foreign policy think tank in Seoul.
Image:
Students majoring in nursing prepare for their final exam at Bucheon University
in Bucheon, South Korea (November 10, 2015).
Image
Credit: REUTERS/Kim Hong-Ji
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