The Jeongbyeong Era, Asking About Dreams···One Hundred Stories of Genre-Only Youth - 경향신문

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An image symbolizing the Kyunghyang Shinmun 80th-anniversary project <The Jeongbyeong Era>. Young people gaze at the spot where ‘tomorrow’ has died. Reporter Kwon Do-hyun

Young people no longer wait for ‘tomorrow’. Kim Pyeong-hwa (21), who graduated high school and works at a small construction company, said, “Even tomorrow is pitch dark for me.” He got off work late again today, and must go in tomorrow as well, even though it is Saturday. He has no bandwidth to think about tomorrow. Choi Hyun-ju (30·alias), who graduated from a junior college and works as a freelance hairdresser, has no expectations for the future. “I have not done anything big or achieved anything. It is easier to live as things flow,” the person said.

There is neither a plan nor a dream. Jeong Hye-rin (28·alias), who graduated from a regional university and works as a dental hygienist, is “a person who lives for today.” “If I had some dream or goal it would be different, but I have no dream for the future.” Jeong thinks only of getting through today. Not thinking about tomorrow is also because tomorrow is frightening. For Won Jun-gi (32), a regional-university graduate working at a bank, a good life is “a life in which tomorrow is not fearful.” Even for him, who passed through a narrow job gate, structural uncertainties like soaring housing prices and prospects at work cast a shadow over daily life.

Kyunghyang Shinmun 80th-anniversary project <The Jeongbyeong Era> image. Reporter Kwon Do-hyun

The average age of the 100 young people aged 19 to 34 whom Kyunghyang Shinmun met is 26.9. If life were converted to 24 hours, it would correspond to 7:40 a.m., the time to wake and start the day. It is a time when the curtain of life should be opening, yet young people rarely thought of tomorrow. Rather, they recalled the past. Sixty-seven out of the 100 wished to go back. Lee Jun-seo (24·alias), attending a regional university, said that if he could go back, he would enter a four-year university in Seoul. He is an intern at a central government ministry. When talk of alma maters comes up at the office, he feels “himself shrink.” Nineteen people, the largest group, said they would go back and go to a better university. Twelve said they would change their major or career path.

Thirty-three said they would not go back to the past. It is not because they are satisfied with the present. Han Ji-won (24·alias), who went through an international middle school·international high school·SKY (Seoul National University·Korea University·Yonsei University) and entered a large corporation, said, “There is not a single moment I want to return to,” adding, “I cannot go through my life once more. It was too hard.” Nine said it was “because I would live the same even if I went back,” and eight, like Han, said they would not return because they “do not want to go through a hard process.” Only five refused to go back “because they are satisfied with the present.”

Only a few young people can look forward to tomorrow as who they are today. For most, going back to the past and rewriting the path so far is the only way to revive hope. What is embedded in the desire to return is regret and self-blame. Ten years ago, young people mocked the older generation that blamed all youth problems on lack of effort with the term ‘nooreok’. As the job and housing crises those youth faced have continued to today, young people now suspect that perhaps the problem lies with themselves.

Song Hyun-woo (30·alias), a graduate of a regional flagship national university, is a ‘resting youth’ who quit his job four months ago. He began with “All responsibility lies with the individual,” and went as far as “Saying you cannot marry because you do not have a house is an excuse,” and “They say there are many resting youth; if you cannot get a job, you should go wherever hiring is happening,” laying out an infinite individual-responsibility argument.

Perhaps it is because he has already borne many problems alone. His parents divorced in middle school. Money was tight, so he never asked his family for help. He thinks his life would have been different had he gone to a university in Seoul, but even if he went back, he believes he would have had to attend a regional national university he could commute to. Asked about plans as a resting youth, he said, “Thinking about the future gives me a headache; let us think about it tomorrow.”

More than half of the young people did not think about the future or pushed it back. Of the 100, those with no dreams, or whose dreams had been reduced or deferred, numbered 56. The 100 in-depth interviewees were composed in line with last year’s posthigh school advancement statistics: 11 from four-year universities in Seoul (including current students and graduates), 45 from regional four-year universities, 20 from junior colleges, and 24 high school graduates. Educational level and pedigree created many differences among youth, but at least regarding the absence of dreams, there was little difference by education level. This is ironic, considering the education policies of recent years. Education authorities placed emphasis on career development and have stressed ‘self-directed career design’ through systems like the high-school credit system and free-semester program. The career design for which the state rolled up its sleeves during years of regular schooling became, within just a few years of adulthood, a term unrelated to life.

Most dreams vanished, pushed by anxiety. After weighing dreams against stability, most chose stability. The times likely played a role. Bae Jun-hee (31·alias), who experienced the aftermath of the foreign exchange crisis in childhood, became a civil servant after high school. Having witnessed multiple business failures around him during the IMF period, his father recommended becoming a civil servant as “a job you can do without capital.” Desk work does not suit Bae at all, so he is preparing to transfer to a driver-position civil servant. Family environment also has an impact. Kang Min-hyuk (31·alias), a regional-university graduate working at a public enterprise, said he himself “wanted something too stable.” While he was in college, his father suffered two years of wage arrears, and the household economy deteriorated.

Academic pedigree is also linked to a preference for stability. The clarity of dreams varied with pedigree. Young people at universities in Seoul dreamed more distinctly, such as “a special-education teacher using music (Woo Hee-jin),” “a consultant building expertise in capital markets law and AI (Cho Ho-jung),” “a mechanical engineering researcher (Go Min-jae·alias),” “a role in overseas investment and fund management (Cho Seung-min),” and “an AI researcher (Ma Hyun-woo).” By contrast, 14 young people named an occupation group like ‘civil servant’ or ‘public enterprise’, or a job category like ‘office job’, as their current dream. Eleven of them were regional-university youth. Regional-university youth tended to see civil service and public enterprises as the ceiling of dreams. They believe these jobs are highly stable and that they will not be disadvantaged by pedigree in hiring. Lee Jun-seo, a regional-university student, said, “Most of my college friends seem to prefer public enterprises and to pursue stability,” yet added, “Because we think big companies look at pedigree, in truth it is fair to say I have given up (applying to big firms).”

Kyunghyang Shinmun 80th-anniversary project <The Jeongbyeong Era> image. Reporter Kwon Do-hyun

“We need to make an effort, to be ordinary.”

Not many sought reward, usefulness, or value in work. Jeong Hye-rin, who once dreamed of being a cosmetics company researcher, now works as a dental hygienist. “I have never thought of this as a lifelong occupation. What is the point of doing it better?” Kang Ji-hye (26·alias), who had seriously dreamed of becoming a rock star since age 11 while playing guitar, works in sales for a sportswear brand. The goal at work is “just do my fair share.” Kang Min-hyuk, who works at a public enterprise, is “very satisfied” with his current job, but has “no” desire to do it better.

This is not because they are the MZ generation that “does not devote themselves to the company.” It may be because society does not give them positions where they can feel value. It may be because it keeps producing the anxiety that without chasing stability first, survival will be hard. Young people intuitively sense that they can fall into a quagmire for problems that are not their fault, and that once they fall in, recovery is difficult. Lim Sung-hoon (31·alias), a junior-college graduate, saw his father begin battling illness in middle school and pass away in his second year of high school. The family’s finances declined, and in place of his working mother, he cared for his father and had no time for cram schools. “Until my first year of high school I was not that far behind academically, but at some point it became overwhelming,” he said. Nineteen interviewees mentioned growing up in single-parent or grandparent-headed households. None of them were studying at universities in Seoul; five were regional-university youth, and seven each were junior-college and high-school graduates. Only six still had dreams.

With dreams gone and tomorrow not considered, young people now say they “want to live ordinarily.” Seventy-six described the direction of life as “ordinarily,” “as much as others,” “stably,” and “neither too far ahead nor too far behind.” The ambition or desire to realize a dream and find one’s usefulness in the world has vanished, leaving only a modest wish that the remaining life not be painful. Lee Na-eun (27·alias), a regional-university graduate working at a small or medium enterprise, thinks her unimpressive pedigree will at some point hold her back and that she could be replaced. Once dreaming of being a teacher, her scaled-down dream is, “How can I live to old age a bit less painfully?” This cannot be called a dream. It is merely a survival desire.

In a world where hurdles have grown higher, ‘ordinary’ may be a dream out of reach. The job and housing crises aloe are daunting; if one cannot break through at least one, the outlook for starting a family also turns uncertain. Kim Sang-hyun (34·alias), a regional-university graduate working part-time at a supermarket, thinks he may “never reach” “earning a moderate salary and living an ordinary life.” He first said he “does not want to marry,” then corrected himself to, “Maybe I cannot.” Kim Tae-hoon (31·alias), who even debuted as a professional boxer in high school, dreams of “a moderately sized home with a wife and children, and eating out once in a while.” Unstable income in sales and debt from expanding a delivery restaurant during the pandemic are obstacles. He said, “We need to make an effort, to be ordinary.”

Can they, in fact, reach ordinary? When even the wish for ordinary, shaved down from hope, breaks apart, with what expression will they look at this society?