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| Courtesy of Daniel Bernard |
By David Tizzard
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Korean citizens are no longer blind, particularly to the various people and injustices around them. They see the protests of the disabled, hear the cry of the feminists, acknowledge the charge of gay rights, and understand the hardships of the financially oppressed. Democracy has played an important role in bringing to light those who have always been a part of Korean society. Feminists, disabled people, and members of the queer community are not 21st century inventions. They did not suddenly arrive alongside pumpkin lattes and Pokemon bread. They have always been part of the social landscape. It's just that people were previously blind to them because they had faith in a far bigger cause. A cause to which many were fanatical devotees: that of South Korea's economic and political modernization. Many people are no longer committed to such a cause. They don't work for the development of the nation and a task greater than themselves. They are not toiling away to build the "promised land" for their descendants under the watchful eye of their ancestors. Instead, they're now living for themselves in the here and now as individuals.
Modern Korea now "is." It has well and truly arrived. Of course it is not perfect. Yet people now have things. They have that which they don't want to lose ― be it something material like their smartphones and Netflix or abstract such as freedom. And thus they are less willing to sacrifice for the country. The elderly lament the arrogance and growing selfishness among the nation's MZ generation, recounting tale after tale of how they previously endured innumerable hardships, surviving on next to nothing, in order to create the modern capitalist playground their descendants have inherited. Yet why would the elderly expect anything different from today's youth? It is only when we lack that we are most likely to find humans willing to sacrifice themselves for a greater cause and the creation of something which is not. People are generally far more willing to die for that which they don't have than that which they do. Things which don't exist are more powerful than that which does exist. People are persuaded by potential rather than actuality. People who live meaningful and worthwhile lives are less likely to sacrifice themselves for a cause. On the other hand, those who have little will break their backs to achieve something. They will give their lives for the realization of something which is yet to be. The thing yet to be might be a communist utopia, the liberation of a country from colonial rule, or even a religious paradise.
The sacrifices made by the nation in the past were possible because the hardships of the then present were dwarfed and made inconsequential by a glorious past and a shining future. In its post-colonial nation building, Korea invented memories of past greatness. The nation played down the poverty, slavery, and division of the feudal dynasties of history and instead developed a vivid awareness among the people of a golden age characterized by culture, beauty, and abundance. The Chosun Dynasty was not one full of slaves and women confined to physical separation but rather an idyllic Confucian paradise reflecting the virtue of the Korean character. At the same time, society spoke of a vision ahead ― sometimes focused on a unified ethnic people living together peacefully across the entire land, again religious in nature, while at other times it was a heaven on earth for the people of the South alone. A country in which everyone was middle-class, had cars, computers, houses, stocks, and could ascend to the rank of the Orange Tribe. With such a glorious past and future, the present, no matter how hard, could be endured.
The sacrifices of the elderly were made possible not just by the eradication of the present in the face of a majestic past and future, nor by the simple lack of material goods. It was also connected to the notion of individuality. The people of Korea's past were part of a mass movement before they were individuals. Upon asking them who they were, the automatic response would have been, "I am a Korean." Their identity was dominated by the idea of the collective. Any sense of purpose, destiny, and worth was controlled by the group rather than the individual. The modern individual, however, does not necessarily find their sense of worth in the collective of the nation. If you ask them who they are, they might respond with their name, their major, their interests, and so on. They will tell you who they are rather than what they are part of.
The people of the past were so very willing to become a part of a national collective because they were likely bored. Such unrelieved boredom gives people an impetus to find meaning in existence. Life needs to have a purpose. It can't just be sitting around. And thus people throw themselves headfirst into a task, becoming fully engaged. Today people are never allowed to be bored. The latest song, the newest drama, the uploaded YouTube clip scream for their attention. Never is someone given more than 10 minutes to actually be bored with our dopamine dosers in our hands at all times. "No-one is bored but everything is boring." Modern society has a far greater sense of ennui and nihilism than the past. Mental health rates, anxiety, suicide rates, and simply conversations with the country's youth all reflect this. Pleasure-chasing digital content is an ineffective palliative for the individual. It provides them the freedom of their own impotence. Yet, it does keep them from embracing mass movements through boredom.
Korea no-longer has mass movements. It has a mish-mash of individuals avoiding boredom through self-discovery and digital worlds. It also has a growing number of people with material and abstract possessions they want to keep. Critical observations of history have dispelled romanticized versions of the past and for many of the youth, the end of the world is far more likely than the end of capitalism. Thus, the present, and what they have as individuals will do them just fine. And thus, in some ways, Korea has transformed from a country marked by mass movements to one of individuals.
(This is not an academic article. It is a series of observations, often exaggerated, provided in order to provoke thought around the changing shape of the social Korean landscape. It should be read with the same light-heartedness as it was written).
Dr. David A. Tizzard (datizzard@swu.ac.kr) has a Ph.D. in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social/cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the Korea Deconstructed podcast, which can be found online. The views expressed in the article are the author's own and do not reflect the editorial direction of The Korea Times.
