ON NOVEMBER 10th South Korea went silent. Aircraft were grounded.
Offices opened late. Commuters stayed off the roads. The police stood by
to deal with emergencies among the students who were taking their
university entrance exams that day.
Every year the country comes to a halt on the day of the exams, for
it is the most important day in most South Koreans’ lives. The single
set of multiple-choice tests that students take that day determines
their future. Those who score well can enter one of Korea’s best
universities, which has traditionally guaranteed them a job-for-life as a
high-flying bureaucrat or desk warrior at a
chaebol
(conglomerate). Those who score poorly are doomed to attend a lesser
university, or no university at all. They will then have to join a less
prestigious firm and, since switching employers is frowned upon, may be
stuck there for the rest of their lives. Ticking a few wrong boxes,
then, may mean that they are permanently locked out of the upper tier of
Korean society.
Making so much depend on an exam has several advantages for Korea.
It is efficient: a single set of tests identifies intelligent and
diligent teenagers, and launches them into society’s fast stream. It is
meritocratic: poor but clever Koreans can rise to the top by studying
very, very hard. The exam’s importance prompts children to pay attention
in class and parents to hound them about their homework; and that, in
turn, ensures that Korea’s educational results are the envy of the
world. The country is pretty much the leading nation in the scoring
system run by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development
(OECD). In 2009 it came fourth after Shanghai, Singapore and Hong Kong,
but those are cities rather than full-sized countries.
Korea’s well-educated, hard-working population has powered its
economic miracle. The country has risen from barefoot to broadband since
1960, and last year, despite the global slowdown, its economy grew by
6.2%. In the age of the knowledge economy, education is economic
destiny. So the system has had far-reaching and beneficial consequences.
Yet it also has huge costs. For a start, high school is hell. Two
months before the day of his exams Kim Min-sung, a typical student, was
monosyllabic and shy. All the joy seemed to have been squeezed out of
him, to make room for facts. His classes lasted from 7am until 4pm,
after which he headed straight for the library until midnight. He
studied seven days a week. “You get used to it,” he mumbled.
His parents have spent much of Min-sung’s life worrying about his
education. His father, a teacher, taught him how to manage his time: to
draw up a plan and stick to it, so as to complete as much revision as
possible without collapsing exhausted on the desk. His mother kept him
fuelled with “delicious food” and urged him to “study more, but not too
much”.
Min-sung says he doesn’t particularly want to go to university, but
he feels “social pressure” to do so. He dreams of getting a job as an
agent for sports stars, which would not obviously require a university
degree. But he reluctantly accepts that in Korea, “You can’t get [any]
job without a degree.”
Min-sung’s happiest time was playing football with his friends during
the lunch hour. Every child in his school dashes to the cafeteria when
the bell goes and gulps down the noodles like a wolf in a hurry. The
quicker they eat, the more precious minutes of freedom each day will
contain.
A poll by CLSA, a stockbroker, found that 100% of Korean parents want
their children to go to university. Such expectations can be stressful.
In one survey a fifth of Korean middle and high school students said
they felt tempted to commit suicide. In 2009 a tragic 202 actually did
so. The suicide rate among young
Koreans is high: 15 per 100,000
15-24-year-olds, compared with ten Americans, seven Chinese and five
Britons. Min-sung’s older sister, Kim Jieun, who took the exams a few
years ago, recalls: “I thought of emigrating, I hated the education
system so much.”
As more and more students cram into universities, the returns to
higher education are falling. Because all Korean parents want their
children to go to university, most do. An incredible 63% of Koreans aged
25-34 are college graduates—the highest rate in the OECD. Since 1995
there has been a staggering 30 percentage-point increase in the
proportion of Koreans who enter university to pursue academic degrees,
to 71% in 2009.
This sounds great, but it is unlikely that such a high proportion of
young Koreans will actually benefit from chasing an academic degree, as
opposed to a vocational qualification. A survey in August found that,
four months after leaving university, 40% of graduates had not yet found
jobs.
Unemployment represents a poor return on what for most families is a
huge financial sacrifice. Not only is college itself expensive; so is
getting in. Parents will do anything to help their children pass the
college entrance exam. Many send them to private crammers, known as
hagwon, after school. Families in Seoul spend a
whopping 16% of their income on private tuition.
Seoul children
Korea’s rigid social model aggravates the nation’s extreme
demographic problems. Korean women have stopped having anywhere near
enough babies to provide the country with the workforce it will need in
the future.
Since Korean women started entering the labour force in large
numbers, the opportunity costs of having children have risen sharply.
The workplace makes few allowances for women who want to take a career
break. If a woman drops off the career track for a couple of years,
Korean firms are far less likely than Western ones to welcome her back.
And if a firm does take back a working mother, she will face a stark
choice: drop off the fast track or work long and inflexible hours.
Flexitime and working from home are frowned on. This makes it
staggeringly hard to combine work and child care, especially since
Korean mothers are expected to bear most of the responsibility for
pushing their children to excel academically.
The direct costs of raising children who can pass that all-important
exam are also hefty. Sending one child to a $1,000-a-month
hagwon is hard enough. Paying for three is murder.
Parents engage in an educational arms race. Those with only one child
can afford higher fees, so they bid up the price of the best
hagwon. This gives other parents yet another
incentive to have fewer children.
Since 1960 the fertility rate in Korea has fallen faster than nearly
anywhere on earth, from six children per woman to 1.15 in 2009. That is a
recipe for demographic collapse. If each Korean woman has only one
baby, each generation will be half as large as the one that came before.
Korea will age and shrink into global irrelevance.
Small wonder the government is worried. President Lee Myung-bak talks
of the need to create a “fair society”. That means, among other things,
changing attitudes to educational qualifications. He says he wants
employers to start judging potential employees by criteria other than
their alma mater. In September he promised that the government would
start hiring more non-graduates. “Merit should count more than academic
background,” he said.
The forces for change
The president is also urging Korean firms to recruit people with a
wider range of experiences. Some have agreed to do so. In September, for
example, Daewoo Shipbuilding said it would start hiring high-school
graduates and set up an institution to train them. But the managers who
run big Korean companies are mostly from the generation in which
academic background was everything, so they may be reluctant to change.
The government is trying to reduce the leg-up that private tuition
gives to the children of the well-off. Since 2008 local authorities have
been allowed to limit
hagwon hours and fees.
Freelance snoops, known as
hagparazzi, visit
hagwon with hidden cameras to catch them charging
too much or breaking a local curfew. The
hagparazzi
are rewarded with a share of any fines imposed on errant educational
establishments. Yet still the
hagwon
proliferate. By the government’s count, there are nearly 100,000.
The other force for change is Korea’s young people. Many are
questioning whether the old rules about how to live one’s life will make
them happy. Kang Jeong-im, a musician, puts it bluntly: “I think it’s
difficult to live the way you want to in South Korea.” High school was
the worst, she recalls: “We were like memorising machines. Almost every
day, I’d fall asleep at my desk. The teacher would shout at me or throw
chalk.”
Ms Kang made her parents proud by getting into Yonsei, one of Korea’s
leading universities. But once there, she rebelled. She hung out with
radicals and read Marx and Foucault. She went on protest marches, waving
a placard, inhaling tear gas and almost getting herself arrested. “I
kinda enjoyed it,” she says, “I felt I was doing something really
important.”
She learned to play the guitar. She wrote a thesis on female Korean
rock musicians that involved a lot of “field studies”: ie, going to
concerts and talking to cool people. She even interviewed the singer of
3rd Line Butterfly, a group she loved.
She formed a band with a male friend. They played some gigs in small
venues, but eventually he took a full-time job at a news agency and no
longer had time for rocking. So Ms Kang started a solo career, writing
songs and performing them herself, using the stage name “Flowing”. She
is working on an album, she says, and performing in clubs. Her parents
are not exactly thrilled; they want her to find a respectable job and
get married. Their friends and relatives ask: “What is your daughter
doing?” and “Why do you let her live like this?”
Ms Kang cannot live on what she makes as a musician, so she takes
temporary jobs. She is one of many. Among the young, the proportion of
jobs that are part-time has exploded from 8% in 2000 to 23% in 2010; the
proportion of workers under 25 on temporary contracts has leapt from
zero to 28%. This is partly because cash-strapped companies are backing
away from the old tradition of lifetime employment, but also because
many young people do not want to be chained to the same desk for 30
years.
According to TNS, a market-research firm, Koreans are markedly more
fed up with the companies they work for than people in other countries.
Only half would recommend them as a good place to work, compared to
three-quarters of TNS’s global sample. Only 48% think they receive
suitable recognition, as individuals, for their work, compared with 68%
of workers in supposedly collectivist China. Only Japanese workers are
more disgruntled.
Despite these gripes, 79% of Korean workers expect still to be
working for the same employer in a year’s time. TNS speculates that this
attitude reflects the difficulty of switching employers rather than
genuine loyalty; it talks of “captive” employees.
Such averages mask wide variation, of course. Some highflying Korean
salarymen feel intensely loyal to their employers and are prepared to
slave long hours to help them conquer new markets. But this inner circle
is quite small: the
chaebol employ only 10% of
the workforce. And the rigid way that
chaebol
tend to seek talent—recruiting only from prestigious universities and
promoting only from within—means that, as well as failing to get the
best out of Korean women, they miss clever people who are not much good
at exams and late developers whose talents blossom in their 20s or 30s.
They also shunt older people into retirement when they still have much
to offer. (The
chaebol tend to promote by
seniority, which sounds good for older employees but isn’t. There are
only a few jobs at the top, so when you reach the age at which you might
become a senior manager, you are either promoted or pensioned off.)
Parents praying for their children’s success
in exams
Subversive ideas from abroad
It is still rare for a Korean who is clever enough to reach the top
by the conventional route to choose a different one; but it is becoming
less so. One fertile source of subversion is the Koreans who have
studied overseas. Some 13% of Korean tertiary students study abroad,
according to the OECD, a higher proportion than in any other rich
country. In recent years, many have come home, not least because the
American government, in a fit of self-destructive foolishness, made it
much harder after September 11th 2001 for foreign students to work in
America after they graduate. A survey by Vivek Wadhwa of Duke University
found that most foreign students at American universities feared they
would not be able to obtain a work visa. And since the application
process is long and humiliating, many do not even bother to try.
America’s loss is Korea’s (and India’s, and China’s) gain.
Returnees are typically bright, and less beholden to tradition than
their stay-at-home peers. For example, Richard Choi, whose father was a
globe-trotting manager for a
chaebol, attended a
British school in Hong Kong and learned about America’s start-up
culture while studying biomedical engineering at Johns Hopkins
University in Baltimore.
Having returned to Korea, he has devised a business model in which
customers receive store credits from merchants for recommending their
products to their friends. “Let’s say you think this pie is good,” says
Mr Choi, pointing at a chocolate confection your correspondent has just
bought. “And you tell your friends about it [via a smartphone app
developed by Mr Choi’s company, Spoqa]. And they come to this café and
spend money. Then you get store credits.”
If this model will work anywhere, it will work in Seoul, figures Mr
Choi. The Korean capital is densely populated and splendidly connected:
nearly everyone with spare cash has a smartphone. And if it does not, he
can probably get a good job, he thinks. But he has to hurry. Even with
his skills, he reckons that no
chaebol would
hire him once he is over 30.
A few locally educated Koreans are also challenging the system.
Charles Pyo, a young internet entrepreneur, borrowed his mother’s credit
card when he was 14 and started a business helping people set up
websites. His parents did not approve; they thought he should be
studying instead. But then they saw all the money coming in, and
relented. He made $200,000 in three years.
He then won a place at Yonsei University. He took the exam like
anyone else, but what really counted was his interview, in which he
argued that he had exceptional talents. Korean universities have
traditionally spurned interviews, but the government is now urging them
to select many more of their students this way.
On the ladder to prosperity
While at university, Mr Pyo teamed up with a former hacker, Kim
Hyun-chul. (In his teens, Mr Kim set off cyber-terror alarm bells by
infecting hundreds of thousands of computers with a virus that deleted
files on his birthday. He was caught, but he was too young to send to
prison.) Now a reformed character, he helped Mr Pyo start another
company, Wizard Works, that supplies “widgets”—little packets of
software that make corporate websites work better—and is about to start
selling “cloud computing” apps for smartphones. Still only 25, Mr Pyo
has now started yet another company, Rubicon Games, that designs online
social games.
Mr Pyo says that what he does is much more fun than being a
salaryman. But it is hard for him to recruit good staff. People assume
that if you don’t work for a
chaebol, it must be
because you are not bright enough, he gripes. “They say: ‘Why should I
work for you? You’re not Samsung.’”
Mr Choi has the same problem. “Older people look at my business card
and say: ‘What’s this?’ Younger people admire the fact that I am doing
something no one else is doing. But given the choice of working for me
or Samsung, people are naturally inclined to go with a big company.”
Mr Pyo believes that Korea would be a happier place if more people
had the courage to strike out on their own. But talented students “care
too much about other people’s expectations,” he sighs. “They don’t want
to fall behind their friends. They fear that if they do something
different they might be viewed as a failure.”
The Land of Miracles must loosen up
The Korean economic boom was built on hard work, benign demography
(a bulge of working-age Koreans between 1970 and 1990) and plenty of
opportunities to catch up with richer countries. But the world, and
Korea, have changed.
Korea is rich, so it can no longer grow fast by copying others. It
cannot remain dynamic with an ageing, shrinking workforce. It cannot
become creative with a school system that stresses rote learning above
thinking. And its people cannot realise their full potential in a
society where they get only one shot at doing well in life, and it comes
when they are still teenagers. To remain what one writer called “The
Land of Miracles”, Korea will have to loosen up, and allow many routes
to success.