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The frontier spirit is catching on. A Korean generation that grew up taking rising living standards for granted is now throwing the old model out the window. Out-of-work managers are rolling up their sleeves and starting their own businesses. Some are going back to the farm, reversing the path trodden by an earlier generation as industrialization took off. After watching scores of big companies go under, university graduates are heading in new directions as well. A job at a big chaebol is no longer seen as a ticket to the good life. Young Koreans are choosing smaller, healthier companies, in which they have more chance to make a mark. Says Kim Nong Ju, a career counselor at Yonsei University in Seoul: "It's a tremendous change. Koreans used to want to wear the pin of a big business group because that is what their fiance's parents would look at."
The pressure to adapt will only increase. Korea's economy may be sputtering back to life, but unemployment is expected to hit a record high of 9% this year. Even the country's notoriously feisty unions recognize that the old culture of job security is gone. "Korean society was headed in the wrong direction," says Kim Hyoung Hwan, 33, who started a shoe-repair business last year after losing his white-collar job. "This is a healthy correction."
The honorable status of stable, white-collar jobs reflects deeply ingrained traditions. For hundreds of years, Korea was dominated by a class of Confucian literati who valued scholarship over any kind of manual labor. These attitudes persisted in modern Korea. But they clashed head on with another Confucian mindset when the economy cratered in late 1997. Thousands of men faced the unthinkable: joblessness in a society where a man's worth is still defined by his ability to provide for his family. Ashamed to face their wives and children, men who lost their jobs in the first months of the crisis would dress for work, then while away the day in a coffee shop. Unable to bear the loss of face, some resorted to suicide. Others, such as Chung, decided to swallow their pride.
Chung never imagined he could one day fall off the ladder to the good life. His job brought respect from the neighbors and middle-class comforts--a car, a nice home, money to send the kids to university. There was enough left over for movies and friends' weddings. But "IMF," as Koreans call the crisis, turned Chung's world upside down. As construction orders fell off, Samsung pressured him to retire. He looked for work, but middle-aged managers were not a hot commodity in a recession. When a consultant suggested the catering business, his friends told him he was throwing away his university training. But with his money running low, he took the plunge.
Today Chung and his wife rise at dawn to prepare ingredients for their hot pots. He delivers meals to offices, where customers use a hot plate to prepare their lunches at their desks. Chung's wife stays at their hole-in-the-wall shop, chopping vegetables and tracking orders on a computer. The hours were shorter at Samsung, and the pay was higher. But his friends are envious, worried that their jobs could be next. Despite the hard work, Chung says, his life is better today. "I am so happy," he says, his broad features crinkling into a smile. "I have a tremendous sense of achievement."