Korea JoongAng Daily - Daily News from Korea

This article is by Kim Kyung-hee and read by an artificial voice.

Soaring rice prices in Japan have triggered a wave of panic buying this year - a stark contrast to Korea, where oversupply is expected. While this gap has created a "win-win" opportunity for exports, Korean rice still faces significant hurdles, including high tariff barriers.

During a policy briefing from the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs on Dec. 11, President Lee Jae Myung commented on the matter, saying, "Korea is dealing with a rice surplus. Why not export to Japan?"

Korea's rice exports to Japan from January through November this year reached a record $1 million, marking a 1,600 percent increase from $58,000 at the end of last year, according to the Korea Agro-Fisheries & Food Trade Corporation. It is the first time since exports began in March 2000 that the annual value has surpassed the $1 million mark.

The National Agricultural Cooperative Federation, or Nonghyup, said that following a two-ton shipment to Japan by Okcheon Nonghyup in Haenam, South Jeolla, in April, export contracts in the first half of the year alone totaled around 800 tons.

Historically, Korea's rice exports to Japan have remained low due to steep tariffs. Japan imposes a high duty of 341 yen per kilogram (90 cents per pound) on imported rice, except for imports under low-tariff quota agreements, to protect its domestic rice farmers.

However, with Japanese rice prices soaring, even tariffed Korean rice has become relatively affordable.

"Korea and Japan both primarily consume short-grain Japonica rice with a sticky texture, so Korean rice is a preferred alternative when local supply is tight," said a Nonghyup representative.

Japan's rice prices remain on an upward trajectory. The average price of a five-kilogram (11-pound) bag of rice at supermarkets nationwide reached a record 4,316 yen during the week of Nov. 3 to 9 this year - the highest since data collection began in 2022 and up 1.9 percent from the previous week, according to Japan's Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries.

The price has more than doubled over the past year, rising from 2,088 yen in April 2024 to 4,220 yen in April of this year.

Although government rice reserves helped reduce prices by 10 to 20 percent in the latter half of this year, prices began climbing again in October.

Still, concerns are mounting that Korea's rice export boom may be short-lived - a temporary gain from Japan's supply shortage. As long as Japan's high tariff remains, any stabilization in domestic rice prices there could swiftly undermine Korea's competitiveness.

In fact, Korea's rice exports to Japan fell sharply in the second half of the year, from 416 tons between January and June to 197 tons between July and November, mirroring a slight decline in Japanese rice prices.

Japan's agriculture ministry forecasts a 10 percent on-year increase in total rice production in 2025, reaching 7.47 million tons - up 680,000 tons from 6.79 million tons in 2024. With supply outpacing demand, prices are expected to fall.

Meanwhile, Korea's domestic rice prices are rising, reducing the incentive for farmers to export. With local prices relatively high, exporters see little reason to take on the risks of entering the Japanese market.

The nationwide average retail price of rice stood at 3,120 won per kilogram (96 cents per pound) as of Friday - a 14.1 percent increase from a year earlier, according to the agricultural price portal of the Korean trade corporation.

Still, Seoul's Agriculture Ministry sees an opportunity to use the current momentum for promotional gains, even if exports cannot be expanded significantly in the short term.

The ministry plans to promote Korean rice to Japanese tourists and consumers. Since Dec. 12, a pop-up store promoting the product has been operating at Gimpo International Airport.

"Beyond Japan, we will gradually support expanded exports through local market research and overseas marketing in countr...

This article is by Rhee Eshter and read by an artificial voice.

There will be no more "strawberry-flavored vaping" advertisements thanks to a new law. E-cigarettes that use synthetic nicotine will soon be classified as tobacco from April of next year, marking the first change to the legal definition of tobacco in 38 years since the enactment of the Tobacco Business Act in 1988.

The revised Tobacco Business Act will take effect on April 24, 2026, according to the Ministry of Health and Welfare and the Korea Health Promotion Institute on Friday. So far, Korea's tobacco regulations applied only to products that contained tobacco leaves.

As a result, e-cigarettes that use synthetic nicotine have not been subject to tobacco regulations, falling into a legal blind spot. This revision is intended to close that loophole.

The government has been holding a series of public discussions and conducting studies on how to regulate e-cigarettes. Since 2021, annual tobacco control policy forums have been held with academics and civic groups, while surveys and monitoring of e-cigarette markets and consumer behavior have also been carried out.

Multiple studies conducted by the Health Ministry, the Ministry of Food and Drug Safety and the Korea Disease Control and Prevention Agency have found that synthetic nicotine e-cigarettes contain carcinogens and other harmful substances.

The biggest change brought by the revision is the requirement to include health warnings. Under the National Health Promotion Act, synthetic nicotine e-cigarettes will be required to display warning images and text on their packaging.

Health authorities plan to monitor compliance among manufacturers and importers, as they have already prepared a manual for health warnings based on the unique form of e-cigarette products.

Regulations on tobacco advertisements will also be strengthened. Warning messages must be placed in the center of the bottom portion of all in-store advertisements and ads printed in newspapers and magazines.

Under the expanded definition of tobacco, using synthetic nicotine e-cigarettes in smoke-free zones such as schools, hospitals and government offices will result in fines. Flavor- and scent-based marketing that targets teenagers and young adults will also be curbed.

Once the new law is in place, restrictions on flavor descriptors will apply to synthetic nicotine e-cigarettes as well, prohibiting packaging and advertising that emphasize flavors like fruit or sweets.

Promotional activities will also be severely restricted. Except for inside designated tobacco retail stores, all online advertisements, external store displays and sponsorships of expos or marketing events involving synthetic nicotine e-cigarettes will be banned. Sales via online shopping malls and social media will also be prohibited.

Stricter regulations will also apply to unmanned vending machines. Synthetic nicotine e-cigarette vending machines will be restricted to designated locations and required to have adult verification systems. From February next year, the installation and operation of vending machines in designated Educational Environment Protection Zones will be gradually banned.

The amendment comes in response to a shift in the tobacco market. The use rate of liquid-type e-cigarettes among Korean teenagers rose to 3.1 percent in 2023, approaching the adult usage rate of 4.5 percent.

The World Health Organization recently criticized tobacco companies' marketing strategies that target young people. It warned that so-called "harm reduction strategies," which market e-cigarettes as a less harmful alternative through flavors, scents and sleek designs, have led to a decline in public vigilance.

Many countries already include synthetic nicotine in their tobacco control frameworks. The United States classifies all nicotine-containing products as tobacco, while countries like Canada, France and New Zealand also regulate e-cigarettes under their tobacco laws.

However, challenges r...

This article is by Woo Ji-won and read by an artificial voice.

The year 2025 has come to an end. Looking back, there may be moments of disappointment, decisions you regret or achievements you feel proud of.

Regardless of how the year unfolded, on the first day of 2026, many will greet the year's first sunrise, a traditional ritual long associated with reflection and hope for better days ahead.

While millennial- and Gen Z-centric activities have multiplied in recent years, this tradition continues to draw large crowds across the country.

The first sunrise of 2026 will appear over Dokdo at 7:26 a.m., according to the Korea Astronomy and Space Science Institute, before reaching inland at 7:31 a.m., starting with Ulsan's Ganjeolgot. In Seoul, the sun will rise at 7:47 a.m. Clear morning skies are forecast for the city, though temperatures are expected to dip to minus 9 degrees Celsius (15.8 degrees Fahrenheit).

Whether it's a mountaintop or at the park, these four Seoul spots offer memorable ways to ring in the new year at sunrise.

Mount Acha

Known as one of the earliest places to catch the sunrise in Seoul, Mount Acha is an accessible mountain on the city's eastern edge, prized for its open ridgelines and broad views of the Han River.

Popular with beginners, Mount Acha can be climbed in about an hour. From Achasan Station on Subway Line 5 in Gwangjin District, eastern Seoul, follow the road toward the Goguryeojeong Pavilion, then continue up toward the summit.

The mountain's most popular sunrise spot is Haemaji Square, or Sunrise Square, which can be reached in just about 20 minutes. Starting at Exit 1 of Acha Station on Line 5, follow signs toward Ecological Park, then continue along the trail marked Achasanseong Fortress to the square.

Mount Inwang

Mount Inwang, located in Jongno District at the heart of Seoul, offers dramatic sunrise views without requiring a strenuous hike.

Thanks to its many ridgelines, hikers can catch the sunrise even without reaching the summit. One of the most popular viewpoints is Beombawi, or Tiger Rock, which is about a 20-minute walk from Dongnimmun Station on Line 3.

Haneul Park

Haneul Park, located 98 meters above sea level in Mapo District, western Seoul, may be called a park, but reaching its sunrise viewpoints requires some climbing.

From the parking area to the summit, the main sunrise viewpoint, the walk takes about 30 minutes. Due to icy conditions, the stairway to the summit may close for safety reasons. In that case, a paved road offers an alternative route, taking about 20 minutes on foot.

Many visitors also head to the park's wooden staircase, known as the Haneul Staircase, which also offers excellent sunrise views without requiring a full climb to the top. Higher up, the stairs provide uninterrupted views stretching from Lotte World Tower to Yeouido.

And on the way down, don't miss a photo stop along the park's famous metasequoia-lined path, where tall trees frame the road.

Yanghwa Bridge

A hike isn't required to enjoy a beautiful sunrise at Yanghwa Bridge in Mapo District, western Seoul.

Crossing the Han River, the bridge is a standout choice for those looking for an accessible, convenient sunrise spot in Seoul.

The area is also close to Yanghwa Hangang Park and Seonyudo Park, both popular sunrise spots, although access to Seonyudo Park may be limited at times for safety reasons.

The bridge can be reached on foot from Hapjeong Station on Line No. 2 and 6 in about 15 minutes, or more quickly by taking one of the many buses that stop nearby.

This article is by Kim Ji-ye and read by an artificial voice.

Korea's box office in 2025 presented a sobering snapshot of an industry still struggling to regain momentum in the post-pandemic era. Not a single film reached the 10 million audience mark, and only one Korean film even made it to the top five most-viewed list.

Yet beneath this bleak surface lie signs of shifting audience preferences and a changing perception of what the theatrical space itself represents, offering clues as to where the industry may be headed next.

The total number of moviegoers this year stood slightly over 103 million as of Friday, a precipitous drop from the more than 123 million recorded the previous year.

The downturn was further highlighted by the absence of any film this year surpassing the 10 million admissions milestone - widely regarded as a benchmark for major commercial success in Korea. The last time that Korea had no films that reached this level was during the pandemic four years ago. Then, the lack of moviegoers could be attributed to the extraordinary circumstances of 2021; however, the same explanation doesn't apply today, making the current situation even more concerning. It also perhaps demonstrates that audiences now go to the theater for a specific purpose.

"[This year's box office showed that] films that give audiences a real reason to go to the theater can survive," pop culture critic Jung Duk-hyun said.

Though the numbers point to a film industry in a pronounced slump with the overall box office performance being disappointing, the year also revealed a notable shift. So how did this year's box office look, and how should the nation's box offices approach the upcoming year?

Korean films lose their footing

At this year's box office, four of the top five titles were foreign or animated films, with only one Korean production making the list.

Currently at No. 1 is Disney's "Zootopia 2," followed by Japanese anime "Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba - Infinity Castle Arc." The sole Korean film, "My Daughter is a Zombie," ranked third, while the Brad Pitt-led "F1" and Japanese anime "Chainsaw Man: The Movie - Reze Arc" placed fourth and fifth, respectively.

This is in stark contrast to last year, when only one foreign title - "Inside Out 2" (2024) - entered the top five, outnumbered by Korean films such as "Exhuma" (2024), "The Roundup: Punishment" (2024), "I, the Executioner" (2024) and "Pilot" (2024).

While the strong performance of foreign films and Japanese anime may appear to reflect their popularity, many experts point to a more fundamental reason: the limited number of Korean films released in theaters this year.

"The biggest problem was that not many Korean films were actually made," pop culture critic Jung said. "With so few domestic titles, it's hard to expect strong results, which leaves theaters in a position where they have little choice but to depend on foreign films or animation just to survive."

Some noted that foreign and animated films did not necessarily outperform expectations, but rather stood out because of the absence of domestic titles.

"Foreign films and animation basically sold about as well as they always have," culture critic Kim Sung-soo said. "In the case of animation, there were more releases [this year], but that wasn't really because demand suddenly grew. It was more that theaters didn't have much else they could put on screens, so they ended up showing more animated films."

He added, "When you go to a theater and that's pretty much all there is to watch, you just watch that. There are still people who go to the movies out of habit, and for them, choosing animation or a foreign film is almost unavoidable when the options are so limited."

The shortage of Korean theatrical releases is also closely linked to the migration of filmmakers to global streaming platforms such as Netflix and Disney+, further weakening the theatrical ecosystem.

"A lot of people in the film industry who moved over to streami...

The author is an architect and a former president of the Korea National University of Arts.

The Hilton Seoul, once a calm and dignified presence embracing the slopes of Mount Namsan like a folding screen, is now receding into the past. Opened in 1983, the hotel was long admired for its refined service and architectural quality. It closed in 2022, and demolition work on the building began this May. The site is slated for redevelopment into a large mixed-use complex rising 39 stories above ground and extending 10 levels underground, led by a private asset management firm under the banner of "urban regeneration."

In a space called Picnic near the foot of the central mountain, an exhibition is now being held that traces the hotel's life from birth to dismantling. Framed as a "biography," the exhibition speaks on behalf of a building that can no longer speak for itself, recounting its 40-year existence. The organizers say the project was conceived both to ease the sense of loss felt at the disappearance of a distinguished architectural neighbor and to invite broader reflection on preservation and development in the modern city.

There is a saying that the structural frame of all architecture is beautiful. Designed through mathematical calculation, a building's skeleton is inherently aesthetic, the phrase goes, but becomes visually compromised as finishes and decorations are added. The true measure of architectural quality is ultimately decided in the final stages of construction, where materials and details come together. Examining the finishing materials and meticulously drawn detail plans on display, one is reminded how complete the Hilton Seoul was as a work of architecture.

Its primary materials included green marble from Acceglio, travertine from Tivoli, red marble from the Levant and oak veneer panels sourced from North America. Metal fixtures such as door handles and faucets were crafted in elegant brass. Even the main structural columns were clad in hand-finished brass panels. These finishes and ornaments were not incidental but played a central supporting role in establishing the hotel's classical sense of dignity.

The spatial centerpiece of the hotel was its grand atrium, rising four floors, widely regarded as one of the finest interior spaces in 20th-century Korea. In an August 7, 2023, column, I argued that the atrium should at least be preserved. That hope was partly realized when the new development plan incorporated a proposal to retain it. However, the atrium is to be reconfigured as an outdoor landscaped space, falling short of full spatial preservation.

Like human lives, cities change, and architecture, too, has a lifespan. What has passed must be allowed to pass. But memory, at the very least, should remain. With 2025, the Hilton Seoul disappears from the cityscape.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.

The author is a representative of the Migrant Center Donghaeng and is originally from Vietnam.

In Korea today, whenever people say that farms and factories are grinding to a halt because of labor shortages, or that care and services can no longer be sustained, migrants are quickly brought into the conversation. The phrase "indispensable people" has become almost routine. In media reports, policy papers and government announcements, migrants are consistently described as those who are needed. Yet that description applies only to the workplace. Once outside it, migrants remain largely invisible.

Even when they live in the same neighborhood or the same apartment complex, greetings are rarely exchanged. Children may attend the same school, yet conversations between parents seldom follow. In hospital waiting rooms, elevators and local grocery stores, people cross paths countless times without ever speaking. Korean society needs migrants but is remarkably reluctant to keep them close. We live alongside them, but we do not truly live together. Approaching those who seem somehow different still feels awkward.

Not long ago, an incident occurred in a low-rise apartment building in one neighborhood. Repeated complaints were filed about noise coming from a home where a Vietnamese couple lived with their young child. The issue, neighbors said, was loud sounds late into the evening. In reality, it was the sound of a child running around after dinner. It was hardly an unusual scene, one found in many Korean households. Other families in the building also had small children, yet complaints focused only on this home. According to those involved, a resident downstairs even added, "Isn't it because they're foreigners?"

A few days later, the couple laid additional mats inside their apartment to stop the child from running. In the evenings, they began taking the child outside. They did not protest or try to explain. Instead, they said, "Shouldn't we just be more careful?" Embedded in that response was a desire to avoid conflict and a quiet awareness that they were guests in this society. They shared the same living space, but the same standards did not apply.

Migrants are no longer confined to the margins of Korean society. They breathe the same air, ride the same buses and travel the same roads each day. They endure the same noise and inconvenience and feel the same rise in prices. Yet they are still defined not as people who live together but as people who come to work. Once labor ends, relationships are expected to end as well.

The problem is not only overt hostility. More widespread and more enduring than hatred is indifference. The attitude of, "Better not to get involved," or the remark, "Isn't it enough to live quietly?" draw a clear line. It signals that while migrants may live in the same neighborhood, they are not accepted as full members of the same society. The line may be invisible, but it operates powerfully in migrants' everyday lives.

Whenever conflict arises, cultural differences are too easily cited as the cause. People speak of different lifestyles, communication difficulties or differing standards of etiquette. Yet most of these differences are never explained, mediated or even given a chance to be addressed together. Without making the minimum effort required for co-existence, Korean society places responsibility squarely on migrants. The outcome is then reused as evidence that "there are problems after all."

Rarely do we ask why migrants remain framed only as those who must adapt. Why is it that Korean society does not change, while migrants alone are expected to do so? Co-existence is not a matter of one-sided adjustment. It is a process of gradually accommodating one another's ways of living. That process, however, is often postponed because it is inconvenient and time-consuming.

In a society where the migrant population continues to grow, the real question is not numerical. It is not about how many people arrive or ...

The author is a professor emeritus of sociology at Yonsei University.

The closing days of 2025 now overlap with the opening of 2026. Several events in the waning year marked historic turning points. On April 4, the Constitutional Court upheld an impeachment motion. On June 4, the government led by Lee Jae Myung took office. On Oct. 29, Korea and the United States concluded tariff negotiations, and on Oct. 31, Gyeongju hosted the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation, or APEC, summit. After the winter solstice, the lengthening daylight now guides the country toward a new year.

Looking back, the spirit of 2025 can be summed up as recovery and normalization. That spirit revealed both achievement and limitation. Restoring democratic order after a regressive episode of martial law and rebuilding diplomatic stability through a series of summits demonstrated Korea's institutional resilience. At the same time, entrenched political polarization, widening asset inequality, a persistent demographic crisis and accelerating regional decline underscored the country's unresolved structural challenges.

The idea of a "spirit of the times" poses two questions. One asks where we stand. The other asks where we should go. Answering them requires a sober assessment of the structural constraints and path dependencies shaping Korean society, followed by careful choices within those limits. A credible national strategy must rest on an objective diagnosis of the present and a realistic vision of what can be achieved.

As 2026 opens the second quarter-century of the 21st century, global structural constraints can be traced to a new phase that began after the 2008 financial crisis. Prolonged low growth and the normalization of a "new normal," the U.S.-China economic conflict and the emergence of a new Cold War order, the advance of artificial intelligence and industrial restructuring, the rise of populism and the erosion of democratic norms, entrenched inequality and intensifying social conflict, the spread of the information society alongside a post-truth environment, global population growth and the advent of the 100-year life, deepening climate crises and demands for global governance, the Covid-19 pandemic and rising systemic risks and the parallel strengthening of individualism and tribalism all define this phase.

These uncertainties are expected to persist in 2026. New protectionism and a new Cold War are replacing free trade and post-Cold War optimism. A period marked by the coexistence of war and peace is becoming more entrenched. Twenty-first-century populism, armed with a rigid divide between "elites" and "the people," is merging with left- and right-wing extremism to threaten pluralistic political orders. At the same time, relentless change driven by the convergence of AI, platforms and collective intelligence is pushing humanity further into a new civilizational era defined by the end of familiar certainties.

Against this backdrop, what should be Korea's guiding spirit in 2026? Three priorities stand out.

First is becoming an innovative, leading nation. Building on the achievements of an industrial economy and a democratic system, Korea must now pursue innovation-led growth with urgency through a concrete national strategy. Clear road maps for emerging industries such as AI, biotechnology and energy are needed, alongside actionable plans to transform core manufacturing sectors, including semiconductors, automobiles and shipbuilding. Comprehensive reforms in finance, labor, education and regulation must support these efforts. The lesson of the post-financial-crisis era is clear. Without new growth, there can be no new distribution. In an age of intensified innovation competition and accelerating AI adoption, Korea must actively respond to global constraints and seek a productive link between renewed economic growth and a new social contract.

Second is the democratization of democracy. Today's democratic crisis stems largely from populism that...

Monday marks one year since a Jeju Air passenger jet operating Flight 2216 from Thailand crashed while attempting to land at Muan International Airport in South Jeolla. Of the 181 people on board, including 175 passengers and six crew members, only two crew members survived. The remaining 179 on board were killed in what became one of the deadliest aviation disasters in Korea. Yet a full year later, authorities have failed to present even a definitive account of what caused the accident, fueling doubts among bereaved families about the independence and objectivity of the investigation.

After the crash, the government established the Aviation and Railway Accident Investigation Board under the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure and Transport to conduct a wide-ranging probe. The ministry initially announced that the aircraft suffered a bird strike shortly before landing, with bird feathers found in the engines. Both engines were later sent to France for detailed analysis by the manufacturer, CFM International. Based on those findings, the investigation board disclosed an interim assessment to families in July, stating that the pilot shut down the left engine rather than the severely damaged right one following the bird strike.

Families strongly objected, arguing that the statement appeared to shift responsibility onto the pilot. The board subsequently withdrew the interim briefing. Months have passed since then, but no comprehensive and official conclusion on the cause of the crash has been released. One year on, the case remains officially "under investigation."

Establishing the cause of an accident is the first step toward preventing similar tragedies. When fact-finding stalls, follow-up measures are inevitably weakened. The crash drew criticism that the aircraft, after making a belly landing partway down the runway, struck a localizer structure installed beyond the runway, triggering a fire that worsened the disaster. Acknowledging these concerns, the government announced in April that it would replace embankments outside runways at seven airports with breakaway structures designed to absorb impact energy.

Eight months later, however, improvements at five of the seven sites remain unfinished. The delay raises an unavoidable question about what authorities have accomplished in the year since the crash.

The lack of a clear investigative conclusion has also left criminal accountability adrift. A task force formed by the South Jeolla Provincial Police Agency searched Jeju Air's Seoul office and questioned more than 50 people, including the airline's chief executive, senior executives and air traffic control officials at Muan Airport. Yet no one has been indicted in connection with the case. Without an official determination of responsibility by transport authorities, legal proceedings have effectively stalled.

Families of the victims have consistently questioned the independence of the investigation board, noting that it includes current and former officials from the Transport Ministry. In response, the National Assembly revised the relevant law, and a new investigation board under the Prime Minister's office is expected to be launched early next year.

The government must now rebuild trust by appointing objective and neutral experts and delivering findings that the public can accept. A year after the tragedy, the families of the victims are still waiting for answers.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.

This article is by Bae Jae-sung and read by an artificial voice.

A so-called "poverty challenge" circulating on social media has drawn criticism for trivializing economic hardship, as users post pictures flaunting their wealth while claiming to suffer from terrible poverty.

These posts, often consumed as memes, juxtapose images of financial comfort with captions highlighting supposed financial struggle.

On platforms such as Instagram and X, photos have emerged showing meals like kimbap or instant ramen served in first- or business-class airplane seats, luxury cars with smart keys, or high-end fashion purchases. Captions such as "terrible poverty" or "can't even afford gas for commuting" accompany these photos.

Some posts depict spacious apartments adorned with expensive artwork, with captions reading "this is all I have."

While the posts adopt a tone of self-deprecating humor, they effectively serve as veiled displays of wealth. Online reactions have been critical, with comments questioning whether poverty can ever be a source of humor or trend, such as "If they were just showing off wealth, it might spark envy, but this is unsettling," and "No trend should cross this line."

Critics argue that the real-life struggles and social context of poverty are erased, leaving only the word "poverty" as a consumable motif.

Singer and actor Kim Dong-wan publicly raised concerns about the trend on his social media account, saying that they intend to use deprivation as a prop, rather than a self-deprecating joke.

"Poverty is not an emotion to be joked about," the post read. "There are words and depictions that should never be used, even for laughs. There are still university students deciding whether they can even buy a single triangle kimbap because they have no money."

Responding to supportive comments, Kim shared, "I also lived a long time with my single mother in a semi-basement apartment. The word 'poverty' always hits close to home." The posts he referenced have since been deleted.

Experts warn that the repeated circulation of content mocking poverty reflects a declining social sensitivity toward economic hardship. Similar to previous controversies like the "beggar's room" trend, such portrayals, regardless of intent, risk turning real hardship into entertainment, potentially causing harm to those who are genuinely struggling.

This article is by Bae Jae-sung and read by an artificial voice.

A so-called "poverty challenge" circulating on social media has drawn criticism for trivializing economic hardship, as users post pictures flaunting their wealth while claiming to suffer from terrible poverty.

These posts, often shared as memes, juxtapose images of financial comfort with captions that highlight supposed financial struggle.

On platforms such as Instagram and X, photos have emerged showing cheap meals like kimbap rice rolls or instant ramyeon served in first- or business-class airplane seats, luxury car smart keys or high-end fashion purchases, accompanied by ironic captions such as "terrible poverty" or "can't even afford gas for commuting."

Some posts depict spacious apartments adorned with expensive artwork, with captions reading "this is all I have."

While the posts adopt a self-deprecating tone, they effectively serve as veiled displays of wealth. Online reactions have been critical, with comments questioning whether poverty can ever be a source of humor or trend, such as "If they were just showing off wealth, it might spark envy, but this is unsettling," and "No trend should cross this line."

Critics argue that the real-life struggles and the social context of poverty are erased, leaving only the word "poverty" as a consumable motif.

Singer and actor Kim Dong-wan publicly raised concerns about the trend on his social media account, saying that they intend to use deprivation as a prop, rather than a self-deprecating joke.

"Poverty is not an emotion to be joked about," the post read. "There are words and depictions that should never be used, even for laughs. There are still university students deciding whether they can even buy a single triangle gimbap [seaweed rice roll] because they have no money."

Responding to supportive comments, Kim shared, "I also lived a long time with my single mother in a semi-basement apartment. The word 'poverty' always hits close to home." The posts he referenced have since been deleted.

Experts warn that the repeated circulation of content mocking poverty reflects a declining social sensitivity toward economic hardship. Similar to previous controversies, such as the "beggar's room" trend, these portrayals, regardless of intent, risk turning real hardship into entertainment, potentially harming those who are genuinely struggling.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.