Korea JoongAng Daily - Daily News from Korea

Lee Hyun-sang

The author is a columnist at the JoongAng Ilbo.

Performance bonuses at SK hynix have become a major topic of conversation among office workers in Korea. After controversy last year, the company pledged to allocate 10 percent of its operating profit to bonus payments, removed any cap and committed to maintaining the system for a decade. With the semiconductor sector enjoying an extraordinary boom, some forecasts suggest annual operating profit could reach 250 trillion won ($170.1 billion), which would translate into average payouts of about 700 million won for each of the company's roughly 34,500 employees. There are even speculative claims that next year's bonuses could approach 1.3 billion won per employee. While such projections may be overly optimistic, they have stirred both envy and frustration among workers.

The atmosphere at rival Samsung Electronics has also grown tense. Labor unions are demanding bonuses equivalent to 15 percent of operating profit and are prepared to strike if their demands are not met. Outside the company, however, public sentiment is less sympathetic. One-person protests have appeared near the company's headquarters, criticizing what some see as excessive demands. Compensation figures reaching hundreds of millions or even billions of won remain unfamiliar to many. While performance-based pay can boost productivity and morale, the scale and structure now being discussed raise questions about whether they are appropriate.

Economist Robert H. Frank of Cornell University has argued that people tend to overestimate headwinds and underestimate tailwinds when explaining success. Rather than acknowledging good fortune, individuals are more inclined to credit their own effort and ability. His book "Success and Luck: Good Fortune and the Myth of Meritocracy" (2016) examines this tendency. The insight helps frame the current debate, as extraordinary rewards can obscure the broader conditions that made such outcomes possible in the first place.

The rapid rise of generative AI since late 2022 has acted as a powerful tailwind for the semiconductor industry. SK hynix, once considered an underdog, spent more than a decade investing heavily in high bandwidth memory, or HBM, a technology long seen as niche. Its current performance is clearly the result of sustained effort. But it is equally difficult to deny the role played by the sudden and unexpectedly strong surge in AI demand. Strategic misjudgments by established competitors also worked in its favor. Amid expectations of massive bonuses, it is reasonable to ask how much of this success reflects capability and how much reflects favorable conditions.

An even more important issue concerns the distribution of rewards. SK hynix has announced that bonuses will be paid over three years in an 8:1:1 structure, but they remain largely cash-based. By contrast, global technology companies such as Nvidia, Google and Apple provide a significant portion of compensation in stock, often in the form of restricted stock units. These are typically vested over several years, linking employee incentives to long-term corporate growth and shareholder value. This approach differs fundamentally from systems that distribute short-term gains primarily in cash. The contrast highlights differing views on whether rewards should emphasize immediate outcomes or sustained performance.

Employees are not the only stakeholders entitled to share in corporate success. Last year, SK hynix returned 2.1 trillion won in cash dividends to shareholders, less than half of the estimated 4.7 trillion won allocated to employee bonuses under the 10 percent pledge. If Samsung Electronics were to match its rival's bonus levels, total payouts to employees could significantly exceed dividends to shareholders. This raises concerns about the balance of capital allocation. Excessive bonuses risk placing strain on the company's growth engine. While allocating 10 percent of operating profit to bonuse...

The ruling Democratic Party of Korea and the main opposition People Power Party are facing criticism after jointly passing a revised Political Parties Act at the National Assembly late on Saturday night. The law allows local party organizations in electoral districts to operate a single office, which has prompted concerns that it could revive the problems associated with the abolished district party system. While both parties insist the change does not amount to restoring the old system, critics say their response ignores public sentiment and reflects a lack of accountability.

The district party structure was dismantled 22 years ago to curb excessive political spending and prevent parties from becoming dominated by powerful figures and incumbent lawmakers. A compromise allowed party organizations to remain in constituencies without maintaining physical offices. About a decade ago, the Constitutional Court upheld this framework, warning that permitting offices without sufficient party democratization could revive past abuses. Despite little change in public expectations or legal reasoning, the two major parties pushed ahead with the revision without holding a proper public hearing.

If the goal was to address the practical difficulties faced by local party officials without parliamentary seats, critics argue that lawmakers should have proposed safeguards, such as stronger measures to block illegal funding. Instead, the bill was passed alongside long-delayed decisions on electoral district boundaries, which had already missed deadlines by more than four months. Observers say the timing reflects shared interests between the two parties, particularly in regions where electoral competition is weak.

Smaller parties have voiced strong opposition, warning that the move will entrench a two-party system and deepen the role of money in politics. The speed of the process has also drawn criticism. The bill, agreed upon on Friday afternoon, passed the plenary session in less than 12 hours. Critics argue that such rapid handling of politically sensitive legislation undermines transparency and accountability.

A separate revision to the Public Official Election Act has also sparked debate. The amendment raises the proportion of proportional representation seats in metropolitan councils from 10 percent to 14 percent, a compromise between the Democratic Party's proposal of 15 percent and the People Power Party's 13 percent. While framed as a measure to expand opportunities for smaller parties, opponents argue that it ultimately reinforces the dominance of the two major parties.

The change is expected to require an additional 3 billion won ($2 million) in public funds, but lawmakers have offered little explanation for the increased cost. According to critics, the lack of detailed justification highlights the disconnect between political decision-making and public accountability. Meanwhile, both parties have struggled to cooperate on major judicial reform issues that directly affect governance and livelihoods.

This contrast has deepened public frustration. For many observers, the episode reinforces perceptions that political reform in Korea is moving in the wrong direction. Rather than beginning with efforts to reduce entrenched privileges, the latest legislative moves appear to strengthen them and may further erode trust in the political system.

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 Yoon Ji-won, Lee Yu-jung, Yoon Sung-min, Michael Lee and read by an artificial voice.

Korea could deploy an existing antipiracy unit in the Middle East to join a multinational naval coalition to secure freedom of navigation in the Strait of Hormuz once the Iran war ends, government sources said Sunday.

Korean government officials have signaled Seoul is likely to proceed by first expressing support, then helping organize the coalition before making indirect and direct contributions such as dispatching liaison officers and deploying naval assets.

Defense Minister Ahn Gyu-back outlined this phased approach during a parliamentary hearing last week, saying Seoul was preparing contingency plans in case disruptions to commercial shipping through the vital waterway persist.

Momentum appears to have shifted in favor a coalition after a summit led by Britain and France on securing maritime routes through the Strait of Hormuz, where President Lee Jae Myung pledged that Korea would make a "substantive contribution."

"Korea imports roughly 70 percent of its crude oil through the Strait of Hormuz and is therefore a key stakeholder," Lee said at the meeting, signaling a willingness to move beyond diplomatic support.

The summit, co-chaired by British Prime Minister Keir Starmer and French President Emmanuel Macron, brought together leaders of 49 countries, as well as international organizations, to discuss ways to ensure free passage through the Hormuz, a critical global oil chokepoint effectively shut down amid the U.S.-Israeli war on Iran.

Officials say that Lee's comments are being interpreted internally as signals of his government's readiness to join a potential coalition, though key details remain under review.

At the center of the plan is the possible deployment of the Cheonghae Unit, the Korean naval contingent currently involved in antipiracy efforts in the Gulf of Aden.

Rather than formally changing its mandate — which would require approval from the National Assembly — the government is considering expanding its operational scope to waters near the strait.

This approach would allow Seoul to contribute to coalition efforts without triggering a political controversy regarding overseas troop deployments.

One course of action under discussion is to dispatch the ROKS Wang Geon destroyer, which is scheduled to rotate into the Cheonghae Unit in June, with enhanced capabilities such as antidrone systems.

Officials see the move as a flexible way to position assets for potential coalition operations while maintaining the unit's existing mandate.

Discussions over a potential maritime coalition in the Strait of Hormuz have picked up as tensions in the region continue to disrupt shipping.

Twenty-six South Korean vessels remain effectively stranded in the region, with efforts to secure safe passage facing setbacks.

A Korean-flagged ship that attempted to transit the strait on Thursday night was forced to turn back despite prior clearance from Iran's foreign ministry after the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) reimposed maritime controls.

The IRGC Navy elaborated on Saturday that the strait will remain closed until the U.S. blockade of Iranian ships in and out of the waterway is lifted.

"No vessel should make any movement from its anchorage in the Persian Gulf and the Sea of Oman, and approaching the Strait of Hormuz will be considered cooperation with the enemy," the IRGC said in a statement.

Revolutionary Guard gunboats opened fire on a tanker, and an unknown projectile hit a container vessel, damaging some containers, according to the British military's United Kingdom Maritime Trade Operations center on Saturday.

India's foreign ministry separately said it summoned Iran's ambassador over a "serious incident" involving Iranian fire on two India-flagged merchant ships, especially after Iran earlier let several India-bound ships through.

The incident has highlighted apparent divisions within Iran's leadership, with...

This article is by Lee Yu-jung and read by an artificial voice.

North Korea fired multiple short-range ballistic missiles (SRBM) into the East Sea on Sunday from an area associated with its submarine fleet, prompting speculation that the launches could be linked to its submarine-launched ballistic missile (SLBM) program.

South Korea's Joint Chiefs of Staff said the missiles were launched around 6:10 a.m. from Sinpo, South Hamgyong Province, flying about 140 kilometers (87 miles) toward waters off Alsom, an island in North Hamgyong Province often used as a target in weapons tests.

The launches consisted of roughly five projectiles exhibiting typical SRBM characteristics, according to Seoul's military.

While South Korean and U.S. authorities are weighing the possibility that the missiles were fired from land, some analysts say the launch area — home to the North's main submarine assets — raises the possibility that the tested weapons were SLBMs.

The Sinpo base hosts the North's 3,000-ton Hero Kim Kun Ok tactical nuclear attack submarine, as well as the 8.24 Yongung, a test platform long used in SLBM development.

Pyongyang first conducted an SLBM test from the platform in 2016 and has used it for subsequent launches, including one in 2022.

The launches point to continued efforts by North Korean leader Kim Jong-un to develop a second-strike capability, which would enable his regime to launch nuclear weapons from underwater assets even if the country suffered nuclear strikes.

Sunday's tests are the latest in a flurry of recent weapons-related activities by the regime. North Korea conducted multiple missile and engine tests earlier this month, including test launches of the KN-23 SRBM with different warhead configurations. It also launched strategic cruise missiles and antiship missiles from a newly unveiled 5,000-ton destroyer on April 12.

Some analysts say the tests have been timed to take advantage of the diversion of global attention to ongoing tensions in the Middle East.

Others point to internal and diplomatic factors. North Korea has often staged major weapons tests around key political anniversaries, including April 15, the birthday of Kim Il Sung, founder of the regime and Kim Jong-un's grandfather.

The latest launches also come shortly after a visit to Pyongyang by Beijing's foreign minister, Wang Yi, which some observers have taken as a signal by the North that it will press ahead with weapons development regardless of China's preference.

Still, officials have been cautious in their assessments of the launches, as North Korea has previously conducted land-based tests near submarine facilities to mimic SLBM activity.

"The reported range and trajectory [of these projectiles] make it difficult to definitively classify this as an SLBM," said Shin Jong-woo, an analyst at the Korea Defense and Security Forum. "They could also be tests of a new tactical ballistic missile."

The U.S. Indo-Pacific Command said it was aware of the launches but concluded that they did not pose an immediate threat to U.S. territory or its allies.

South Korea's presidential office convened an emergency security meeting following the launches and issued a statement condemning them as a violation of United Nations Security Council resolutions.

It also urged the North to "halt further provocations."

Seoul's Defense Ministry added that the South Korean military is maintaining a firm combined defense posture with the United States and remains prepared to respond to any escalation by the North.

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 Yoon Ji-won and read by an artificial voice.

Late in the evening on Wednesday, Iranian-born model and influencer Hoda Niku received a direct message (DM) on her Instagram account — not from a loyal fan or an angry detractor but from the director general for development cooperation at the Korean Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Niku, a resident of Korea, had criticized Seoul's decision to provide $500,000 in humanitarian assistance to Tehran. In a post uploaded to her account earlier that day, she argued that the aid "will not go to the people but to a dictatorship responsible for killing 40,000 people and will be used for terrorism or weapons."

The claim spread rapidly among users unfamiliar with the aid-delivering process and triggered a wave of online debate over whether the Iranian government could divert the funds.

In response, the Foreign Ministry issued a statement, stressing that the aid would be delivered through the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) and therefore could not be appropriated by the Iranian government. The clarification, however, did little to stem the online backlash.

Nikou later deleted the post amid mounting criticism and explained that she had intended to reflect the frustrations of ordinary Iranians and hoped any aid would reach civilians in need. By then, however, screenshots and reposts had already circulated widely, amplifying skepticism toward the policy.

This prompted an unusual intervention.

Lee Kyoo-ho, the director general for development cooperation at the ministry, logged into a little-used personal Instagram account and sent Niku a DM that night, introducing himself and leaving his phone number for her to contact.

When the pair spoke over the phone the following morning, Lee explained to Niku that the assistance would not be transferred as cash but provided in the form of relief supplies through the ICRC, which independently plans and implements projects, as well as monitors delivery on the ground — all without passing through the Iranian government.

He also told her the ministry coordinated with aid groups, including the Korea NGO Council for Overseas Development Cooperation, to ensure the aid was delivered in accordance with the neutrality of the ICRC and its operating procedures.

After the call, Niku posted on Instagram that she had "misunderstood" the nature of the aid being sent to Iran and thanked Lee for helping clarify the issue.

The episode marked a rare instance of a government official bypassing formal press channels to engage directly with an online critic.

The controversy also highlights a broader challenge for policymakers. Public skepticism toward overseas aid has long been present in Korea, where critics question why taxpayer money is being spent abroad, even though the country itself has been a recipient of international aid.

Officials said that not responding to the added allegation would have risked deepening distrust not just of the assistance being sent to Iran but of aid policy more broadly.

"That kind of misunderstanding, if left unchecked, could have undermined confidence in humanitarian assistance as a whole," one diplomatic source told the JoongAng Ilbo.

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 Cho Mun-gyu, Yoon Sung-min, Michael Lee and read by an artificial voice.

President Lee Jae Myung credited Korea's ability to overcome his predecessor's brief imposition of martial law to the 1960 pro-democracy movement in a speech to mark the 66th anniversary of the nationwide protests on Sunday.

Lee drew a parallel between the uprising on April 19, 1960, which toppled then-President Syngman Rhee, and the public response to former President Yoon Suk Yeol's December 2024 declaration of emergency martial law, saying the "resounding cries" of the people in both events brought down an "arrogant and unjust regime."

"It was the spirit of the April 19 uprising — which ended the ruthless dictatorship — that enabled Korea to overcome the insurrection plot of that cold night in December 2024," Lee said at the April 19th National Cemetery in northern Seoul, where the remains of those killed in the uprising rest.

About 1,000 people, including first lady Kim Hea Kyung, democracy activists, families of the dead and government officials, attended Sunday's ceremony.

Held under the theme "Small lights come together to form a path," the event framed individual acts of resistance as the basis for broader national unity.

The April 19 protests, which toppled Rhee's authoritarian government, are widely considered a foundational moment in Korea's democratic history.

The uprising was sparked by public anger over rigged elections under Rhee's government.

Nationwide student protests built up over weeks before culminating on April 19, when clashes with armed police left hundreds of demonstrators dead or wounded.

The uprising ultimately forced Rhee to step down after 12 years in power.

Lee characterized the protests as the first in a series of major acts of resistance by Koreans against authoritarianism, including the May 18 Gwangju Democratization Movement and the June 1987 protests.

He argued that this trajectory underpinned Korea's rise into a top 10 global economy and a major cultural force.

"On the foundation of the democratic ideals of April 19, Korea achieved remarkable growth and prosperity," Lee said before adding that the country's liberal democratic order had helped unlock individual potential and turn crises into opportunities.

At the same time, Lee warned that democracy remains vulnerable, particularly as the country's socioeconomic gaps widen.

"The boots of dictatorship burrow into the cracks of inequality and poverty and justify the destruction of democracy," he said, underscoring his view that politics must remain focused on improving people's livelihoods.

Lee urged the National Assembly to uphold that responsibility, saying democracy must continuously prove itself as "the most useful and rational system" for safeguarding dignity and enabling citizens to pursue their own aspirations.

He warned that "antidemocratic forces" could otherwise threaten basic freedoms.

The president further pledged expanded recognition and support for democracy activists, including stronger medical assistance for older adults who were active members of the April 19 movement and efforts to identify and honor additional contributors, 70 of whom received official recognition this year.

The ceremony featured a joint choir performance of the national anthem and wreath-laying by students from schools that participated in the 1960 protests.

Lee departed shortly after the ceremony for a six-day state visit to India and Vietnam, where he is scheduled to hold summit talks with Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi and Vietnamese Communist Party General Secretary To Lam.

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 Park Sang-moon and read by an artificial voice.

For artist Kim Eun-kyung, painting does not end with the brush. It continues in the kiln, where heat reshapes her images into something less controlled, and often more striking, than she first imagined.

Her work unfolds on white porcelain slabs formed from clay, a surface that replaces the traditional canvas. She paints with heat-resistant pigments, then subjects each piece to a rigorous firing process that ultimately determines its final appearance.

Each work is fired at temperatures exceeding 1,250 degrees Celsius (2,282 degrees Fahrenheit) for more than 10 hours, a stage in which glaze and pigment fuse into translucent layers. The process produces a luminous depth that distinguishes her work from oil or watercolor painting, with colors that appear suspended beneath the surface.

Kim, 51, began her career as a Western-style painter, showing an early aptitude for drawing. Yet she had long been drawn to the idea of working on porcelain. That shift took shape during her studies in ceramic painting at Sejong University's graduate school of convergence arts. Since 2019, she has focused on developing a practice that reinterprets traditional ceramic techniques through a contemporary painterly language.

Her work moves between disciplines, dissolving the boundary between ceramics — an art shaped by clay and fire — and two-dimensional painting. The process begins with the careful making of the ceramic slab. Clay must be rolled to an even thickness and handled with precision to prevent warping or cracking during drying and firing. She uses high-quality kaolin or white porcelain clay to create a clean surface that allows color to emerge with clarity.

Color enters the work through techniques rooted in tradition. Kim often uses the underglaze method, applying pigment to a bisque-fired slab before covering it with glaze and firing it again at temperatures above 1,250 degrees Celsius. The pigments settle beneath the glaze, producing a soft, layered effect.

She also employs overglaze techniques, firing pieces again at lower temperatures — around 700 to 800 degrees Celsius — to achieve brighter and more intricate hues. In some works, she introduces texture through inlay and sculptural surface treatments, known as matière, carving into the clay before it dries and filling the grooves with differently colored clay or pigments. These methods draw from the buncheong ceramics of the Joseon period (1392-1910), but are reinterpreted through a contemporary lens.

Despite the careful preparation, the kiln introduces an element of uncertainty. During the long firing process, glaze may melt and flow unpredictably, and pigments can shift subtly under intense heat. Because each piece must be fired for more than 10 hours, the process also demands considerable physical stamina. These changes, difficult to control, often deepen the visual complexity of the finished work.

Kim's imagery draws heavily from nature. Water droplets, peonies, lotus flowers, sunflowers and ginkgo trees recur throughout her work, reflecting memories of a childhood spent outdoors. Scenes of playing in mountain streams appear as glistening droplets, carrying a sense of movement and quiet nostalgia.

More recently, she has turned to the long-tailed tit, specifically a variety distinguished by its entirely white head. In her work, the small bird appears adorned with traditional Joseon-era headwear — royal crowns, scholar's hats and bridal coronets — blending humor with cultural symbolism.

The bird, often depicted as small and endearing, suggests wisdom and the beauty of nature. By placing it in historical attire, Kim explores the relationship between past and present, tradition and modernity. Each variation reflects her effort to reinterpret Korean heritage through a contemporary visual language.

Through her work, Kim seeks to offer viewers a sense of comfort and quiet joy. Recurring motifs such as water droplets and...

This article is by Lee Soo-jung and read by an artificial voice.

Nia Cho, a Korean barista and YouTuber based in London who likes to chat with customers, noticed a glaring difference in how Westerners and Koreans respond to a question: "How are you?"

"While working at cafes in London, I casually engaged in small talk with about 80 percent of customers," Cho told the Korea JoongAng Daily.

"In London, asking 'How are you?' worked like a magical conversation starter. In Korea, however, when customers were asked the same question, they replied, 'Pardon me?'"

Her viewers and subscribers — posting predominantly in Korean in the comments — found her interactions new and refreshing. Some wrote that they felt the need to "learn how to make small talk and practice before going abroad."

Casual chatting with strangers seems to be a common challenge among Koreans. In Korean society, at large, small talk is absent.

When ordering at cafes and restaurants or checking out in stores, only the necessary questions and answers are tossed back and forth between customers and clerks. Once you place your order and pay the price, interactions end.

In elevators, on park benches or on the street, people largely refrain from exchanging greetings. Even if they make eye contact, they often pretend not to have seen each other and walk past one another — as if it were an unspoken norm.

This does not, however, necessarily mean that Koreans are not talkative or callously apathetic toward others.

If not antisocial, then why do Koreans avoid small talk with strangers?

Silence speaks for itself

Noh Hee-young, a hairdresser with 25 years of experience, still gets hesitant when welcoming customers, especially new clients she has never met.

In the blink of an eye, she scans whether a customer is communicative, which she described as the most stressful part of her job. Quite often, she strategically remains silent.

"Some customers keep their eyes closed throughout the service from the moment they sit in the salon chair," Noh said. "In these situations, I do not ask questions or initiate conversation."

Noh also interprets her clients' short or barely audible replies to her small talk attempts as indirect signals that they prefer silence.

Koreans' implicit tendency to avoid small talk can be seen as a mindful gesture to respect others' boundaries and err on the side of caution to avoid unintentional disrespect, said communication expert Lim Chul-woong.

"It is slightly different from the Western concept of 'personal space,'" Lim said.

"In the Korean language, maintaining silence or holding back are not meaningless or void actions. They convey thoughtfulness and discretion. Thus, not starting a conversation does not necessarily equate to indifference. It can rather be seen as a gesture meant to prevent a situation causing discomfort to strangers and their counterparts."

In this context, the ability to read the room through unspoken cues — known as nunchi in Korean — matters.

Kim Sang-kyun, a cognitive scientist and professor at Kyung Hee University's Graduate School of Business, said Koreans attune themselves to settings and others' moods through implicit clues.

"While Westerners assess the personalities of strangers or those nearby through small talk, Koreans just gauge them through nunchi in silence," Kim said, noting that communication in Western culture is more centered on explicit statements.

What makes Koreans remain silent

Communication experts pointed out that skipping small talk is more than just a Korean way of respecting privacy, but is the combined result of a binary way of thinking about questions and scenarios, along with a hierarchical social stratum.

Prof. Kim attributed the lack of small talk to Koreans' belief that "everything has a single correct answer."

"Small talk is supposed to be about minor, casual topics," Kim said. "However, Koreans cannot constantly get away from thinking about what the most appropriate topic would be. This seals their ...

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

Along a road above Seongbuk Stream in central Seoul, cherry blossom trees — now slightly past their peak — still draw passersby for photos. But the large crowds lining the sidewalk aren't here just for the seasonal flowers.

Across the street, the real attraction reveals itself.

Smoke curls into the spring air as diners flip samgyeopsal (pork belly) on hot grills atop red plastic tables set just outside restaurant doors. Some are digging into bubbling stews or fried dishes, while all around, glasses clink as groups down soju, beer and highballs.

With warmer air has come yajang season — Korea's seasonal ritual of dining outdoors. Yajang roughly refers to bars or eateries that set up temporary tables outdoors and serve food and drinks, turning streets into open-air dining spaces.

In recent weeks, Seongbuk Stream near Hansung University Station has become one of the city's hottest yajang destinations. Dubbed "cherry blossom yajang," the area went viral online, with scenes of diners grilling meat beneath blooming trees.

Even as the blossoms began to fall on Saturday during a visit to the area, the crowds showed little sign of thinning. By early evening, the outdoor seating at nearly every restaurant along the stretch was packed.

At many spots, the waitlist easily exceeded 50 groups, and dining was limited to 90 minutes.

"It wasn't like this last year," said a staff member at one samgyeopsal yajang restaurant. At the height of the cherry blossom season in early April this year, some waitlists topped 300 groups. "Last weekend, people were waiting up to four hours just to sit outside."

From plastic chairs to a citywide trend

As temperatures rise, yajang feels almost instinctive. In the cool evening breeze, with nature as a backdrop and space for conversation, meals take on a charm that indoor dining rarely matches.

Unlike Europe's terrace culture, where diners linger over coffee or meals, Korean yajang is more hands-on. Meat sizzles on the grill and gopchang (pork intestines) bubbles over flame, though simpler options like fried chicken are also common.

Yajang also often doubles as an after-dinner stop, a more casual setting for drinks. Being outdoors, it feels less confined, allowing groups to relax and talk more freely.

And there is little that feels formal about it. No polished terraces or carefully plated dishes, just bright red plastic chairs, folding tables and disposable chopsticks and cups. Drinks — alcoholic or not — tie the table together as cups clink in cheers.

That raw, communal energy has helped yajang evolve into one of Korea's most popular dining trends — one that increasingly draws international visitors as well.

But it was not always a cool night out.

As Korea began industrializing in the 1960s, a growing work force fueled demand for places to unwind over drinks, gradually transforming the simple snack stalls that once lined the streets into what are now yajang spots.

Euljiro's Nogari Alley captures that history well. With a storied past, the area was once filled with small, modest shacks that served tired workers from the printing shops that dominated the neighborhood for decades. The legacy continues today, with longstanding restaurants like Manseon Hof.

But as demand grows, so do the formats, expanding into new spaces across the city.

At Dalmaji Square Barbecue in Euljiro, central Seoul, tucked between buildings, a narrow alley opens into a wide courtyard filled with nearly 100 tables — more reminiscent of a German beer festival than a typical Korean street setup. By 3:30 p.m. on Sunday, groups were already queuing for the 4 p.m. opening, with the waitlist exceeding 350 "teams," as they're referred to in Korean.

"It feels like you're connecting with everyone here," said Kim Hyun-tae, who secured one of the first tables. "And somehow the beer tastes better here."

Other spots are taking yajang to new heights, literally. At the Seoul Express Bus ...

This article is by Han Yeong-ik, Oh So-yeong, Ryu Hyo-rim, Michael Lee and read by an artificial voice.

For 27-year-old Joo Yeong-ji, who joined protests calling for Yoon Suk Yeol's ouster after his brief declaration of martial law on Dec. 3, 2024, the political crisis gave way to disillusionment.

"After two impeachments, all I have left is skepticism toward those in power. I'll stay engaged in politics — but I won't support any party," she said, referring to the removal of Yoon last year and that of former President Park Geun-hye in 2017.

Her remarks reflect a broad shift toward disappointment in the country's main political parties among young adults in their 20s who once filled the streets in defense of democracy.

Interviews with 35 people in their 20s conducted by the JoongAng Ilbo between April 6 and 11 — including university students, job seekers and office workers — share a common grievance: that their participation has not improved the country's political culture. Instead, interviewees said their fatigue with polarization and frustration with Korea's two-party system have only deepened with time.

For many, the turning point was not a single event, but the accumulation of them.

Kwon Seong-woo, 29, said he expected a change to come after he began supporting the liberal Democratic Party (DP) in light of Park's impeachment.

"But what came back instead was soaring housing prices," he said. "Even after the martial law episode, both parties appear obsessed with fighting each other. Voting didn't seem to make a difference."

He said the blame lay "not with people in their 20s abandoning politics, but rather with politics abandoning us."

Hopes that the country's fractious political culture would improve after Park's impeachment crisis faded soon afterward, according to one 25-year-old office worker who spoke on condition of anonymity.

"Right now, the DP is focused on power struggles, while the People Power Party [PPP] is mired in internal conflicts," she said. "It's hard not to feel disillusioned."

A 28-year-old interviewee said both parties had contributed to the erosion of popular trust.

"The PPP damaged the conservative cause with martial law, while the DP appears only intent on reshaping power structures to its liking," he said. "I'm tired of retaliatory politics. I don't even consider lending my support to either side."

For many in their 20s, it is not just the parties themselves, but also polarization that has pushed them away from politics.

Ahn Se-min, 27, said he had once joined rallies in 2019 to support then-Justice Minister nominee Cho Kuk. Now, he regrets that choice.

"When you get caught up in a particular faction's interests, the resulting harm to the public can outweigh possible benefits," he reflected, adding that the experience led him "to become an active independent."

Several interviewees said differences in political affiliation affected their personal relationships.

Kwon said a close friend cut ties with him after disagreements following the martial law episode. Others described avoiding political discussions altogether.

"If you talk about politics among friends, you get labeled," said 26-year-old Kim Hyung-ju, adding that such categorizations "only breed cynicism."

Another student said conversations among politically engaged peers often devolve into mutual contempt, with accusations and insults exchanged behind closed doors.

"In Germany, my friends can talk about politics freely," said one 26-year-old university student who asked to stay anonymous. "But here, because polarization is so extreme, speaking up can feel like social suicide."

Underlying the disillusionment is a sense that neither of the country's dominant parties is willing — or able — to represent younger voters.

Joo said her expectations that politics could improve her life had faded over time.

"Since entering the work force and experiencing fraud in the housing market, I no longer believe politics can change my life for the better," she ...