Every speck of dust from the tides of history lands on someone's head like a sharpened blade.
The meeting ended, and the crowd trickled out, no longer the eager mob that had pushed to get in. They moved like a sluggish stream, water pressure too weak to flow. These were youth who'd given their prime years to rural labor, endured grueling times, only to return to Seoul jobless. Confusion and anxiety etched their faces, the future a murky haze.
Park Ji-young, usually so loud, pedaled her bike in silence, her movements stiff. After a while, she muttered, "What kind of jobs do you think they'll assign us?"
"No clue," Kim Min-jae replied.
"You're not worried at all?"
"You said the district office will visit, right? I'll just wait at home for the news."
"…"
Ji-young fixed him with a stare, eyes narrowing. "You've been acting weird lately. You used to fret over everything, wearing your worries like a signboard. Now you're all carefree. What's up?"
"I'm 19. Time to grow up, live a little lighter, you know?"
Min-jae brushed it off with a grin. "I'm heading to the library. You coming?"
"Nah, I'm gonna ask around, see if anyone knows more."
"Catch you later, then!"
He waved, kicked off, and his rickety *Samchully* bike tore down Hongdae's alley, practically sparking.
Hongdae's main strip, less than 300 meters from end to end, was a microcosm of Seoul's finest. You had Gimbap Cheonguk's cheap eats, Kyobo Bookstore's towering shelves, Hongik Hanbok for traditional garb, Seochang Tea House's fragrant brews, and Mapo Mandu's steaming dumplings. During the hard years, these iconic spots had been renamed or shuttered, but now they were slowly coming back to life.
There was also a small theater, Hongdae Playhouse, where a comedian named Yoo Jae-suk would crack jokes decades later.
Seoul City Library sat right in Hongdae, a mere 100 meters from Min-jae's alley. You could roll out of bed and be at work in minutes. The library's head office was a state-run giant, with branches in districts like subsidiaries of a chaebol.
Min-jae locked his bike and peeked inside. The place was buzzing, people milling around the social science section. A few years back, libraries could only stock nine book categories, six of them works by national leaders. But after the 1978 National Science Conference, new titles trickled in. Social science books weren't exactly thrilling, but people devoured them, starved for knowledge.
A young girl clutched a *World Atlas*, flipping pages with glee. An older man, looking every bit the scholar, pored over an English-language *Korea Travel Guide*. Magazines with serialized novels were the real draw, snatched up like kimchi at a market.
Min-jae crept up behind a woman and shouted, "Mom!"
"Aigoo!" She jumped, spinning around. "You little punk, trying to give me a heart attack!"
In her forties, slim with a sharp charm, she was his mother, Lee Soo-jin.
"Meeting's done?" she asked.
"Yup."
"Come here…"
She pulled him to a quiet corner outside. "What'd they say?"
"They're pushing collective cooperatives to soak up unemployed youth like me."
"A cooperative?" Soo-jin's brow furrowed. "No way. That won't do…"
She hesitated, then said, "We got a notice at work. Parents can retire early to free up jobs for their kids. Your dad's out doing deliveries all day, but I'm stable here at the library. Maybe I should retire early, let you take my spot?"
"You're barely in your forties! What, you gonna join the grannies doing aerobics in the park?"
"Aero-what?"
"Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out myself."
"But cooperatives pay peanuts, and people look down on them. It'll be tough finding a wife later."
"With this face?" Min-jae smirked. "I'll have no trouble."
Soo-jin couldn't argue—her son *was* a looker.
"Fine, we'll talk more tonight," she said. "Don't bring it up here."
"Mom, that *World Atlas* in there looks cool. Can you grab me one? I'll read it at home."
"You and your random books," she sighed, but headed inside. Moments later, she returned with the atlas. "Don't wander off. When your dad gets home, we'll discuss this properly."
---
The courtyard sprawled across seven inner sections, a maze of cramped homes. Min-jae's family had a 20-square-meter space: his parents in the inner room, him on a foldable bed outside.
No ondol heating here—they burned coal briquettes in winter, and power outages were routine. Bathing meant a trip to the public bathhouse or boiling water at home, a hassle. Three pots of water, one per person, with someone scrubbing in a metal tub while the others waited outside. The alley's shared outhouse was bad enough, so every household kept a chamber pot for nighttime emergencies. Come morning, you'd haul it to the public toilet to empty. Even K-pop stars like IU probably did it back in the day.
Seoul City Library was a solid gig, but it paled next to factory jobs. Factory workers had it all—cradle-to-grave benefits, the envy of every Seoulite. Min-jae's parents both worked, pulling in about 100,000 won a month combined, enough to live comfortably. Some coworkers, though, supported elderly parents and three or four kids on the same pay. That was real struggle.
Prices were low: rice at 190 won per kilo, pork at 750 won, cabbage at 30 won. But supply was tight, and you needed ration tickets for everything. No ticket, no purchase, no matter how much cash you had. Tickets were a whole saga of their own.
It was noon now. The sun pierced the yellowish haze, casting a faint spring glow into the house. Min-jae sat at a low table, flipping through the *World Atlas*. It showcased Korea's rivers, mountains, and landscapes in vivid detail.
The meeting's talk was vague to others, but Min-jae saw through it. The plan was simple: shunt jobless youth into collective enterprises—fixing furniture, sewing clothes, selling kimbap, running small eateries. Whatever kept people busy.
It made sense. In 1949, Seoul had 73,000 service businesses; now, only 10,000 remained, while the population had ballooned. Demand far outstripped supply. These cooperatives would fill the gap, ensuring food on tables.
Collectives were messy, though—murky ownership, tangled in old policies. In Seoul, they were a step above self-employment, which wouldn't take off until next year. Others might scoff at cooperatives, but Min-jae didn't care. It was a pit stop, not a destination.
Long-term, the early reform years offered clear paths:
Play the intellectual and write gritty "scar literature" about hardship. Scrape by with a steady job. Head south to Busan, dive into trade, get rich quick, and maybe crash hard. Or chase the entertainment world, cozying up to rising stars like Kim Hye-soo, Han Ji-min, or Park Shin-hye.
Naturally, he'd stick to what he knew best.
"This is the perfect era to shake things up," Min-jae mused. "But those days are far off. First, I'm getting out of this dump. No more emptying chamber pots."
His mind settled, a weight lifting. He flipped to a page in the atlas, eyes landing on a stunning landscape of jagged cliffs and misty peaks.
"Seoraksan?"
He grinned, nodding. "Born to roam the mountains, where the views are endless… Seoraksan's the spot!"
(End of Chapter)