Yangjae-daero, a six-lane road running through Gangnam, appears to be just another busy thoroughfare transporting commuters to the area’s luxurious officetels and high-end apartment complexes. Thousands cross this road daily, yet few give it a second thought.
However, few roads in South Korea starkly divide two contrasting economic realities as this one does.
On one side stands an apartment complex where prices exceed 200 million won per 3.3 square meters. The value of these properties continues to soar amid a boom in artificial intelligence, which has propelled semiconductor companies to become some of the most valuable in the country, and is expected to drive South Korea's nominal economic growth rate to its highest level in 30 years.
Crossing the road reveals another side of Seoul: Guryong Village. Once thought unlikely to survive into the 21st century, this last shantytown in Seoul offers more than just a view of poverty. What stands out most is a deeply ingrained, quintessentially Korean dream: the desire to change one’s life through education.
While walking through the village, we encountered a resident in a blue tank top, slowly making his way through the area. Cheon Young-hwan, born in 1952, was the first district head of Guryong Village. Unlike others, he did not seem wary of us, and he shared stories from the village's early days to the present.
The challenges he faced mirrored the issues we had sensed since entering the village. He recounted that when he first arrived, Guryong Village was essentially an administrative blind spot. People lived there, but their addresses did not officially exist, which became a significant problem when his two sons were young.
Without a recognized address, he could not send his children to the public school he desired. Consequently, he approached a family in a nearby apartment, asking if he could use their address for his children’s education.
“I pleaded with them,” he said. “I was not the only one in this situation.”
This story could belong to any time or place.
Later, while interviewing people who had never visited Guryong Village, we were surprised to find how common such stories were, merely differing by location.
A teacher from Bundang, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods near Seoul, noted that the top-performing students were often the ones who missed the most school. They would meet the minimum attendance requirements mandated by law and spend the rest of their time at private academies, progressing faster than in public education.
A mother sending her daughter to a prestigious private elementary school stated that the school's appeal was not its curriculum but the lifelong friendships formed there. Cheon Young-hwan had struggled to find a way to send his sons to public school, while other parents, despite their children already attending good schools, poured money into private education in search of better opportunities. Ultimately, they were all seeking different forms of the same effort for better education.
Cheon Young-hwan led us through a narrow passageway, barely wide enough for us to bend down to pass.
He pointed to a friend’s house, which had recently been vacated due to health issues.
The wallpaper was stained with mold, not a new development but a long-standing condition. Yet, remnants of his friend's dedication to studying remained throughout the room.
Books scattered on the floor, more piled on the desk, and materials taped to the walls were evidence of someone who had lived and studied with great intensity. Cheon Young-hwan explained that his friend had borrowed books from various homes in the village to continue his education. Even as he prepared to leave due to health issues, he had not put down his books.
For him, learning was the only way to survive and continue working in this environment. Eventually, his health deteriorated, forcing him to leave the village.
We were also allowed to enter the adjacent house, which had been vacated a bit earlier. This home still contained belongings left behind during the move, and a few dusty books were neatly arranged on a shelf. While not as desperate as the previous room, it too bore signs of someone who had not abandoned their studies.
Throughout the village, we encountered similar traces. In one home, newspapers were piled high, evidence of someone who diligently kept up with current events every day. For the residents here, learning was not confined to the walls of a school; it was a persistent effort to connect with the world and survive.
Days later, we returned to Cheon Young-hwan for a meal, hoping to learn more about life in Guryong Village. His refrigerator held an unfinished bottle of makgeolli and various side dishes, and during our meal, we occasionally forgot we were in Guryong Village. It felt like dining at a grandparent's home.
Cheon Young-hwan now lived alone in the same house where his mother and grandmother once resided. Like him, many residents had initially sent their children to school outside the village, remaining in Guryong to work.
His sons had grown up and long since left the village he still calls home. The same goes for his grandchildren. “They all left,” he said.
“When it was time to go, I told them to go.”
Families with students still living in Guryong Village are not much different. They spend time outside the village and only occasionally return.
Those who remain do not view their lives as particularly difficult. What they regret most is not having pursued further education themselves and not being able to raise their children in a better environment. Perhaps that is why they have all sent their children away from the village.
Understanding their own thirst for knowledge, they do not wish to pass that thirst onto their children.
Their passion for learning came too late, and they are determined that their children should not have to walk the same path they did.
This is the most earnest form of love these parents can offer.
Nevertheless, they continue to hold onto their desire for learning, still igniting that passion. They borrow and return books from one another, continuing their education. This is not merely a hobby but a lifelong commitment to survive and keep working.
After finishing our meal and continuing our conversation for some time, Cheon Young-hwan led us back outside, pointing to a spot along the path to his home.
It was a place we had passed several times without noticing.
Only then did we realize what it was: a rusted swing set standing alone.
It had no meaning until someone mentioned that it once echoed with the laughter of children. That laughter had long since faded, precisely because it had been driven away in pursuit of better schools and futures. What remained was the quietly rusting swing and the overgrown grass surrounding it, a testament to how long this place had been empty.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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