Korea at the crossroads: between comfort and what comes next
Viktor Kim
The world doesn’t sit still anymore. It moves fast — sometimes too fast to process. At the global level, the United States and China continue to shape the foundations of a new international system. Whether through economic influence, digital infrastructure or currency innovation, both are positioning themselves to dominate whatever comes next. The rest of the world isn’t just watching — it’s adapting. The big question now isn’t whether a third power will rise, but whether the global future will be shared or divided.
And then there’s Korea — neither small nor dominant, but caught between these tides. Korea has done so much in so little time — built a democratic state from the ruins of war, become a tech powerhouse, exported our culture worldwide and proven that a country doesn’t need vast land or resources to thrive. But now we’re starting to feel the limits of that model. And many people — especially younger Koreans — are asking: What now?
Korea is at a strange and difficult turning point. Demographically, the crisis is no longer a future problem. With a total fertility rate of 0.75, Korea now has the lowest birth rate in the world. Housing costs are still sky-high. Mental health issues among young adults are growing. Many people in their 20s and 30s are putting off marriage or skipping it entirely — not because they’re selfish or unmotivated, but because the math just doesn’t work. Life has become too expensive to start a family, and too competitive to take a break.
At the same time, politics feels like it’s running in circles. The election earlier this month brought President Lee Jae-myung to power (my sincere congratulations to him!), and while some hope he’ll offer fresh direction, others wonder whether real change is even possible within the system we have. Many feel politically aware but practically powerless — connected to everything, yet unable to shape anything. But this moment isn’t just a crisis. It’s also a chance. The very fact that things feel unstable means something new can be built. And Korea has done this before — rebuilt, reimagined, risen. From colonial occupation and civil war to dictatorship and democratization, Korea’s history is proof of what’s possible when people come together with purpose.
Take the global financial crisis in 1997. People lined up to donate gold for the country’s recovery. It wasn’t about economic strategy — it was about national unity. Or more recently, the massive peaceful protests during former President Yoon Suk Yeol’s failed declaration of martial law. That was civic maturity in action. Not just anger, but clarity. In other words, action with direction.
Still, today’s problems are different. They aren’t always visible. Burnout, disconnection, loneliness — these don’t make headlines, but they shape how people see their future. Ask a university student in Seoul about their biggest fear, and chances are they won’t say “North Korea” or “global instability.” They'll probably say, “not finding a job,” or “never being able to afford an apartment,” or simply, “I’m tired.”
We’ve built a modern society that works incredibly well on paper. But in the process, something vital has worn thin. The family, once the bedrock of Korean society, is disappearing — not just as an institution, but as a source of connection, of meaning. Social trust is eroding. People feel isolated, even when surrounded by others.
So what should we do? That’s the hard part. There’s no easy fix. But maybe we can start by redefining success — not as relentless competition, but as sustainability, fairness and dignity. Maybe we need to rethink what we expect from work, education and even government — not just efficiency, but purpose. The answer is tradition.
Not tradition as blind nostalgia, but as a living foundation — something that evolves, yet holds steady. Korea’s traditional values of family, education, sacrifice and mutual care aren’t outdated; they’re quietly radical in a world obsessed with speed and self-interest. These values helped us survive war, rebuild the country and grow into one of the world’s most innovative societies. And they may be the key to surviving what’s next.
Leadership matters here. But leadership must also draw from something deeper than policy. It must draw from cultural memory — the idea that progress and tradition aren’t enemies. That building a just society doesn’t mean abandoning who we are. Korea’s most meaningful innovations have often come from adapting from tradition, not rejecting it.
Real change won’t just come from above. It never has. Progress has always started with ordinary people doing extraordinary things. That’s what gives this country its edge: not just intelligence, but integrity. Not just talent, but tenacity. We don’t give up easily — and that, too, is a tradition.
There’s a Korean saying, “to pick a star from the sky.” It means doing something nearly impossible. And maybe that’s what we need right now — not blind optimism, but bold aspiration. A willingness to aim high, even knowing the odds.
Let’s imagine a future where that kind of dreaming is possible again. A country where having a child doesn’t feel like a risk you can’t afford. Where teaching and caregiving are valued, not dismissed. Where tradition isn’t something in a museum, but something alive in how we treat each other and plan for the future. A place where someone can still look up at the night sky and say — not as a fantasy, but as a promise — “I’ll give you a star.”
That line isn’t just poetic. It’s an inheritance. It’s a challenge. And it’s a reminder that what seems impossible today may be exactly what Korea needs to try. Koreans have always survived thanks to our traditions; we’ve done hard things before and can do them again. But only if we remember where we’ve come from — and choose to carry those traditions forward.
Viktor Kim is the head of the Association of Koryo Saram in the Republic of Tajikistan. He also serves as the president of the Presidential Committee of the Public Council of the Republic of Tajikistan. In addition, he is a research fellow at the National Academy of Sciences of Tajikistan.