Samuel Len

Ghostwriter in the newsroom

Not long ago, a newsroom sounded like a kind of music — clattering keyboards, ringing phones, arguments over a lead. Today, in many digital outlets, that noise has faded to the hum of servers as large language models churn out articles with clinical efficiency. We are witnessing, in real time, the industrialization of the written word. Artificial intelligence (AI) is no longer confined to transcription or spell-checking. It has become a central architect of what might be called the commodity news ecosystem. As algorithms claim the terrain of the factual — the “what” and the “when” — a deeper question presses in: What becomes of journalism when its pulse is automated, and what, if anything, remains the province of the human reporter? The shift began quietly. For years, organizations like The Associated Press and Reuters have used automation to cover corporate earnings, turning structured financial data into publishable briefs in seconds. But generative AI has expanded the scope from data processing to narrative construction. A 2024 study by the Reuters Institute for the Stud

Silent demographic crisis

Korea is entering a quiet but profound demographic revolution. Amid the headlines about declining birthrates and an aging population lies a more urgent, human story: By 2049, more than half of all one-person households in the country are projected to be aged 65 or older, according to Statistics Korea. These older adults are not only economically vulnerable but also at an increasing risk of isolation, invisibility and even dying alone. Already, the scale of the challenge is staggering. As of 2024, there were nearly 3 million one-person households aged 60 and above, yet only about 40.2 percent of them were employed, according to government data. Employment rates among Korea’s elderly are high by international standards, but out of necessity rather than choice. Many continue in low-paying or part-time jobs simply to make ends meet. Living alone in old age in Korea increasingly means facing persistent poverty. About 40 percent of Koreans over 65 live on incomes below the median — the highest rate among developed nations, according to the OECD. Women are especially vulnerable, as those who

When modernization clashes with heritage

The latest political tempest in Seoul has nothing to do with the economy or geopolitics. It centers instead on the city’s changing skyline. In a decision with implications far beyond one construction site, Korea’s Supreme Court has effectively allowed high-rise construction across from Jongmyo Shrine, a UNESCO World Heritage site. The ruling has ignited a clash involving lawmakers, heritage officials, urban planners and a divided public. Jongmyo is not simply an architectural relic. Built in the 14th century as the royal ancestral shrine of the 1392-1910 Joseon Dynasty, it embodies a Confucian worldview in which authority, ritual and memory were meant to endure for generations. Its most important function today is not visible from afar: the Jongmyo Jerye, the annual ancestral rites, is protected on UNESCO’s list of Intangible Cultural Heritage. This intertwining of space and ritual makes Jongmyo a rare example of a site where physical form and living tradition are inseparable. The current dispute centers on whether a proposed 141.9-meter tower in the Sewoon district roughly 180 met

After 25 years, ex-prisoner’s wish tests Seoul’s resolve

Ahn Hak-sop, once deemed a threat to the South Korean state, now lies bedridden at the age of 95, his frail voice carrying one final wish: to die and be buried in the North, among comrades who shared his decades-long struggle and ideology. Ahn, a former North Korean guerrilla and one of the oldest surviving “non-converted long-term prisoners” spent 42 years in a South Korean prison after being captured in April 1953 under the National Security Act. He was released in 1995, but unlike 63 of his fellow ideological prisoners repatriated to the North in 2000 under the Kim Dae-jung administration, Ahn stayed behind. He said then that his mission — “resistance until U.S. troops leave the peninsula” — was not yet finished. Now, as his health deteriorates due to a pulmonary edema — fluid buildup in the lungs — and other age-related ailments, Ahn has shifted his stance. Last month, he formally petitioned the Ministry of Unification, requesting permission to cross the border at Panmunjeom (truce village inside the Joint Security Area) and return to North Korea. “I should have bee

Alone at 18: Korea’s orphaned youth left to fend for themselves

Every year, between 2,000 and 2,500 young people in Korea step out of the protective embrace of orphanages and other foster facilities such as youth shelters. When they turn 18, their state protection officially ends, forcing them into an often-unforgiving world where financial literacy and a robust support system are paramount. They are known in Korean as "jalipjunbi cheongnyeon," or young adults preparing for independent living — a term that has replaced the more stigmatizing “orphan” to more accurately and respectfully reflect their transition into adulthood. For many, this transition is fraught with peril. “At 18, we are required to leave the childcare facility and suddenly become independent,” one young woman said during a counseling session with the Beautiful Foundation, a nonprofit that supports young adults transitioning out of institutional care. “We’re known as the so-called ‘eighteen adults’ — forced to grow up faster than anyone else, just to survive.” While a 2022 amendment to the Child Welfare Act now allows these young adults to extend their protected

Korea's military embraces diversity

South Korea’s military, one of the world’s 10 largest, drafted 27,557 conscripts during the first two months of this year alone, primarily men born between 2004 and 2005. For able-bodied young men, military service is an inescapable reality here — both a national duty and a rite of passage, shaped by the enduring tensions on the Korean Peninsula. Last month, my son was one of many who stood in line at boot camp, surrounded by a sea of shaved heads and stoic faces. It was the day he officially entered South Korea’s mandatory, 18-month military service. The boot camp lasts five weeks. Yet for him, the journey carried an added complexity. Born to a Taiwanese father and a Korean mother, he grew up straddling cultures — fluent in English, with only a basic grasp of Korean and some Mandarin, reflecting our blended heritage. Now a soldier in the Republic of Korea Army, his journey reflects the evolving face of a country finding strength in its growing diversity. South Korea's military has been shrinking steadily, due largely to the country’s declining birthrate. By the end of 2022,

Wildfires reach southeast coast