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When nobody wants a piano anymore

I was in the fourth grade when my parents bought me a piano. I had been taking lessons for two years and wanted one desperately. When it arrived in the room I shared with my brother, I felt as if I had the whole world. Part of the excitement came from the sense of privilege. Few children in my class had a piano at home, and I suddenly became one of them. The instrument my parents bought was not new. It was a secondhand upright piano. Yet that hardly mattered to me. What mattered was that I finally had a piano to practice on — and, to be honest, to show off to friends who visited me at home. That sense of pride stayed with me for years. In fact, the piano remained in my childhood room longer than I did. When I left home for college, it stayed. When I graduated from graduate school and started working, it was still there. In 2008, when I was 28, the piano moved to my aunt's apartment in Seoul, where it served her two children, then ages 7 and 10, who were learning to play. Years later, she passed it on to an acquaintance. Three years ago, another piano entered my life. An acquaintance of

Staunch president, docile diplomats

For decades, Korea’s foreign policy establishment has prided itself on caution, restraint and alliance management. Its diplomats often described these traits as sophisticated — the habits of a mature middle power navigating a dangerous neighborhood. Yet the recent handling of the Israeli seizure of aid vessels carrying two Korean activists exposed the dark underbelly of that carefully cultivated image: a culture of bureaucratic self-preservation that too often mistakes timidity for prudence. The situation revealed not only a disagreement over diplomatic tactics, but the widening gap between a Korean public that increasingly demands a confident, sovereign foreign policy and the entrenched elite in those circles who are conditioned to avoid discomfort at almost any cost. In particular, the episode highlighted the contrast between political pressure for transparent and assertive action and the instinctive caution of Korea’s traditional diplomatic establishment. Figures such as National Security Adviser Wi Sung-lac and Second Vice Foreign Minister Kim Jina symbolize this mindset, whi

Korea’s risk-free schools

For many Koreans, school trips from elementary, middle and high school are lifelong memories. Those from Seoul mostly headed to Gyeongju, North Gyeongsang Province, to see cultural relics such as Bulguksa temple, and even rundown motels became part of the fun when shared with classmates. However, as President Lee Jae Myung recently remarked, it seems these experiences are becoming a thing of the past. “I hear that these days, students don’t go on picnics or school trips much anymore,” he said in a Cabinet meeting, lamenting that they are “taking away good opportunities from students just to avoid responsibility.” According to the Seoul Metropolitan Office of Education, only 31 percent of elementary, middle and high schools in Seoul have announced plans to conduct daytime field trips this year. Overnight field trips are decreasing even further, with only 17 percent of schools planning to do so. Behind the plunge are the excessive legal and emotional risks borne by teachers. In a survey by the Elementary School Teachers’ Union, 96 percent of teachers who responded expressed a ne