How Euljiro's alley workshops functioned like a brain

A woman carries food trays on her head during lunch time in central Seoul's Euljiro in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

Growing up in Greece, I frequently visited Athens’ Syntagma metro station, decorated with archaeological finds. Behind the glass, layer after layer of tools and artifacts lay embedded in the soil, traces of forgotten lives that once lived there. Back then, I imagined a natural disaster or a devastating war was to blame for erasing them. Almost 30 years later, while documenting Euljiro, I learned that collective forgetting can be planned and accepted. Today, we call it redevelopment.

Walking through central Seoul's Euljiro region, when I first visited its alleys in 2022, felt like entering a DIY amusement park the size of a city, handmade by a collection of craftsmen and scientists. By day, I’d walk with my camera through the maze-like alleys lined with thousands of tiny factories, the air thickly infused with the scent of burning metal mixed with smells of local recipes. On freezing cold winter days, workers would invite me into their factories as the coffee lady asked, “Ginger tea or coffee?”

The doors to small factories are closed for the day in central Seoul's Euljiro area in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

At around 6 p.m., the technicians pulled down the colorful shutters and the same alleys would transform. People in their 20s, tourists from all around the world, local office workers and old friends would enjoy the warm alleys as they drank and ate loudly, consumed by sizzling sounds of grilled pork now replacing the shrieking lathes. Tiny art galleries, fusion restaurants and hidden underground clubs added their own spark to the night, offering secret corners for music, conversation and discovery.

Having lived in multiple cities in Europe, I had never seen a place like Euljiro. Overwhelmed by my discovery, I planned to document the area, hoping to become part of it. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was actually documenting the last living archive of a human ecosystem on the brink of disappearance.

A worker melts metal in his shop in central Seoul's Euljiro area in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

In February 2022, filming started with interviewing over 50 technicians and business owners in the Ipjeong-dong and Sallim-dong metalworks alleys before their imminent evacuation. They explained how, back in the 1970s and 1980s, the factory masters were like gods to them, enforcing a harsh hierarchy where dozens of technicians would fight for a chance to learn how to operate the machinery or welding techniques.

“If you made any mistake, they would beat you with tools,” said the boss at Taekwang Precision. Back then, the young technicians would reuse gloves, sleep in the 6-square-meter factories and wish for the occasional barbecue restaurant visit when the factory owner rewarded their work.

Research by local archivists shows that technicians primarily developed products and prototypes for self-funded art projects to hospital equipment, industrial machinery and original inventions.

For instance, M.J., a local technician, has been developing a device that can recognize human voice and eliminate surrounding frequencies to give a crisp sound. “This technology can be crucial for hearing aids,” he said.

Combining their skills and decades of experience, a unique symbiotic system evolved in the alleys, where technicians worked together to develop new products, parts and machines, sharing labor, income and risk to keep one another’s businesses alive. “If you have an idea, and don’t know how to sketch it, we will make it here just by hearing the description,” the CEO of Sunwoo Precision said.

A man sits on a bicycle in front of a shop in central Seoul's Euljiro area in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

After spending some weeks in the alleys, it was common to see technicians gather briefly in a single factory, sketching solutions, debating angles and dividing tasks before dispersing through the alleys to begin work. In a study mapped over time, these movements revealed Euljiro functioning like a living brain: narrow alleys became synapses, with technicians flowing through them like neurotransmitters carrying knowledge, skill and ideas from one workshop to another, turning concepts into products. Wired like firing neurons, this ecosystem sustained the area as a one-of-a-kind innovation hub.

On its surface, Euljiro looked like a forgotten slum, yet its economic, social and physical structures quietly defied many assumptions about modern cities. For some, Euljiro meant tradition and inherited craft; for others, it was new opportunities. “I opened a bar here to share conversations about feminism, sexual minorities and marginalized experiences,” Kim Gwang-yeon, the former owner of Gwangzang Bar, told me.

Kim Gwang-yeon, left, talks with a customer at Gwangzang Bar in central Seoul's Euljiro area in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

Alex Han, a fashionable art cafe owner in his mid-40s, described it simply as “vitality emerging from ruins,” adding, “To me, Euljiro feels like youth.” Far from obsolete, it functioned as one of Seoul’s most efficient manufacturing hubs and also a meeting ground for new ideas and young business owners.

Old buildings and narrow alleys kept rents low, allowing experimentation to flourish, while tens of thousands of independent technicians, proximity to public transport and surrounding historic landmarks formed a dense, competitive ecosystem that had grown organically since the 1980s.

But this was all about to come to an end. Eventually, the demolition crews arrived, bringing an end to the alley as we knew it. Without previous notice, the technicians were asked to evacuate their factories as red-vested demolition crews began taking out and pulling apart anything they could find.

A man watches from the ground as workers prepare a building for demolition in central Seoul's Euljiro area in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

From that point and for the next few weeks, the technicians and business owners started each day at dawn as they carried up to 10 tons of metal molds, machines and old products out of their factories and into temporary facilities. Faster than I imagined, new sections of the alley would be cleared out of life, only with metal shavings and forgotten photos left behind. It was no longer Euljiro but the voiceless ruins of a forgotten civilization. The only sounds left were trembling echoes of surrounding demolition sites.

“I’m sorry, it’s a pity, but it’s just a matter of time,” said Kim In-hee, a leading urban planner at Seoul Institute.

From Kim’s perspective, reduced to zoning maps, height limits and infrastructure data, Euljiro appeared as an abstract problem to be optimized rather than a lived system shaped by decades of human relationships. Kim’s comments left little ambiguity: The people who lived and worked in Euljiro and the alleys which held 600 years of collective memories were not considered participants in the plan, but externalities.

A metal claw grabs pieces of concrete during demolition in central Seoul's Euljiro area in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

Once relocated to temporary factories, technicians returned to work as demolition unfolded around them. Those who could afford the rent stayed, while those who couldn’t, disappeared. And with them, another part of the alley’s living network.

“We can’t produce finished products anymore,” the head of Dongjin Industrial said. “The people with the necessary skills are all gone.”

Yet the loss extended beyond a manufacturing ecosystem or thousands of jobs. For many, demolition brought about a much deeper sense of loss. Teary-eyed responses such as “[Euljiro] was my best friend,” “I have buried my whole life here” and “The people I saw most in life were not my family, but probably somewhere here, to me it’s home” were common.

A man wanders past metal demolition fences in central Seoul's Euljiro area in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

Years later, the intricate power of Euljiro’s alleys has been demolished. Only tiny pockets still survive between high-rise concrete towers. While the city’s urban planners might look at a satellite image of Euljiro before and after redevelopment and see chaos turned to satisfying symmetrical order, to me, it resembles a brain scan before and after the spread of Alzheimer’s disease, where previously active neural paths now show large inactive stains.

Liron Shalit sets up to film for his 2025 documentary "Living Euljiro," in 2022. Courtesy of Liron Shalit

Liron Shalit is a documentary filmmaker from Greece who moved to Korea in 2022. He will give a lecture at Royal Asiatic Society Korea, titled "Living Euljiro: What Is Lost When Alleys Are Demolished." The lecture will be held July 14 at 7:20 p.m., in the basement of the Seoul Public Activities Center near Exit 8 of Samgakji Station on Seoul Metro lines 4 and 6. Entry costs 10,000 won, or 5,000 won for students of all ages with valid student ID, and is free for RAS Korea members. Visit raskb.com for more information.