In a Seoul gymnasium, rows of trainers, high heels, jackets, and Halloween accessories lie spread out on the floor. They are all numbered in the hope that their owners will come and find them. Many may never be collected.
They belong to victims and survivors of last Saturday’s crowd crush in Seoul, which has so far killed 156 people. Ninety-four per cent of the dead were in their teens, 20s, and 30s.
A makeshift shrine has appeared outside Itaewon station’s exit 1, covered in piles of chrysanthemums, photographs of fallen friends, pots of cup noodles, Haribo and soju bottles offered to console their souls. Prayers are chanted by Buddhist monks.
Condolence messages are written on colourful post-it notes. One, attached to a packet of beef jerky, reads: “I’m sorry we couldn’t protect you, I pray you’ll be happier there”. Another says: “You did nothing wrong.”
The Sewol generation
“I was really shocked and saddened to see this could happen again in 2022,” says 14-year-old Jeon Ye-in, after finishing school and laying flowers at an altar in Seoul’s city hall. Jeon, like many other South Koreans, is part of a generation that has already been scarred by another disaster in recent memory: the sinking of the Sewol ferry.
When the Sewol sank in 2014, more than 300 people died, the vast majority of whom were students on a high school trip. The 6,825-tonne Sewol had undergone an illegal redesign and was carrying twice as much cargo as it was designed to accommodate – flaws that did not come to light until it was too late. The disaster sparked national outrage over what many believed was a botched rescue operation. The public was left in a state of grief and soul-searching as a result of long-ignored safety issues and regulatory failures. Some details of the sinking remain unclear.
The disaster would give birth to the Sewol generation, a young demographic of South Koreans who had witnessed incompetence at the highest levels and felt they could no longer rely on those in power to protect them from catastrophe.
“The news of the sinking kept coming out in the morning. I remember it vividly. Now with Itaewon, it feels the same,” the middle-school student told the Guardian.
Three Hanyang University students, including two foreign nationals, were killed in the Itaewon crush. Kim, a graduate student at Hanyang, says her generation was already traumatised, recalling the promise after the Sewol that efforts would be made to prevent such disasters from recurring.
“I’m angry, I’m disappointed. We all study hard, go to school and university, and try to develop our own lives. It’s not their fault that they went to enjoy themselves in Itaewon that day. I’m a citizen of this country, so I’m angry because I feel like I can’t be protected,” Kim says.
Lee Seo-yoon, an 18-year-old university student, is participating in a silent protest on the main road in Itaewon. She says she too does not trust the authorities. “I don’t think it’s a safe country because I don’t know when I might suddenly die.”
During a press briefing on Tuesday, the prime minister, Han Duck-soo, reiterated that South Korea was “one of the safest countries in the world”.
Responding to a question from the Guardian, he said: “Korea is not a country where these kinds of disasters actually occur [often]. In most cases, Korea still gives confidence to young people, and we will continue […] to make this country much better and safer.”
Graduate student Kim says the difficult memories are what connect her generation. “We each have trauma, and so we may have a tendency to protect ourselves, and I believe we’re a generation that tries not to lose each other.”
Collective trauma sinks in
It has been a difficult time for many since Saturday. The government has promised to provide psychological support to all citizens affected by the tragedy. Authorities are sharing mental health hotlines on social media. Temporary booths and clinics on wheels are being set up in various locations. Universities are offering free counselling services.
In a country where mental health is still considered a taboo subject, it remains to be seen whether the most vulnerable will be reached. Given the “rapidly changing” attitudes toward mental health, such a taboo “should not be a problem”, according to the prime minister. “If you are sick, you would have all the rights to be treated in Korea.”
For a high school teacher in Gyeonggi province, who did not want to be named, tackling the trauma runs deeper than free consultations.
“We all have collective trauma. We are reminded to show political neutrality in the classroom, and saying anything might be perceived as political. So instead, we have to be quiet. Meanwhile, students get biased information from social media,” she says. “In order for students to have faith, I think they must have an open conversation about what they think and feel about tragedy with well-prepared classes.”
She says teachers were given black ribbons to wear during the official period of mourning. “This is not something that should be enforced. Many people seem to remain depressed and sad without progress.”
Lee Seo-yoon, protesting dressed in black, held signs with her friends including the words: “It could have been prevented, but the state was not there”. Others simply held up signs reading “6.43pm”, referring to the time the first emergency call was made warning that the crowding could become lethal. Over three hours later, it did.
One of the most hotly debated topics since Saturday’s crush is that of responsibility. Several apologies have been issued. President Yoon Suk-yeol, who is already deeply unpopular, will face a monumental task in restoring trust in his administration. His government has pledged a thorough investigation, holding those responsible accountable, and overhauling the entire safety system.
On Korea University’s campus, where an altar was also set up to remember the dead, a student lit an incense stick and reflected for a minute. “I’ve now come to realise that this could suddenly happen to any one of us,” he says tearfully.
“Regaining our trust starts with responsibility.”
