International: In Korea, the Jobless Head for the Hills --- Kwangju's Idled˙ Take Daily Hikes To Escape Sense of Shame By Joseph Kahn Staff Reporter of The Wall Street Journal KWANGJU, South Korea -- Like any salaryman in this industrial city, Park Heechong has a consistent morning routine. He dons a clean white shirt and˙ black leather shoes, gulps down a cup of coffee and boards a commuter bus.˙ Then, he heads for the hills. The 32-year-old lost his "lifetime" job when the cement company he worked˙ for went bust amid rising economic troubles. Even in today's Korea, joblessness is hard to swallow: Mr. Park's mother shoos him from the house˙ after breakfast, insisting on normalcy in troubled times. "It's shameful for a man to stay at home during the day," says Mr. Park, hi˙ s cheeks red after a trek up the gentle north face of Mudung Mountain, his favorite refuge. Kwangju sprawls 3,000 feet below, its factories and office˙ towers specks against the hills. "Anyway, I like it up here. Down there, I˙ get headaches." No city feels Korea's economic angst more than Kwangju. Here, beneath the˙ Sobaek Mountains in the country's rugged, underdeveloped southwest, the energy that propelled Korea from peasantry to prosperity in one generation˙ arrived late, and now, it appears, is dispersing early. While the rest of˙ the country grapples with the prospect of layoffs, Kwangju's 1.2 million people can tell them what it is like. The city depends mightily on one company, Asia Motors, a unit of Kia Group.˙ Until this fall, Asia Motors and its suppliers employed more than a third o˙ f Kwangju's manufacturing work force; they have since shed thousands of jobs.˙ Other Kwangju companies followed like dominoes. A leading retailer, a ship˙ maker, Mr. Park's employer-all have sought court protection. The promise of˙ jobs for life has proved a lie. The response has been rage and denial, embarrassment and self-criticism, an˙ d perhaps most of all, confusion. Unions scramble to organize job training.˙ Shareholders storm a brokerage house, demanding trading cease unless prices˙ stop falling. Students from Chong-Nam University, once urged to study abroad, are told to stay home and conserve U.S. dollars. "We feel like we've been given a death sentence," says Yun Yung Min, genera˙ l secretary for the local chapter of the Korean Confederation of Trade Unions˙ . He spoke late one evening while organizers worked the phones for informatio˙ n about Halla Engineering & Heavy Industries, a ship maker that had just announced wholesale layoffs. "We have hit rock bottom," Mr. Yun says, his˙ eyes cast down on tightly clasped hands. That Kwangju should suffer most in the downturn is especially cruel, for it˙ never shared fully in the good times. It was relegated to farming and fishery under Japanese colonial rule, when authorities steered manufacturin˙ g and trade to the southeast coast, near Japan. Lopsided development continue˙ d during the long reign of dictator Park Chung-Hee. Kwangju has long fought for political rights. It was a last line of resistance against the Japanese and, later, against South Korea's own dictators. In May 1980, the country's military leader, Chun Doo Hwan, ordered troops to suppress college students protesting army rule. Some 200˙ were machine-gunned to death around a baby-blue fountain in front of government offices: the Kwangju Massacre. Kwangju's favorite son is Kim Dae Jung, the man synonymous with Korean dissent. Now in his fourth presidential run, he is neck and neck with the˙ ruling party candidate. Many hope a Kim victory will bring government largess. Government support is all that sustains Asia Motors. Debt payments overwhelmed cash flow this year, and the company, a small auto maker by volume, was effectively nationalized pending a decision on its fate. Some 3˙ 0 consumer groups launched a "Save Asia Motors" campaign, haranguing shoppers˙ to buy only Asia Motor models and seeking tax breaks. Mr. Roh says he can't sleep nights thinking of the workers "retired" from˙ the payroll, mostly the elder statesmen of the assembly line-the chief welders and shop foremen who built up the company. The thought sends him into a soju-inspired soliloquy. "The elder generation knew how to work, to˙ tighten their belts," he says. "The young have no prospects, they are lazy.˙ " People say the city should never allow able-bodied men between 25 and 65 to˙ remain idle. Joblessness is both a shame and a waste. Even the vocabulary i˙ s harsh. Those laid off are called myung tae, loosely translated as "honorabl˙ y retired" but literally as "dried fish." Mr. Park, the laid-off cement-company manager, isn't the only one to flee˙ society's scorn in the mountains. There, Lee Joon Chan, 55, prepares lunch˙ on a kerosene stove. He describes his frustration since losing his job at˙ Haitai Group, a food concern. He has followed every job lead he can find,˙ newspaper ads, tips from friends and relatives. He worked briefly as a part-time security guard, but considered it beneath him. His search continues most mornings. He used to hang out at coffee shops or video parlors, awaiting his wife's return from work, but grew sick of the stares˙ he got. Now, afternoons are spent at the mountain, an hour from home. "I hike. I cook. I drink soju," he says. "Sometimes, other honorably retire˙ d people are here. We talk. Not about retirement, but we know. . . . The saddest thing in the world is not having a job." The Wall Street Journal via DowVision © 1997 Dow Jones & Company, Inc. A˙ ll Rights Reserved.
