Heir apparent

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/2d89f85c-108c-11dd-b8d6-0000779fd2ac.html

As Lee Kun-hee’s only son, Lee Jae-yong has long been considered the heir apparent at Samsung, a view solidified last year when he was appointed to the specially created role of chief customer officer of Samsung Electronics, writes Anna Fifield.

Mr Lee, 40, is easy-going and candid. All his life he has been groomed to inherit the company, completing an MBA at Keio University in Japan before entering Harvard Business School.

His father instructed him to play golf with Samsung executives and study their personal styles.

In one of his first tasks at chief customer officer last year, Mr Lee Jr showed News Corp’s Rupert Murdoch around the Samsung showroom at the Las Vegas consumer electronics show.

Stalwart aide

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Samsung has not named a replacement for Lee Kun-hee, its chairman, but said yesterday Lee Soo-bin would be its representative for “external relations”, writes Woo Jae-yeon.

Lee Soo-bin has been a staunch “Samsung man” for more than 40 years since he entered Cheil Jedang (now CJ Corp), a food-processing Samsung affiliate, in 1965.

The 69-year-old has served in the top job at several Samsung affiliates, including Samsung Techwin, CJ and, most recently, Samsung Life Insurance.

He served as Lee Kun-hee’s chief of staff in 1991 and has worked as chairman of Samsung Life Insurance since 1995.

He briefly filled Lee Kun-hee’s role when the latter left for the US for a medical check-up.

Trading up

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/2d89f85c-108c-11dd-b8d6-0000779fd2ac.html

Samsung was founded in 1938 when Lee Byung-chul opened a trading company. It expanded in the wake of the 1950-53 Korean War, adding a textiles business, building the country’s first large sugar refinery and forming a powerful trading network.

The founder added more businesses in the 1960s and 1970s, including Shinsegae department store, the JoongAng Ilbo newspaper, a shipbuilder, a chemical company and Samsung Electronics, which became the group’s crown jewel. Some businesses were spun off.

Samsung and other family-owned conglomerates known as chaebol thrived under the 1961-79 protectionist rule of President Park Chung-Hee.

Lee Kun-hee officially took over in 1987 when his father Lee Byung-chul died. The new chairman has shifted the group’s focus from quantity to quality, developing a renowned global brand. Under his leadership, Samsung became South Korea’s biggest conglomerate with about 60 divisions, accounting for about 15 per cent of the country’s economic activity.

Samsung’s exports totalled $70bn last year, more than 20 per cent of South Korea’s total.

The Korean Working Class: From Mass Strike to Casualization and Retreat, 1987-2007

By Loren Goldner

More details: http://www.metamute.org/en/Three-Talks-by-Loren-Goldner

ABSTRACT

Similar to patterns that have been played out in Spain and Portugal (1974-76) as well as in Brazil (1978-83) since the mid-1970’s, the Korean working class in the late 1980’s destroyed the foundations of a decades-old military dictatorship with remarkable mass strikes in the years 1987-1990. The strikes resulted in the creation, briefly (1990-1994) of radical democratic unions and in high wage increases across the board. But, as in other cases, the working class was relegated to the role of battering ram for a “democratic” political agenda that quickly embraced globalization and the neo-liberal mantra of free markets. In fact, even before the strike wave but particularly thereafter, Korean capital was already investing abroad and pushing neo-liberal austerity at home. In 1997-98, the Asian financial crisis forced Korea under the tutelage of the IMF and greatly accelerated the casualization of the Korean working class which had been the main capitalist riposte to the breakthroughs of the late 1980’s. Today, at least 60% of the work force is casualized in the most brutal way, subject to instantaneous layoffs and half or less the wages and benefits of the 10% of the work force classified as “regular workers”. The bureaucratic remnants of the radical democratic unions of the early 1990’s are today reviled corporative organizations of that working-class elite, and as many struggles take place between regular and casualized workers as against capital itself.

Part One: Historical Background

Starting in June 1987 and continuing in significant ways until 1990, the strike wave known in Korea as the Great Workers’ Struggle (Nodongja Taettujaeng) ranks with Polish Solidarnosc (1980-81), the Iranian workers councils of (1979-1981) and the Brazilian strike wave of 1978-1983 as one of the foremost episodes of working-class struggle of the 1980’s. The strike wave shattered the foundations of almost uninterrupted dictatorship following the end of the Korean War, won significant wage increases for large sectors of the Korean working class, and briefly established (from 1990 to 1994) radical democratic unions in the National Congress of Trade Unions (ChoNoHyop), committed at least verbally to anti-capitalism.

No sooner had this strike wave triumphed when its gains began to be seriously undermined. The ChoNoHyop was destroyed by government repression of its best militants and government promotion of the more conservative activists to form the
Korean Confederation of Trade Unions (Minju Nochong or KCTU), starting in 1995; in December 1996, the Korean government attempted to ram through a labour casualization law that the KCTU half-heartedly opposed in the January 1997 general strike. In the fall of 1997, the Asian financial meltdown brought South Korea under the tutelage of the IMF in exchange for a $57 billion bailout, with the IMF explicitly demanding casualization of labour and mass layoffs as part of its restructuring program. In December 1997 long-time democratic oppositionist Kim Dae Jong was elected president of Korea, and in February 1998 he brought the KCTU into the “historic agreement” to accept hundreds of thousands of layoffs and downsizings in accord with IMF demands, in exchange for full legalization.

For window dressing, the Kim Dae Jong government in 1998 also established the Tripartite Commission of state, capital and labour along corporatist lines, a meaningless body which has acted, of course, only on behalf of the state and capital.

In spite of this grim tableau and almost unending series of setbacks, the Korean working class has had to be beaten down step by step, with long, bitter strikes, and recent events show that this combatively is far from eliminated.

Today, twenty years after the Great Workers’ Struggle of 1987, the Korean labour situation has evolved into one of the most successful capitalist casualizations in the world, certainly in any advanced industrial country. Approximately 10% of the Korean work force is organized in KCTU unions with regular jobs and salaries, while another 60% is casualized, outsourced and downsized. At Hyundai Motor Company, for example, one of the bastions of the industrial militancy of 1987-90, regular workers and casual workers work side by side, doing exactly the same jobs, with the casuals earning 50% of the wages of the regular workers (the latter earning between $50,000 and $60,000 per year, plus bonuses and overtime). The KCTU is broadly hated in the casualized working class as a corporatist mouthpiece for the highly-paid regular workers, and regular workers for their part have even physically attacked casual workers when the latter wildcat (as happened for example at Kia Motor Company in August 2007). In the recent (December 2007) elections, large numbers of workers voted for the hard-right One Nation Party (Hanaratang) presidential candidate Lee Myoung Back,
former Hyundai CEO and mayor of Seoul, in the vain hope of a return to the expansive economy of the 1970’s and 1980’s.

How the Korean working class went from offensive struggle and victory to casualization and retreat in a mere two decades, then, is the subject of this article.

Part Two: Democracy Sells Austerity; Class Struggle in an Authoritarian Development Regime

We would do well to situate the experience of the Korean working class in the larger cycle of transitions from dictatorship to (bourgeois) democracy, starting in Spain and Portugal (1974-1976), and continuing in such countries as Poland and Brazil. We can also note that, after the Iberian “transitions”, the subsequent explosions took place during a period of rollback and retreat in the North American and European working classes.

Indeed, they took place in the overall context of world economic crisis following the end of the post-World War II boom. In Iberia, Poland and Brazil, as in South Korea, a major working-class intervention in politics and society was preceded by a lengthy period of intensive “economic growth” (of highly varying quality) and intensive repression of independent working class activity, organization and wages. In each case, workers’ struggles were central to the battle of the broader “democratic opposition” against dictatorship, and in each case, the broader “democratic opposition” took power and implemented (always in close collaboration with international capital) tough austerity programs that fragmented the working-class movement. One might conclude that “democracy sells austerity” and that, indeed, is my conclusion.

The Korean case, of course, has many specifics that should not be submerged in any general comparison.

Korea was, in 1960, considered an economic “basket case”, as poor on a per capita basis as India or Tanzania. In 1996, with great fanfare, it was welcomed into the OECD as an “advanced economy” and only one year later (as indicated) fell under the control of the IMF.

Nevertheless, Korea, one of the Asian “tigers” alongside Taiwan, Hong Kong and Singapore, stood out in the period 1960-1997 as one of a handful of success stories, set against the hundred failures and retrogression of Third World countries that were recipients of Western “aid” and IMF and World Bank tutelage.

What made Korea different? We can immediately cite its special status (like the other tigers) as a “showcase” outpost of American imperialism, whose economic success was an important propaganda counterweight to the (so-called) socialist regimes in the immediate vicinity, namely North Korea, China and the Soviet Union. The United States, with tens of thousands of troops in South Korea after the end of the Korean War, tolerated statist development policies there that it routinely opposed or subverted in the rest of the underdeveloped world.

Second, South Korea, like Taiwan, was different from almost all other Third World countries by the agrarian reform which definitively eliminated the pre-capitalist “yangban” aristocracy between 1945 and 1950. (This reform took place under the intense pressure of the agrarian reform in the north, one extended to the south when Kim il-sung’s armies briefly captured almost the entire peninsula in the early months of the war.)

Third, South Korea, poor in natural resources and flattened in the hostilities of 1950-1953, is the country par excellence of “human capital”, with a heavy emphasis on, not to say mania for education. Even in 1960, there was 90% adult literacy, hardly the case in then-comparable Third World countries.

The country was divided at the 38th parallel in 1945 by the occupying armies of the U.S. and the Soviet Union. The defeat of Japan in World War II ended 35 years of Japanese colonial rule, the latter having been an important moment in laying the foundations of a modern capitalist economy (the exact legacy of this period is controversial to this day).

When the Japanese occupiers fled in August 1945, one to two million workers in the US zone built workers’ councils (Changpyong, or the Council of National Workers in Choson) in the abandoned factories, less from any specific commitment to worker self-management (the Korean left was overwhelmingly Stalinist) than from sheer necessity of producing the basics of daily life. This system of workers’ councils was duly shut down by the U.S. occupation authorities in December 1945.

As in the European countries occupied by Nazi Germany and whose bourgeoisies had also been collaborators, the Korean yangban and small capitalist class were politically and socially discredited. From such motley forces, the U.S. occupation had to cobble together a viable government capable of defeating the aroused workers and peasants, many of whom were strongly favourable to Kim il-Sung and his guerrilla forces, and generally in favour of radical change. The U.S. seized upon the figure of Rhee Syngman, and oversaw and participated in the merciless crushing of the left in the southern zone in five years of partisan warfare and massacres prior to the outbreak of the war with North Korea in June 1950. Whatever remained of a serious left in 1950 was physically eliminated during the war years or fled to the North (where many of them were also eliminated). The continuity with the pre-1945 Korean left in the south was entirely broken, a factor that played no small role in the reawakening that began in the 1970’s.

Rhee Syngman ruled a generally inept, economically stagnant South Korea until 1960, propped up entirely by American military support and aid. He was finally overthrown in riots led by students in 1960, and South Korea enjoyed a brief democratic opening. This opening was closed again by the coup d’etat of Park Chung-hee in 1961, and a new era began.

Park Chung-hee was not, or at least not only the typical American-supported two-bit puppet dictator of the post-World War II period. He is widely believed (though to my knowledge no definitive proof has come to light) to have been a Communist as early as 1943, and in 1948 he was arrested as part of a Communist study group of young officers. When he seized power in 1961, the U.S. initially hesitated to recognize him, and several times during his dictatorial rule (1961-1979) the U.S. distrusted his nationalist impulses (as in his independent nuclear power program) and his occasional diplomatic flirtations with North Korea.

Further, Park had been educated at a Japanese military academy during World War II, and was greatly enamoured of the Japanese economic development model, which he promptly attempted to emulate in South Korea, with a certain success. Since the Japanese model had in turn been copied from the Prussian model in the late 19th century, South Korea acquired a certain “German” veneer which is generally obscured under the highly-disputed (and often obscured) Japanese legacy. Park’s constitution, for example, was written by a Korean jurist who studied law in Germany in the 1950’s, and who became enamoured with the theories of Carl Schmitt; hence “state of emergency” was a cornerstone of Park’s ideology. Ahn Ho Sang, who had been openly pro-Nazi in the 1930’s and had studied in Germany in the Hitler period, wrote the post-war high school history manuals with the kind of hyper-nationalist mythmaking inherited from German romantic populism.

More fundamentally, Park cracked down on the parasitic capitalists of the Rhee period and either eliminated them or dragooned them into productive investment. He implemented the “New Village” (Se Maul) policy in the countryside, designed to fully capitalize agriculture and force large rural populations into the cities and into industrial employment. Through the Cold War anti-Communist Federation of Korean Trade Unions (FKTU), the regime exercised a draconian control over labour, with seven-day, 12-hour shift work weeks not untypical, and enforced when necessary with police terror and torture. During the Park era, the famous chaebol (conglomerates) rose to pre-eminence, under state control of credit and selection of “national champion” industries, the practice later denounced as “crony capitalism” when the Korean economy ran into trouble in the 1990’s.

Korea, like the other tigers and unlike most Third World countries in that period, developed by making its way, with an export-oriented strategy, up the international “product chain”, beginning with textiles and other light consumer industries, then proceeding to manufacture (auto, shipbuilding) and finally to high-tech, capturing important world markets for computer components by the 1990’s.

The economic success of the Park chung-hee decades, obviously, cannot be separated either from his dictatorial methods or from the international conjuncture of the time (two realities widely overlooked today in debates about South Korea’s mounting economic problems; the December 2007 victory of the hard right in the presidential elections drew on a nostalgic, rose-tinted view of the Park era). In addition to benefiting from its high profile in U.S. Cold War geopolitical strategy, the South Korean economy also rode the growing wave of industrial investment which, beginning ca. 1965, began to search for venues outside of North America and Europe. Remuneration of Koreans abroad also played a significant role, as South Korean troops repatriated millions of dollars from service in the Vietnam War and tens of thousands of South Korean workers went to the Middle East to work on construction projects in the post-1973 oil boom.

Given the centrality of light manufacture in the 1960’s “takeoff” period, then, the rebirth of the Korean working-class movement not accidentally began in the textile industries, and also not accidentally (since the work force was predominantly made up of young women) led by women workers.

The contemporary Korean workers’ movement marks its symbolic beginning from November 13, 1970, when Jeon Tae-il, a young textile worker, immolated himself at a small demonstration in one of Seoul’s sweatshop districts. Jeon had previously pursued every legal form of redress for the sweatshop workforce, to no avail.

The movement of the 1970’s was characterized by a rising number of strikes conducted in the most extreme conditions by women textile workers. The demands were simple and straightforward, aimed at the inhuman working hours, low wages, authoritarian foremen and enforced dormitory life of the women, who were generally recruited directly from the countryside and from the shantytowns that sprang up around Seoul and other cities. The strikes were met almost without exception with brutal repression by factory security personnel, police, soldiers and hired thugs from the Korean underworld. The struggle for a democratic union at the Dongil Textile Company in Inchon from 1972 to 1976 was exemplary in this regard.

The 1970’s also saw the beginnings of involvement in the workers’ movement by (mainly Christian) religious groups and radical students (the latter known as “hakchul”, or “coming from the university”). The religious groups were inspired by Catholic liberation theology and similar Protestant social doctrines. The religious groups and students formed night schools for textile workers, teaching literacy and secretarial skills but also basic workers’ rights.

The 1970’s, finally, saw the rise of the minjung (popular culture) movement, closely connected to the religious and early hakchul movement. The largely middle-class minjung movement reached into Korean popular culture, fast eroding under the impact
of forced-march modernization, and attempted to utilize it in the creation of a “counter-culture of struggle” using music and dance from Korean shamanism and rural peasant traditions, creations that were successful in solidifying group determination to struggle against very heavy odds and repression. To this day, singing, reminiscent of the American IWW, remains an important part of the Korean workers’ movement, with demonstrations and strikes singing dozens of songs that everyone knows by heart.

The Korean movement of the 1970’s, whether labour or hakchul or minjung or religious, remained very much in the framework of liberal democratic ideology and tended to look sympathetically to the United States as a force that would steer the Korean dictatorship toward democracy. All this changed with the Kwangju uprising and subsequent massacre of May 1980.

Korea has historically been a country of intense regional loyalties, loyalties which have persisted into the era of modern capitalism. Cholla province, in the southwest, has traditionally been a region of agriculture and backwardness. Park chung-hee, on the other hand, was from the south-eastern Gyeongsang province, and his industrial policies were primarily directed there, giving rise to the major centres of Ulsan, Pohang, and Pusan. The people of Cholla province resented this neglect.

In 1979, mass demonstrations were sweeping the country, demanding democracy. Workers were in the forefront of many of these demonstrations. In October of that year, Park chung-hee was assassinated by the head of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency, allegedly after an argument about how to contain and repress the demonstrations.

Part Three: The Kwangju Uprising and the Turn to “Marxism-Leninism”

A brief democratic opening, similar to 1960, took place, but Park was succeeded by another military dictator, Chun Doo Hwan. In May 1980, the army fired on a demonstration in Kwangju, the largest city in Cholla province. The result was an uprising in which the population of Kwangju took control of the city, armed themselves with weapons taken from a military armoury, and fought the forces of repression, including an elite unit withdrawn from the DMZ with North Korea, for days. Estimates of the total dead on both sides (most of them obviously from the repression of the revolt) in Kwangju run as high as 2000.

Kwangju was sealed off and extreme censorship prevented any serious information from leaking out. (Korea’s draconian National Security Law, dating from 1948 and still in effect today, made it a serious crime, well into the 1990’s, to discuss the Kwangju uprising in public.) .It was, however, widely believed that the U.S. government, smarting from the recent overthrow of the Shah of Iran in 1979, in the midst of the Tehran hostage crisis, and wanting no more mass radical movements against pro-U.S. dictators, had been deeply involved in the decision to use extreme force (a belief greatly strengthened by more recent disclosure of documents on government-to-government communication during the crisis).

From that point onward, the Korean movement shifted quickly away from the liberal democratic and religious ideologies of the 1970’s to a more radical, essentially “Marxist-Leninist” orientation to revolution.

This ideological turn shows the importance of the whole earlier period: the virtually total discontinuity with the left that emerged after the Japanese collapse in 1945 and which was destroyed by government and U.S. military repression between 1945 and 1953; the decades of dictatorship after the Korean War which branded the mildest social criticism as North-inspired; the isolation of South Korea from the world ferment of the 1960’s and beyond. (When Korean students joined underground opposition groups in the 1970’s and 1980’s, one of the first tasks was often to learn Japanese, in order to read all the political (and particularly Marxist) books which could not be published in Korea.) Thus the decades-long erosion of Stalinism as it was lived in Europe and the U.S., the impact of 1968 and the Western New Left, the radical critique of Leninism, the Hegel renaissance and the impact of the popularization of the 1840’s Marx, were all unknown or seen through a glass darkly in South Korea. (In the early 1980’s, a clandestine study group formed to read Lukacs’s and Hegel’s writings on aesthetics—in German—and was discovered; its members were sentenced to six months in prison.) As a result, the radicalization of the Korean movement after Kwangju proceeded almost invariably along Stalinist, “Marxist-Leninist” lines, pro-Soviet, pro-China, pro-North Korea, but Stalinist across the board. Trotsky was little known until the late 1980’s, to say nothing of left-wing critiques of Trotsky.

Some of the Marxist-Leninist factions that emerged in the 1980’s were the starting point of the two major tendencies in the organized Korean movement today (in both the previously-mentioned KCTU and the Korean Democratic Labour Party or KDLP). Those factions are the pro-North Korea “National Liberation” (NL, or juche-ists, so called because of North Korea’s “juche” or self-reliance doctrine) and the large minority “People’s Democracy” (PD, more Social Democratic). In the run-up to the December 2007 presidential election, the Juche-ists took full control of the apparatus of the KDLP, and purged some PD members. (It is also important to note that both the NL and PD factions have their base mainly in white-collar unions, such as banking, teachers and other civil servants, whereas blue-collar workers are largely indifferent to both. Under NL leadership, the KDLP vote nationwide dropped, relative to 2002, in the December 2007 elections from 5 to 3%, and in Ulsan, the bastion of the Korean working class, from 11 to 8%.)

Nationalism is endemic in Korea, including in the working-class movement. The reasons for this are to be found in the centuries of foreign domination (Chinese, then Japanese, then American), the post-1945 division of the country, and Korea’s geopolitical position at the “crossroads” of Chinese, Japanese, Russian and American spheres of influence. The Korean peninsula, or hegemony there, was the prize of foreign intrusions centuries ago, and more recently the China-Japan war of 1895, the Russo-Japanese war of 1904-1905, and most recently the Korean War. “When whales fight, the minnows run for cover” is an old Korean proverb expressing this reality. The Japanese attempt, over 35 years (1910-1945) of colonial domination, to virtually eliminate Korean culture further strengthened this nationalist impulse. Finally, myths of ethnic homogeneity, furthered by mythic populist history textbooks or more recently historical dramas on television about eras of Korean greatness, complete the picture. (A different, even more virulent version of this nationalism is promoted in North Korea.) In this context, even sports events, such as the 1988 Seoul Olympics or the successes of the Korean team in the 2002 World Cup playoffs, become events in the forging of national identity.

For the same geopolitical reasons, any emergence of serious class struggle in South Korea immediately takes on an international dimension.

Nationalism was hence unquestioned in the revival of the left in the 1970’s and 1980’s. As a Stalinized “Marxism” pushed aside the pre-Kwangju liberal democratic orientations of activists in the course of the 1980’s, the dominant imports were variants of Lenin’s theory of imperialism, monopoly capital theory and dependency theory, popularized by the Marxist-Leninist groups and by influential underground journals.

The 1980’s also saw the acceleration of the hakchul movement into the factories, as widespread as any comparable “turn to the working class” in Western countries by middle-class radicals after 1968. At the peak of the movement, thousands of ex-students had taken factory jobs, and on occasion even led important strikes.

The Korean movement of the late 1980’s understandably viewed South Korea as a “peripheral” country in the American imperial system, from which only “socialism” (understood in the Stalinist sense) and national reunification could extricate it. There was
thus a tendency to underestimate the depth of Korean industrial development and above all the elasticity in the system that would make significantly higher wages possible within a capitalist framework after the 1987-1990 worker revolt. Such theories were
reinforced by the fact that South Korea only caught up with and surpassed North Korea economically ca. 1980.

The convergence of all these factors meant that the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union, coinciding as it did with the downturn of the workers’ struggles after 1990, took a far greater psychological toll on militants in Korea than anywhere in the West, where the prestige of the Soviet Union had been deflating since at least 1956 and certainly since 1968. The mood had already turned bleak in the spring of 1991, when a Seoul student was beaten to death by police and the democratic left candidates were crushed in the June 1991 municipal elections, as if to underscore a sense of defeatism and futility after years of mobilization and struggle. It could be added that the Korean economy, in a boom phase in the 1986-88 period and the first phase of the Great Workers Struggle, had entered new difficulties by 1990, difficulties from which it has never fully recovered.

Very much like comparable developments in the west after the late 1970’s, thousands of activists gave up, withdrew into private life, attempted to pursue middle-class careers or, in academia, succumbed to the allure of post-modernism.

Part Four: National Politics and the Great Workers Struggle, 1987-1990

A discussion of the political backdrop to the course of class struggle is also indispensable.
Beginning in the 1980’s, worker struggles for democratic unions shifted (along with the Korean economy itself) from light to heavy industry. The Chun Doo Hwan military dictatorship that succeeded Park chung-hee was forced to relax controls in the mid-1980’s, under mounting pressure from the broader democratic opposition in the run-up to the Pan-Asian Olympics (1986) and the Seoul Olympics (1988). In particular, the “democratization declaration” of June 1987, made in response to the threat that the working class would join in the pro-democracy protests, was the immediate trigger for the Great Workers Struggle of that summer. For the first time, the movement shifted from the Seoul-Inchon region to the new southern industrial zones of Ulsan, Masan and Changwon. All told, there were more than 3,000 strikes in 1987, winning unionization, 25-30% wage increases, and abolition of the hated military discipline (enforced hair length, mandatory morning exercises) in factories. Ulsan, in particular, the Hyundai company town, saw massive street mobilization and street fighting that lasted into 1990.

The 128-day (December 1988-April 1989) strike at Hyundai Heavy Industries (HHI) culminated in a coordinated military attack on the occupied Hyundai shipyard by 9,000 soldiers and police, coming from sea, air and land. This was followed by ten days of street fighting (mobilizing not merely workers but their wives and children) in the working-class neighbourhoods of Ulsan. This struggle in turn was followed in 1990 by the Goliat strike, again at HHI, and which ended in bitter defeat. (Hyundai did build extensive high-rise worker housing in response to these struggles.)

Part Five: Decline and Rollback Begin, 1990-1997

The ebbing away of the mass offensive struggles of the 1987-1990 period, and the general atmosphere of defeat that ensued, opened a new phase in Korean worker organizations. The wage increases won in the late 1980’s briefly reinforced the illusion of the possibility of capital-labour cohabitation, and hence the reformist currents.
In particular, within the National Congress of Trade Unions (ChoNoHyop), the right-wing and openly reformist (pro-North Korean) National Liberation faction began to gain the upper hand against the weakened radical faction. (The Korean name of the NL faction, Kukminpa, means literally ‘Labour together with the nation”.) This faction was always oriented to bureaucrats and politicians. As mentioned earlier, a government policy of repression aimed at the best militants in the NCTU and promotion of the open reformists destroyed the NCTU by 1995 and led to the regroupment in the KCTU under the right-wing leadership. (Indeed, at the very founding of the NCTU in January 1990, most of its leaders were in jail or in hiding.) The long experience of dictatorship and cronyism also made some workers initially sympathetic to bourgeois democracy and neo-liberalism.
Ulsan remained in intense ferment, however, and in June 1991, when Park Chang Su, a labour leader, was killed in prison, 20,000 HHI workers and 30,000 HMC workers attacked Ulsan City Hall, with the struggle ultimately lasting one month.

In 1992, South Korea joined the International Labour Organization (ILO), just about the same time that the capitalists were regrouping for a crackdown on wage gains. In this period, lower-wage public sector workers started to organize, the Korea Telcom (KT) workers being the most militant, even if their struggles tended to be mainly wage-focused, though linked to a push for workplace democracy.

In 1993-1994, debate raged in the movement about the way forward, including a felt need for political strikes. The more radical currents wanted to shift the unions from company-based unions (the dominant form of Korean unions to this day) to industry-wide unions, and to create an umbrella organization. As the NCTU further declined under the blows of repression and the machinations of the NL faction, the way was open to the creation of the KCTU, formally created (though not legalized until the IMF crisis) in November 1995.

Some successful strikes continued in 1995-96, notably a KT strike, that won major wage gains. Because of such strikes, blue-collar wages were surpassing civil service wages. At the same time, Korean employers were increasingly shifting from the chaebol model to an orientation to the advantages of globalization. Both sides were gearing up for the 1996-1997 confrontation over the labour casualization law.

In the fall of 1996, rank and file pressure as well as preparation for a general strike grew. Under this pressure, the KCTU had to withdraw from discussions leading to the infamous Tripartite (state-labour-capital) Commission, which, once again, would be created in the midst of the IMF crisis in spring 1998. There was growing rank-and-file rejection of the NL group.

One important counter-measure of the radical militants was the formation of the “hyung-jang jujik”, or shop floor organizations, which attempted to fight the degeneration of the unions and the KCTU with alternate organization, not “outside” the unions but as a shadow power both within the unions and with “horizontal” ties to militants in other unions, fighting against a trend to company-based parochialism. The arc of the hyung-jang jujik extended from 1990 to 2005. In different circumstances, the hyungjang jujik managed to take power in major unions and thereupon often succumbed itself to bureaucratization; in their final years, they became prey to various groups seeking a back-door route to power in the unions, and finally collapsed. But at their best, in a generally defensive situation, they preserved a continuity with the radical impulse of the 1987-1990 period.

Part Six: The General Strike and the IMF Crisis, 1997-1998

Just after Christmas, 1996, the Korean government of Kim Young-sam, in a special night session of parliament with no opposition present, pushed through the first of a series of labour casualization laws aimed at bringing the South Korean economy fully into the era of “globalization” and making layoffs easier for employers, as well as introducing multi-tier contracts. Employers, as indicated previously, had been steadily chipping away at the worker gains of the late 1980’s, and the economy was further weakening through 1996 with accelerating bankruptcies, but this was the first head-on confrontation with the newly-won working-class power.

The KCTU, firmly in the hands of the right-wingers who had defeated and displaced the NCTU, called an immediate general strike under intense rank-and-file pressure, a general strike which was widely followed. Even the conservative, Cold War-era “yellow” FKTU joined in. White-collar workers joined as well, and at its peak three million workers were on strike. (The initial legislation was withdrawn, but a virtually identical law passed in March 1997, with no significant response from the KCTU.) Again, the historical experience of the Korean working class and the novelty of casualization made the strike more “anti-fascist” than anti-neo-liberal. The KCTU did everything in its power to avert a confrontation with the government, and actively demobilized where it could. The rank-and-file, for its part, showed great spontaneity, such as at Hyundai and Kia Motor Company. The KCTU was rumoured to have met secretly with the capitalists to assure them that the strike was under control, and waning. They proposed the impotent tactic of the “Wednesday strike”, a tactic repeated again and again in later years. The general strike petered out in late January, with (as indicated) nothing resolved.

In the wake of the general strike, the Korean Democratic Labour Party (KDLP, or Minju Nodong Tang) was founded in spring 1997, with the same right-leaning elements dominant in the KCTU majority.

The failure of the general strike of January 1997, however, was in turn eclipsed by the devastation of the Korean economy during the Asian financial meltdown of 1997- 1998.

Beginning in Thailand in July 1997 with the collapse of the Thai currency, the crisis rolled through Asia in subsequent months as every country that had embraced the “free market” and hence loosened capital controls saw a massive flight of capital and the plummeting of its currency, with Thailand, Indonesia and South Korea being the hardest hit. The Korean won fell 40% by November 1997, when the Kim Young Sam government obtained a $57 billion bailout from the IMF. All four candidates for the December 1997 presidential elections had to sign an acceptance of the IMF agreement as a condition for disbursement. Thus Kim Dae Jong, finally elected president of Korea after decades in the wilderness of the democratic opposition, had to devote his term in office to implementing the IMF’s draconian package of layoffs, cutbacks of government services, the leveraged and deregulated foreign buyout of Korean industries and banks, and the casualization of labour. Korean democracy, like Korean organized labour before it, triumphed at the very moment when the fulfilment of its earlier apparent promise became impossible, and triumphed as the necessary fig leaf for such harsh medicine. Bankruptcies cascaded and suicides skyrocketed. The IMF initially demanded that Korean banks lay off 50% of their personnel (the figure was later lowered to 30%) and similar numbers of civil servants. The unemployment rate tripled by 1999, and millions were thrown back into poverty.

In this situation, Kim Dae Jong and the KCTU played their appointed roles. As previously mentioned, Kim pulled the KCTU leadership into the February 1998 Tripartite accords, with the KCTU assenting to mass emergency layoffs. The KCTU rank-and-file revolted against such abject surrender and ousted the leadership that had signed off on the deal. There were some large-scale strikes against layoffs in 1998, such as the Hyundai Motor Company (HMC) strike, but the new top KCTU officers were imprisoned and the strikes generally defeated.

During the IMF crisis, many small factories were wiped out, including ones with a militant work force originating in the late 1980’s strike wave and previously sympathetic to the NCTU. For the first time, in keeping with IMF demands, contingent workers became a major phenomenon in the Korean work force. In response to the imposed sell-off of Korea Telcom shares to Wall Street investors, for example, a strike erupted. This strike showed growing evidence of the rift developing between regular and casual workers. In addition to drawing higher pay for less work, the older regular workers lacked the computer skills of the young casuals, and felt increasing job insecurity. The union leaders talked tough but did nothing. Ultimately, both regular and casual workers did strike, but not at the same time. The KT strike ended with the dismissal of 10,000 casual workers.

The February 1998 agreement between Kim Dae Jong and the right-wing leadership of the KCTU for mass layoffs led to a rank-and-file revolt in the KCTU, and the entire leadership was ousted after worker militants occupied the KCTU offices armed with steel pipes.

A new left-wing leadership took control, as mentioned previously, and did attempt to relaunch a general strike against the new labour law in May, June and July, but to no avail. The old leadership remained entrenched in the heavy industry unions, and opposed militant action. In June-August 1998, a 28-day strike took place at HMC, leading to the firing of 10,000 regular workers. Within two years, 10,000 casuals had been hired to do their jobs. KT and various banks also fired regular workers and rehired them as casuals.

Part Seven: Post-1998: Regular vs. Casual Workers Becomes The Issue In the Working-Class Movement

From the IMF crisis onward, the question of casual workers loomed larger and larger in the Korean movement, as well as antagonism between regular and casual workers, with regular workers seeing casual workers as undermining their jobs. (In 2000, a nation-wide casual workers’ union was founded, and is now an umbrella organization with over 50,000 members.)

As early as 1999, a 32-day nationwide strike of 4000 tutors of the Jaenung schools (hakwon, or private academies for after-hours schooling) won collective bargaining rights. The government had denied that they were workers, calling them instead “independent contractors”. The strike was important in showing that organizing casual workers was possible, against state and employer resistance.

In 2000-2002, a renewed KT strike lasted 517 days. In the aftermath of defeat, the KT casual workers union was dissolved. The regular KT workers were generally hostile to the irregular workers. After the strike, KT hired people as “indirect contract workers”. In 2002, 49% of KT shares were sold to US investors, with increased severance pay packages as a tradeoff, along with shares given to regular workers.

In 2000-2001, an air-conditioner factory strike lasted over a month, and was betrayed by the regular workers, over and against casual worker militancy.

A counter-example, however, was the Lotte Hotel workers organizing drive in 2000, which showed that a regular workers’ union could in some circumstances organize irregular workers. After tremendous repression by the hotel owners and imprisonment of strikers, the hotel agreed to regularize workers over a two-year period.

During these same years, however, the KDLP was shifting to the right, and the dominance of the NL line, oriented to the bureaucrats of the KCTU and the politicians of the KDLP, prevented organizing casual workers. (In 2004, the KCTU even helped a Hyundai CEO in his electoral campaign as an independent.) The KCTU was an integral part of neo-liberalism, enforcing outsourcing. In 2003, for example, Pusan truck drivers successfully pulled off a strike, but the government, employers, KCTU and KDLP sabotaged it. In the same year, a large strike erupted at the LG Caltex (now GS Caltex) refinery, but the KCTU did nothing to help the strikers.

In 2005, 10,000 casual oil and chemical workers in Ulsan struck for 83 days over working conditions. The complicated hiring structure imposed by labour laws and company strategy hobbled the strike. A “Committee for the Ulsan Area” was created to settle, including capitalists, CEOs, smaller businessmen, NGOs, and the Ulsan branch of the KCTU. An agreement was limited to the recognition of the union. The workers returned to work during six months of committee “discussion”, leading to nothing. The return to work was brought about by small company concessions, but after the KCTU and KDLP withdrew from the scene, no part of the agreement was ever implemented.

Over the summer of 2005, a battle raged again at Ulsan HMC over casualization. One worker immolated himself in protest, and the union refused to link his death to the labour situation. The casual workers tried to stop the assembly line, but the regular workers refused to collaborate. Company managers and scabs restarted the line while the regular workers stood by, doing nothing. All casual workers involved in the struggle were fired.

In June 2006, the metal workers union voted to form an industrial union of in attempt to overcome the fragmentation of workers in the myriad of spinoff subsidiaries with different contracts, but HMC still negotiates with the HMC company union. Many militant workers opposed the industrial union initiative because of its corporatist agenda.

Later that summer the casual construction workers of the giant POSCO steel works in Pohang wildcatted and were defeated. In August 2007, the casual workers of Kia Motor Company wildcatted and occupied part of the factory, where they were physically attacked by the Kia regular workers and forced back to work.

In one positive development, in November 2007 regular and irregular workers of Hyundai Motor Company in Ulsan for the first time organized a rank-and-file movement together.

Part Eight: The E-Land Strike Lights Up the Social Horizon

The still-ongoing (as of this writing, January 2008) E-Land strike is the latest and in some ways the most important struggle of all in placing the question of casual workers front and centre in South Korean society.

In November 2006, the Korean government passed yet another in a series of laws on casual labour, called in Orwellian fashion the Casual Worker Protection Law. The law was designed to create the illusion of “doing something” about a condition now affecting over 60% of South Korea’s active population. The law provided that after two years on the job, all workers would automatically become regular workers. The law went into effect seven months later, on July 1, 2007, and left huge loopholes for employers who wanted to lay off casuals before the deadline. Some companies complied with the law, but many more did not and laid off their casual workers by June. The whole process came into sharpest focus at a chain of department stores known as E-Land, with a related struggle at a similar chain known as New Core.

E-Land had begun as a small family business, under a fundamentalist Christian owner, and had grown to a $58 billion annual enterprise with 61 outlets around the country. It had taken over the stores of the French Carrefour chain. The company was known for particularly harsh conditions of employment, with mainly women casual workers earning $800 per month for 36-hour weeks, often compelled to work 12-hour shifts without even bathroom breaks. Further, the company required all employees, Christian or not, to attend chapel on the premises. The CEO of E-Land tithed $100 million to his church in 2006. Just before the new law went into effect, E-Land and New Core laid off 1000 workers who would qualify as regular workers under its provisions.

The immediate response was a strike now (January 2008) in its seventh month, and holding firm. In the initial days of the strike, all over South Korea, thousands of casual workers from other sectors came to help shut down E-Land stores. The KCTU went into action, doing everything to smother the strike under fulsome rhetoric while diverting the energies of the rank-and-file and “outside” supporters into meaningless symbolic actions. On July 20, however, 200 E-Land employees occupied an outlet in Seoul and shut it down. The government response was to send 7000 soldiers, police and hired company thugs to violently oust and arrest 200 people. The fading Noh Moon Yon government (highly unpopular and due to leave office in February 2008) had a great deal riding on the success of the new law. But it was hardly alone in perceiving the importance of the strike. Many big chaebol came to E-Land’s assistance with millions of dollars of loans. The KCTU, for its part, promised to lend the E-Land and New Core unions serious money when their strike funds were exhausted by the end of the summer, then reneged on the offer. The KCTU constantly pressured the company unions to come to the bargaining table while E-Land management offered no concessions whatever. In Pohang, in November, E-Land even attempted to open a new outlet with only casual workers. 500 E-Land workers and other casuals not only blocked the entrance to the store, but attacked and disarmed the police and thugs protecting it. Similar actions, including blockages and store occupations, have occurred intermittently throughout the fall.

Perhaps most remarkable in the E-Land strike, in contrast to many earlier strikes with casual labour as the main issue, has been the broad sympathy for and support of the strike among working people in the same casualized situation. A nationwide boycott had by December reduced sales nationwide by 30%, and even the media had given generally favourable coverage to the strike, at least in the early weeks. Whether the E-Land strike wins the strikers’ jobs back or not, it will be a victory for the broader working-class movement by finally making the casualization of labour in South Korea a question that can no longer be ignored.

Bibliography:

(I have learned far more in conversations and collaboration with Korean activists and pro-working class intellectuals for the above article than from any book, with the exception of Koo Hagen’s Korean Workers (2001), the only comprehensive view available in a Western language of Korean working-class history. I am of course greatly hampered by lack of proficiency in Korean. What follows is a summary bibliography of works I have found helpful.)

Bae, Kichan. Korea at the Crossroads. The History and Future of East Asia. Seoul, 2007.

Brzezinski, Zbigniew. The Grand Chessboard. American Primacy and Its Geostrategic Imperatives. New York, 1997.

Cho, Lee-Jay et al. eds. Institutional and Policy Reforms to Enhance Corporate Efficiency in Korea. Seoul, 2007.

Cho, Lee-Jay et al eds. Regulatory Reforms in the Age of Financial Consolidation. Seoul, 2006.

Cumings, Bruce. The Origins of the Korean War. Vol. I: Princeton, 1981. Vol. II: Princeton, 1990.

Denis, M. et al. Suedkorea: Kein Land fuer friedliche Spiele. Reinbek bei Hamburg, 1988.

Graham, E. Reforming Korea’s Industrial Conglomerates. Washington DC 2003.

Harris, N. The End of the Third World. London, 1986.

Hart-Landsberg, M. et al. Marxist Perspectives on South Korea in the Global Economy. Hampshire (UK), 2007.

Hart-Landsberg, M. The rush to development : economic change and political struggle in South Korea. New York, 1993

Hwang, B-D. Nachholende Industrialisierung und autoritaerer Staat. Berlin, 1989.

Kang, Su-Dol. Fordismus und Hyundaismus. Frankfurt a.M. 1995.

Kim, San/Wales, N. Song of Ariran. New York, 1941.

Kim, S./Shin, D.C. Economic Crisis and Dual Transition in Korea. Seoul, 2004.

Kim, W./Kim, P.S. Korean Public Administration. Seoul, 1997.

Jeju Development Institute/ East Asia Foundation. Building a Northeast Asian Community. Vol. II. Seoul, 2006.

Jeong, Seongjin and Shin, Jo-Young. “Debates on the Economic Crisis within the Korean Left.” in Rethinking Marxism, vol. II, No. 2, Spring 1999.

Jomo, K.S. Tigers in Trouble. Financial Governance, Liberalisation and Crises in East Asia. London, 1998.

Johnson, Chalmers. Blowback. 2000.

Kim, Kyeong-won. Post-Crisis Transformation of the Korean Economy. A Review from 1998 to 2002. Seoul, 2003.

Kirk, D./Choe, S.H. Korea Witness. Seoul, 2006.

Kirk, Donald. Korean Dynasty. Hyundai and Chung Ju Yung. Hong Kong, 2000.

Koo, Hagen. Korean Workers. The Culture and Politics of Class Formation. Ithaca, 2001.

Korean Naitonal Commission for UNESCO. The Korean Economy: Reflections at the Millennium. Seoul, 2001.

Lee, B-H. Verfassungs- und gesellschaftspolitische Konzeptionen und ihre Verwirklicung in der Dritten Republik Koreas (1963-1972).

Jacobs, Norman. The Korean Road to Modernization and Development. Urbana, 1985.

Moon, C. and Steinberg, D. Korea in Transition. Three Years under the Kim Dae-Jung Government. Seoul, 2002.

Ogle, G. South Korea: Dissent Within the Economic Miracle. London, 1990.

Park, Min-na. Birth of Resistance. Stories of Eight Women Worker Activists. Seoul, 2005.

Scalapino, R. and Lee, Chong-sik. Communism in Korea. Vol. I. Berkeley, 1972.

Sun, Hak Tae. The Political Economy of Democratic Consolidation. Dynamic Labour Politics in South Korea. Kwangju, 2002.

Socialist Political Alliance. Marx/ Revolution. Papers of the SPA International Conference in Seoul and Ulsan, October 2006. Seoul 2006.

Suh, D-S. The Korean Communist Movement, 1918-1948. Princeton, 1967.

West, J. A Critical Discourse on Korean Law and Economy. Pusan, 2002.

Woronoff,, J. Asia’s “Miracle” Economies. Seoul, 1986.

Seoul Train

194311947A Korean pop mogul with a thing for Berry Gordy has invaded New York, and he’s brought a stable of potential stars with him
by Chloé A. Hilliard
July 17th, 2007 5:36 PM
http://www.villagevoice.com/nyclife/0729,hilliard,77247,15.html/full

The engineer behind Asia’s biggest pop star ever has his eyes set on a new frontier.

Six months ago, Jin Young Park and his company, JYP Entertainment, branched out from South Korea, purchasing a $4 million townhouse on East 31st Street. Park transformed the place into a dorm and recording studio for his next set of young musical trainees, with a party space below. The building officially opened for business last month with a bash for music-industry insiders, Korean community leaders, and the cameramen who follow Park’s every move.

Some of Park’s neighbours have mistaken the house for a club with its velvet rope, security guards and the fluorescent “JYP” affixed to the building’s exterior. Instead, it’s the city’s first Asian-style pop-music factory, a manufacturing plant for the mostly interchangeable, slick young crooners who have become huge money-makers on the western shores of the Pacific Rim: South Korea, Japan, and China.

Park, meanwhile, has emerged as Asia’s answer to Colonel Tom Parker or Lou Pearlman. His Elvis is Rain, a 25-year-old Korean pop singer (born Ji Hoon Jung) whose popularity in Asia is actually pretty astounding. Rain had $20 million in sales last year and has sold more than three million albums in his career. In a recent worldwide online Time magazine poll, Rain was voted the Most Influential Person of 2007. His world tour last year featured his first performances in America and quickly sold out Madison Square Garden. He might be even more popular here if he spoke some English. But earlier this month, Rain opted to leave JYP after his five-year contract expired, and now Park is looking for a new cash cow.

At last month’s launch party, Park hosted a packed house to welcome himself and his current crop of eight young performers to America. Dubbed “Gateway to Asia,” the party was a collision of two worlds—Korean businessmen and their wives in suits and cocktail dresses, mingling with fashionable hip-hoppers who had showed up to check out the house and sip some free Henny. Many had never heard of Rain and didn’t seem as impressed by the traditional Korean drumming and the debut performances of two of Park’s trainees as they were with the open bar, free massages, and Korean fortune-telling.

No fewer than six cameras were in Park’s face all evening long. His launch is big news back home.

His townhouse is less flashy than some producers’ homes, but he’s put some thought into the décor. The parlour level he calls the “Ice Floor” for its stark white walls with bamboo stalks and cloud-like white leather ottomans. A dozen round glass bowls with one goldfish swimming in each fill up the cube shelving.

“Are you guys having a good time?” Park, 35, asked the crowd as he ascended the parlour floor’s stage, spotlights hitting him from the balcony. The look was calculated playboy: top three buttons of the crisp white shirt undone under a suit jacket. Three-hour-a-day gym muscles on display. Zoolander mane.

Over the past decade, Park has graduated from backup dancer to pop star in his own right to a media mogul whose company is estimated to be worth more than $60 million. His star factory works on a scale that a producer like Simon Fuller could only dream about: He recruits talented Asians as young as 11, trains them for years at one of his “academies,” crafting an image for each one, then puts them on a conveyor belt of marketing, recording, and filling roles in television shows and movies.

And his track record has people on this side of the Pacific paying attention. “JY is on everyone’s radar,” says Karen Kwak, an executive vice president at Island Def Jam Music. “He has a drive that’s like no other. He is going to break into the America market—with that kind of commitment and focus, I can’t see how he can’t.”

At the coming-out party, Park passed the microphone over to one of his young protégés, who goes by the name G-Soul and was rocking a faux-hawk, designer jeans, and graphic shirt. He’s been training under Park for seven years.

G-Soul belted out the gospel song from Sister Act 2 in a cappella style, his sound a mix of today’s young black male singers—Neyo, Chris Brown, Mario—but with more depth. Then another trainee, a young woman named J Lim, took the stage wearing a silver sequined dress. She sang a soulful rendition of John Lennon’s “Imagine” with ad libs reminiscent of Alicia Keys. “Uh, yeah—put yo hands in the air. . . ” she crooned, and the crowd appeared wowed. It’s a sound some obviously didn’t expect to hear coming from an Asian mouth.

“If you think this is impressive, we have 100 more kids training over in Korea,” Park told the crowd.

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J Lim, G-Soul, and another young singer named Min sit next to Park, nervously grinning before their first American interview. Min speaks the best English, which is one of the reasons why her album is dropping first, but in front of Park her responses are reduced to three-word answers. She’s shy and she giggles, as though her comprehension of English has suddenly vanished.

G-Soul, Min, and J Lim, with JYP

G-Soul, Min, and J Lim, with JYP

“I like Mary J. Blige, Aretha Franklin, and Beyoncé,” she manages to say. She’s wearing a black mini-dress and four-inch platform pumps. All three artists agree that working with Park has its pluses and minuses. “Sometimes I look at him like a brother,” says G-Soul, 18. “Other times, he’s real strict.”

When G-Soul admits that he thinks some of American hip-hop music is “stupid,” Park pats him on the thigh, a subtle warning that his choice of words is incorrect. G-Soul looks down at his hands. “I tell my kids that after your third album with me, I’ll respect your opinion,” Park says. “Until then, you do what I say.”

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A classically trained pianist since age four, Park majored in political science at Yousei University, one of South Korea’s top three universities. After working as a backup singer for another top Korean artist in the early 1990s, Park went solo with a debut album, Blue City, in 1994.

He claims that many of his lyrics were “banned” for sexual content—but today, he says, the Korean government considers him a top export and representative of the “Korean Wave.” His artists, meanwhile, have put out 23 albums, 18 of which have gone to No. 1 in Asia.

Park says that 90 percent of JYP’s music sales are digital downloads. He refers to CDs as “souvenirs.” To insure a larger distribution of digital music, in 2002 Park sold half of his company to SK Telecom, Korea’s top mobile-communications company. The deal means that all of JYP’s music is made available on the largest digital platform in Korea, including its music site Melon.com, which according to Park is light-years ahead of iTunes. Park estimates that sales at his company are increasing by 20 percent each year.

But he misses his own performing days: After he’s done building his American empire, he says he’ll return to the studio and then finish his career touring.

Park prides himself on only sleeping five hours a night, but he looked exhausted as he sat in the studio late one night, feverishly fine-tuning a demo for J Lim. He was flying to Chicago the next day to play J Lim and G-Soul’s music for R. Kelly, the r&b king currently under indictment for soliciting a minor for child pornography, who Park says has taken an interest in working with his young artists.

This isn’t Park’s first foray into the American music scene. Park moved to Los Angeles three years ago with samples of his work; he wanted to see if he could sell his music and produce songs for American artists. In less than a year, he’d sold songs to Will Smith, r&b songstress Cassie, and rapper MA$E. “All the songs I did placed on albums. I was the first Asian to sell music to top artists,” he boasts, but it’s difficult to confirm his claim. “This made me and my board members comfortable to make the move to America.”

He knows that part of his challenge is getting Americans to be more receptive to the outside world. “American people think that this is the world,” he says. “In baseball, you call it the World Series. That’s weird to us. In the movie Mars Attacks, they go to the White House to surrender.” He shakes his head in bewilderment at the American ego. “If America really opened its eyes to the world, it would help them to be a true leader.”

——————————————————————————–

To find the young and talented, Park holds open auditions each year in cities like Hong Kong and Singapore. Each audition brings out between 1,000 and 5,000 kids, who are quickly whittled down to only 10 to 12. The chosen few are then moved from their homes to a JYP training facility where, for the next six months to several years, they constantly train, working on their singing, dancing, and acting—and also learning a second language of Park’s choice. Only one in 10 make it through the training process. It’s something like American Idol, but extended over several years, and Park is the only judge.

For the first round of his U.S. gambit, Park has placed his bets on a cherubic 16-year-old named Min. The pop and r&b singer has been training with him for four years, the last three in Los Angeles and New York.

“I’ve spent over $500,000 on Min,” Park tells the Voice. Confident that South Korean techniques are about five years ahead of the American music industry, Park has looked for local partners to bring along. For Min’s first album, Park has teamed up with the King of Crunk, Lil Jon.

“It’s kind of like Fame, but it’s on a different level,” says Lil Jon, who plans to release Min’s album in the late fall. “That’s a lot of patience and a lot of vision. You have to see that talent way in advance. . . . When we first got in the studio together, [Park] came with all of his stuff together; there was no half-ass-ness at all. He’s a stand-up guy.”

Park knows that the gradual preparation of artists is something American labels no longer have patience for. One example he offers is the fate of the rapper Mims, who had a huge success with the single “This Is Why I’m Hot.”

“His song was No. 1; the album came out and flopped. American record labels are still looking for that one song.” To fight off the one-hit-wonder phenomenon, Park has refined what he calls “one source, multi-use.” All of his artists have more to offer than music: They craft personalities, hone their acting and dancing skills, and develop fan bases that remain loyal for years.

“I hope American record labels go back to doing things this way,” says Park. “I hope my being here can contribute to that. I don’t think they should learn from me; they should learn from Motown. That’s who I learned from.”

——————————————————————————–

Taking a break from his late night of mixing, Park explains his approach to music. “Michael Jackson is a bible to us,” he says. “I train them solely on American samples. I don’t want my artists to look fake. I want them to look real, not like just another African-American wannabe.” Park encourages his students to study African-American culture and takes them to see black singers in concert and films like Dreamgirls and Stomp the Yard. This can lead to some cultural misunderstandings, as when a black reporter from the Voice put out her hand to say hello to G-Soul and got a “pound”—an urban handshake that ends with a snap of the fingers. Someone, apparently, had been watching too much BET.

——
On a recent afternoon, Mary J. Blige was blaring from a small boom box, and Min was giving it all she had. Her long brown hair whipped through the air as her oversized, sweat-drenched shirt and sweatpants clung to her five-foot-one-inch frame. Her every move was being videotaped by a JYP staffer for her development archives. Periodically, Park will look over the tapes to see if Min is improving, note where she needs work, and give suggestions to the choreographer. She has recently completed her freshman year at the Repertory Company High School for Theatre Arts, a small Manhattan school of 180 students. With high school out for the summer, her days are composed of dance, vocal lessons, English and Chinese classes, and trips to the gym.

When the music stopped, Min walked over to watch the video of her footwork. Two JYP staffers watched alongside her.

“She’s a little sloppy,” one staffer said.

“Well, this is only her second class since she’s been back,” the choreographer responded, jumping to her defence. They carried on talking about her as if she wasn’t in the room. The criticism doesn’t faze her. This is what the last four years of her life have been about. Park believes in natural talent, but he doesn’t believe in putting someone before the public until they’ve been tested, trained, and educated. (The same philosophy applies to his executives—the CEO who replaced Park in Korea first shadowed him for two years.)

After six months, a trainee is evaluated by Park, and either dropped or allowed to continue—those who make it are divided into two tracks: one track focusing on dancing, acting, and modelling, the other on learning an instrument and composition. Min is in the first category.

Park says the focus is necessary to produce a well-rounded star. “I don’t want my artist to get onstage and look a mess,” he says. When he signed Rain in 1999, for the first year Park required him to read the newspaper every day and write a report on it. Rain wouldn’t release an album for another three years. “I’m testing character and dignity,” Park says. “In 11 years, not one of my artists has gotten in trouble. I don’t want an asshole on my label. Nobody smokes—not even a cigarette. I want to be happy with a good kid. All of my artists have longevity. If you want to be a star, pay the price.”

Koreans, meanwhile, track the number of years an artist has spent training with Park like sports fans talking about a professional athlete’s stats. Park, in turn, credits the devotion of his trainees to the general mind-set of Koreans.

“South Korea is the 12th-wealthiest country in the world,” Park boasts. “We have no natural resources; we’re half the size of Florida and only have 50 million people—one-fifth the total of America’s population. We’re the home of Samsung, Hyundai, LG, and Helio. Ten-hour days are standard for us, because we know if we don’t work, our country won’t succeed.” For the last 15 years, Park has committed himself to working 16-hour days, breaking them down to know exactly how much time he spends per day eating (two hours total), working out (three to stay ready for his comeback), and showering and grooming (one and a half).

Min, however, isn’t quite so regimented. She’s showing some rustiness because she’s just returned from spending two months visiting her parents in South Korea. It was the first time she had seen them since leaving to train with Park three years ago.

JYP regularly sends parents videos of their children performing. On YouTube, there’s a video of Min at age 13, singing a Beyoncé song. There’s another of her dancing in the studio, and more of her training as Park looks on and corrects her.

“My trip was OK. It wasn’t great,” Min explains outside of earshot of the JYP staffers. “I’m so different now. I didn’t think I would have to be away from them for so long. I left home at 11. I thought I would see them after six months.”

Most of Park’s trainees are plucked from poor families, and they worry about supporting their parents back home. Park knows he can count on that worry to motivate them.

“Here, being poor gives you street credibility,” he says. “In Korea, it means nothing. [But] I have found that it’s the poor ones that work hard and really want it.”

Min’s parents aren’t compensated for their daughter’s time in training. They pay nothing, however, for their child’s housing, schooling, and artistic lessons. All of that Park recoups when he puts out an album.

“I get a monthly allowance of five dollars,” Min says when asked if she is paid anything now. “I mean, $500,” she corrects herself, laughing. “I lost my English a little since I got back.”

All this talk of rigorous training and kids not seeing their parents for years is starting to sound weird, even downright cultish—and the JYP staffers seem to know it. They start crafting responses that play down the training process and make it all sound less odd. But the harder they try, the weirder it sounds.

“We’re more like a family structure,” says the vice president of operations, Jay Kim. “Our company has a lot of credibility, and parents know we are trustworthy. From the parent’s standpoint, their child is getting a better education and opportunity being here with us.” A special department manages the company’s relationships with parents. Park thought about living with the kids, but instead got his own penthouse on 42nd Street.

He’s living in Trump Tower until that renovation is finished.

Lost in Transit

FT Magazine coverBy Anna Fifield
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/04c2a02e-13f1-11dc-88cb-000b5df10621.html
Published: June 8 2007 17:20 | Last updated: June 8 2007 17:20

When he stepped off a flight into the glittering, almost science-fiction-like airport terminal near Seoul three years ago, Park Hyun-ki didn’t find South Korea all that different from the North. First, intelligence officers took him away for questioning, an experience not unusual in the North. And once he passed through detention, the fast pace of life in the capitalist South and the “pretty” accent of Southerners felt familiar thanks to the hours of South Korean soap operas he had watched while hiding in China. “It didn’t feel very foreign,” the 28-year-old says. “I did think all the demonstrations on the streets were a bit strange. You can’t even imagine staging protests in North Korea.”

To North Koreans, the South is at once familiar and alien. People who share their names, their language and their history drive down neon-emblazoned streets in Hyundai SUVs, watch television on their mobile phones and criticise the president at every opportunity. Park’s hometown of 3,000 people, lying just outside Musan, a mining city in the North Hamgyong province of North Korea, near the border with China, is a world away from this. The bleak, rocky province – once the centre of North Korean industry but now rusting – is considered backward even by the standards of the North.

Still, life there was “OK”, says Park. After 10 years of schooling, he had secured steady work in a munitions factory making bullets and grenades. But in the mid-1990s, a devastating famine struck, compounding shortages that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union; soon Park’s friends and workmates were facing starvation. “We were eating only three meals a week, sometimes even eating tree bark because that was all we had,” he recalls, sitting on the floor of a Korean restaurant in southern Seoul, the table crowded with bowls of the vegetables and rice, plates of fish and dishes of kimchi and pancakes he could once only dream about.

Then people started dying. “From 1995, four people were dying each day from the hunger.” Realising his fate if he remained in the North, Park started plotting his family’s escape. He surveyed the Tumen river, which separates North Korea from China, and befriended the guards patrolling the border. Finally, one night, he bribed one of the soldiers and escaped with his family into China. A gruelling journey followed, during which both of his parents died and his sister was captured by human traffickers hoping to sell her to a Chinese man. Park, alone and bewildered, found his way to the South Korean embassy in Beijing and eventually flew to Seoul.

Upon arrival in the South, refugees are sent to a government centre called Hanawon, where they spend 10 weeks learning about Southern culture as well as practical skills such as how to use a computer, a bank card, a mobile phone and the subway. As they leave, they receive government payments. A single refugee gets a lump sum of $3,000 for basic assistance, a further $7,000 paid out over the following two years, and $10,000 for housing – meant to cover five years’ rent. (This $20,000 is a sharp reduction from 2004, when a lone refugee could expect $35,000, and the amount is set to be cut further this year.)

Park blew most of his grant on drinking, karaoke and playing pool. “In North Korea we have no concept of money or budgeting or saving, so once we get here we don’t know what to do,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. With his downbeat expression, shaggy hair and black “Hugo Boos” (fake Hugo Boss) jumper, Park cuts a rather pitiful figure.

Not realising he had to be careful with his national identity card, he discovered that new acquaintances had racked up huge mobile phone bills in his name. He found a job in a bar to pay the debt, but soon had to quit because he got into fights with customers who mocked his country-bumpkin accent. He tried working as a broker for escaping North Koreans but that enterprise landed him in jail, charged with forging the documents North Koreans need to win passage to the South. Upon his release he discovered his girlfriend, also a refugee, was pregnant and had only $8 to her name. “I felt so frustrated with the treatment I received,” says Park, jobless again. “I spent three months in jail while my girlfriend was pregnant and now the government calls me a criminal. I think it’s the South Korean government that’s criminal, not me.”

After the Korean war ended in 1953 and the division of the peninsula, Pyongyang operated under a strict policy of isolationism, keeping people in and information out. In the four decades that passed between the Korean war and the end of the cold war, only 600 North Koreans sought asylum in the South. The vast majority were elite men – diplomats, party cadres or military officers. Upon their arrival in Seoul, they were celebrated as heroes, their defections portrayed as a triumph of capitalism over communism. With their high levels of education, social skills and ready-made jobs at government think-tanks, these early defectors easily slotted into South Korean society.

But that all changed after the North Korean famine of the mid-1990s, which killed an estimated 2 million people, or almost 10 per cent of the population. The escaping North Koreans were no longer elites seeking political respite but unskilled workers from rural areas who were driven into China by hunger. Between 1994 and 1999 the number of North Koreans arriving in the South rose to 50 a year, but then started multiplying rapidly, increasing from 312 in 2000 to 1,894 in 2004. The number of refugees living in the South this year passed the 10,000 mark.

Now, three-quarters of defectors are women, the vast majority in their 20s and 30s. About 80 per cent of the total are from North Hamgyong province, whose rocky landscape is not well suited to agriculture and left the residents most vulnerable to the famine. As far from the showcase capital of Pyongyang as it’s possible to get in North Korea, Hamgyong has long been home to those considered undesirable in the rest of the country, and is believed to house several of the labour camps where those deemed politically unreliable are put to work.

Nanyang, seen from across the border in China - a common escape route

Nanyang, seen from across the border in China - a common escape route


The vast majority of those fleeing North Korea escape across the Yalu or Tumen rivers, which form the 1,400km border with China, swimming and wading in the summer or running over the ice in the winter. The border is increasingly heavily monitored on both sides, and those captured by North Korean or Chinese police risk repatriation and the labour camps – or worse.

Most of those who do make it across spend about three years hiding in China before making their way – with the help of Christian missionaries or expensive brokers (charging anywhere from $3,000 to $30,000) – to countries such as Mongolia, Thailand or Vietnam, where they claim asylum and are sent to South Korea. There, a hero’s welcome is far from what they receive.

According to a 2004 survey, half of South Koreans hope for “gradual unification” with the North, while 39 per cent say their ideal would be “prolonged friendly coexistence”. President Roh Moo-hyun feels the same, saying he wants Korean unification “through a predictable process”. And as Seoul has tried to warm relations with Pyongyang through its “sunshine policy” of engagement – seeking to lessen the burden of eventually absorbing the North – so it has become loath to do anything that might antagonise Kim Jong-il and his regime, a category into which encouraging defection falls.

“The South Korean government does not have any intention of fostering the North’s collapse,” Roh said during a visit to Berlin two years ago. “Germany paid a high price to realise national unification and is still suffering from it. I hope Korea will not undergo the same.”

In fact, the cost of Korean unification is likely to be much higher than it was in Germany. In 1989, East Germany’s gross domestic product per capita was one-third of West Germany’s, and about 80 per cent of the German population lived in the West. But on the Korean peninsula, the North’s GDP per capita is about one-15th of the South’s, and the populations are more evenly divided, with only two-thirds of Koreans living in the South.

South Korea’s main preoccupation has been the financial and economic cost of unification, with young people in particular expressing concern over the impact that sudden unification might have on their high-tech, conspicuous-consumption lifestyles.

But this is obscuring a much bigger challenge – that of social integration. “There will be a lot of social problems, especially with this rather large middle class that is forming in North Korea,” says Andrei Lankov, a professor at Kookmin University in Seoul who once studied in Pyonyang. “What will South Korea do with people who are called engineers but who have never seen a computer?”

When Lee Ji-su arrived in Seoul four years ago, she found herself almost intoxicated with the opportunities South Korea offered. After 27 years of repression, brainwashing and then hunger in North Korea, and a terrifying journey through China, she arrived in a country of riches and possibilities she could not have imagined. “I was so excited about my new life. I wanted to get out there, into the real South Korea, as soon as possible,” says Lee, sitting on the floor in her cramped apartment in a commuter town outside Seoul. On the bustling main street, construction companies are building flash new apartment towers, and limousine buses zoom back and forth to the capital.

Lee, now 32, comes from Chongjin, a rusting port city in North Hamgyong not far from China. An accordion player, she was in the local Korean Workers’ party band. At rallies to whip up loyalty for Kim Il-sung and his son Kim Jong-il, she had to play songs such as “My Country, The Best Country” and “Kim Il-sung, Sing of the Love For Him”.

Because of her privileged position as a member of the Korean Workers’ party, Lee was well-off, living in a comfortable apartment, eating well, playing her music and enjoying something of a bourgeois lifestyle. But as the famine took hold and her mother died, Lee had to fend for herself. She started exporting dried fish to China to raise money, using the proceeds to buy cheaper foodstuffs for herself. “I was in the Workers’ party performance team so I had received a lot of political education,” she says. “But when I got to China I saw how much richer than us they were and I watched some South Korean TV. Then I realised just how much the regime had lied to us.”

The myth of Kim Jong-il’s “socialist paradise” exposed, Lee started using her fish-selling trips to investigate the opportunities for crossing the border and not returning. After several such trips, she started the arduous journey to South Korea.

Although it would be impossible to pick out Lee, with her carefully made-up face, gold dangling earrings and (fake) Prada bag in a South Korean crowd, neither her life in North Korea nor her time at Hanawon prepared her for the rigours of the South. She got a job as a waitress but the owner paid her only $300 a month, not the $1,300 he had promised; the work proved gruelling, and the customers looked down their noses at her. “South Koreans think the North Korean accent sounds very crude, so people treated me as ignorant,” she says, admitting this hit a nerve since she didn’t even know how to use a credit card when she first arrived.

In a survey of 300 North Korean refugees living in Seoul, half said they felt they were viewed as second-class citizens and the same proportion labelled discrimination the most difficult thing they had to cope with.

“Some South Koreans say things to me like: ‘It’s OK for you, you don’t have to work here because the government pays you with our taxes.’ I find that very distressing,” she says. “Even at the local council office, they say things like: ‘Why aren’t you at work?'” She had been living on instant noodles for the three days before our interview, and both she and Park asked to use aliases for fear of angering South Koreans.

Although Lee now has a job as an office assistant, for many, work is a struggle. Unemployment among refugees is at about 40 per cent – compared with 3 per cent for the general population – and those with jobs usually hold temporary or otherwise inferior positions. “We get ‘3D’ jobs,” says Lee. “Jobs that are dirty, difficult or dangerous.”

Defector Kim Seung-chol

Defector Kim Seung-chol


Then there is the challenge of forging new relationships. Marriage between South Koreans and previously married North Koreans is a legal minefield – what happens if the former spouse shows up in the South? – and social differences exist even at home. About 70 per cent of inter-Korean marriages end in divorce. Kim Seung-chol, a gaunt salaryman who married a South Korean woman a decade ago, tells me: “In North Korea, women feel happy when their husband brings home the bacon.” But “in South Korea, women need more than just money,” he says. “They want to communicate with their husbands and have fulfilment and things like that. I advise new arrivals that in South Korea they have to tell their wives that they love them every day – but they just laugh, they can’t believe it.”

Some experts argue this sort of advice should be harnessed by Seoul, with the government using refugees’ first-hand knowledge of both the North and the South rather than ostracising the new arrivals. Lankov says: “The number of refugees has reached 10,000 and Korean newspapers call this a ‘flood’ or ‘exodus’. But look at what was happening in Germany in the 1960s, 1970s, 1980s. The average number of people flowing from East to West each year was 21,000.

“These refugees are the avant garde of unification, and sooner or later unification will happen – whether people like it or not. The experience of dealing with these people will be very useful when the South has to cope not just with 10,000 but 24 million refugees.”

At tae kwon do practice in a classroom filled with the smell of teenage boys, Oh Tae-hoon’s face breaks out into a large smile as he kicks his buddy in the chest, his skinny frame rattling around in a protective vest. Born in North Hamgyong, Oh is 17 years old but the same size as a Southern 13-year-old.

Oh was six when his mother deserted the family during the famine. After his father died in 2000, he was alone. “I would hang around on the streets with a friend who also had no parents, looking for food or just killing time.”

Because he lived near the border, he learnt a lot about China, and saw chances for a better life elsewhere. One night in December 2003, he swam across the Tumen river, then walked and cadged rides to Mongolia, where missionaries helped him claim asylum in South Korea. But with no family in the South, Oh was sent to a special school south of Seoul, where he has lived in the dormitory since.

Because he is not an adult, Oh did not receive any lump-sum payments after Hanawon. Instead, he gets $50 pocket money a month from the government – sometimes enough to get by, sometimes not. But after years of living on the streets and skipping school, settling into life as a South Korean teenager is not easy. “I didn’t have much chance to study before I came here so I don’t know the basics,” he says.

Although Oh is a special case, learning is a struggle for most children from North Korea. Joanna Hosaniak, a Pole, works at the Christian NGO Citizens’ Alliance in Seoul, which runs the Hankyoreh Seasonal School where Oh is a pupil. She says many of the children live “almost like wild animals” while in China, so have trouble integrating into South Korea. “They look to their parents for emotional warmth,” she says, “but very often the adults themselves have so many problems that they can’t give that kind of care to their children.”

Indeed, after a repressive life in the North, followed by dangerous and stressful journeys through China, children and adults alike arrive in South Korea suffering from malnutrition and post-traumatic stress disorder. Simple things such as living in an apartment can become a “psychological killer”, says Chung Byung-ho, a cultural anthropologist who helps North Koreans integrate into the South.

“Most of these people have never lived by themselves, then suddenly they are given an apartment, and when they close the door, they feel that nobody cares,” he says. “Socialist societies never leave people alone – they are always interfering, organising, mobilising.”

All this is compounded by the unimaginable level of brainwashing North Koreans experience in the world’s most aggressive personality cult. For many refugees, Christianity fills the gap and helps refugees cope with the South’s sink-or-swim policies. More than half of refugees were baptised during their years in hiding in China, where mainly Protestant missionaries provide the support networks so many refugees lack. To help lay the groundwork for social unification, South Korean attitudes may have to change. “South Korean people no longer think of this as subsidising heroes but as subsidising migrants,” says Chung.

Lankov, meanwhile, has suggested in a report on refugees for the US Committee for Human Rights in North Korea, that Seoul do more to encourage elite defection, perhaps increasing the payments made to people who bring valuable information and skills with them. Refugees should also be provided with more educational opportunities once they arrive in the South. Although they might not be particularly suited to academic study, they could benefit from more vocational training, he says.

Indeed, the hope of many young refugees knows no bounds. Fifteen-year-old Hong Sung-min had been living in South Korea for only two weeks before starting at the Hankyoreh school, alongside Oh, in January. With a broad smile across his spotty face, he is full of excitement about what life in the South could offer. “I am interested in foreign languages, especially English and Chinese. And I want to own my business later in life,” he says between lessons. “Yes, I want to be rich.”

Media Should See Press Room Closure As An Opportunity

By Michael Breen
Intended for The Korea Times
Friday, June 1, 2007

The war between President Roh and the mainstream media went nuclear last week when the government announced a plan to close press rooms in ministries and change how it deals with journalists.

Right now, the prevailing opinion is that the move is a vindictive attack on press freedom, akin to that made on the other side of the world by Venezuelan leader Hugo Chavez, who has closed a TV station that criticized him.

In evaluating this news, we should always remind ourselves when the press itself becomes a story that it, to borrow from Karl Marx, owns the means of production. In other words, they are telling the story. That’s why right now theirs is the prevailing view.

But there are two more sides to factor in. One is the government’s and the other is “the people’s.” How will they benefit or lose from the new policy?

My view is that all sides can win. President Roh is making a historic move here, cutting the umbilical cord with the media, just as he cut the judiciary and ruling party from the executive Blue House when he came into office.

Viewed coolly, the government plan for restructuring its relationship with the media is almost certain to lead to more rational and articulate government public relations. At the same time – although this is not a government concern – it presents the press with an opportunity to be more professional and competitive. The winner will be the electorate, who although enjoying increasing freedoms in recent decades, is patchily informed by its media.

Here’s what will happen.

Specifically, in August, government will reduce the number of briefing rooms, close press rooms in ministries and police stations, and start distributing government announcements and take everyday questions from reporters online.

This is a big change from the present system. Readers may not be aware, but most newspapers structure their reporting around government ministries. In other words, individual journalists are assigned to specific ministries.

This is unusual. It makes sense for reporters to be dedicated to the Blue House and the one of two ministries that are a major source of important news. But it doesn’t make sense to have reporters in 37 government agencies.

For example, you would expect a reporter covering, say, health, to have a desk in his own newspaper and go out to meet sources and find stories about hospitals, government policy, research, the pharmaceutical industry and so on. Here, he works out of the Health and Welfare Ministry.

In the past, this system was a form of press control. The authoritarian government could keep an eye on reporters and spoon-feed them information.

One consequence in democratic Korea is a continuing bias, not so much in favor of government, but in favor of old top-down Korea. Most information and opinion, you see, still flows down from government. It flows from producer to consumer. From the powerful to the powerless.

Check your paper for the number of stories that are announcements from government. Check also and see how few news or feature stories are really about ordinary people. (When there are profiles of individuals, it’s not because their stories are intrinsically interesting, but because they have made the country proud, like won golf tournaments, best actress awards, or come third in Miss Universe.) That is because media are a form of elite whose historic mission has been to educate and guide the unwashed masses with an eye to perceived national interest. The unwashed masses are not themselves very interesting.

But we live in a democracy now. Korea is being increasingly driven from the bottom up, by the consumer, by the voter, by the individual. It’s time the press caught up with the times.

Another consequence of press rooms is that reporters develop close ties with officials who leak them confidential information that – sorry, reporters – the public has a right to know that the government is protecting.

From a public relations perspective, these relationships need to be established on a professional footing. Government should speak with a unified voice to avoid confusion. In Korea, however, ministries say different things and even officials within ministries contradict one another. As large companies learned long ago, the way to deal with that is both limit and train those who are talking to reporters. (This is bad news for reporters, but good news for anyone they write about).

Another feature of the ministry-based reporting system is press clubs. Each ministry’s press corps has one. This leads to a strange tendency in Korean journalism whereby reporters covering the same field – or “beat,” as it is called – view one another as colleagues, not as competitors. Club members often agree not to “scoop” others for fear of upsetting group harmony. Far from competing, they tend to share information. The real rivalries are between reporters from the same newspaper. This is one reason why newspapers are so similar.

These clubs, incidentally, have successfully pressured government not to allow foreign reporters into briefings. In fact, this issue is scheduled to be tabled by the EU as a trade matter for the upcoming FTA talks.

So, why is Mr. Roh doing this? The fact it has come so late in his term – Mr. Roh will step down in February – suggests that it was an afterthought. Indeed, critics charge that Mr. Roh is being vindictive. This may be true. But even so, it’s a well thought-out response. (Officials studied how OECD member governments dealt with media before coming up with the plan)

Many reporters feel the plan is an attack on their freedoms. “The new measure will not only harm reporters’ objectivity toward government policies, but will also infringe upon the public’s right to know,” the Korean Association of Newspapers said in a statement.

This perception comes from a natural anger that the level of access to government is going to change. Now reporters will have to meet with official spokespeople only and formally apply for interviews with other officials, rather than just drop into their offices.

Nothing is more annoying to reporters. But it does not mean their freedom is being curtailed. What is really infringed upon is the reporter’s right to roam rather than the public’s right to know.

My advice to publishers and editors is to recognize the historic moment and respond competitively.

Why only the well connected thrive

By Anna Fifield
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/8b04772c-b4bd-11db-b707-0000779e2340.html
Published: February 5 2007 02:00 | Last updated: February 5 2007 02:00

While South Korea has many large business groups, only a few have succeeded in becoming competitive in overseas markets, says Kwon Oh-seung, the head of the Fair Trade Commission, writes Anna Fifield.

That is partly because of the lack of competition at home and the distorted supply chains that favour companies with links to chaebol rather than small and medium enterprises, so called SMEs, without such relationships.

“If you do not belong to a large business group, it is very difficult to do business,” Mr Kwon says. “That is especially true for SMEs: they cannot grow into large companies. I’m very concerned about that and want to correct this situation so that companies can grow in the domestic market and then enter the international market.”

For example, in the electronics market, Samsung and LG belong to business groups with many affiliates, so there is “direct or indirect pressure” to buy products from affiliates and only those companies that have links or relationships to the affiliates get contracts, Mr Kwon says. “That hampers competition in individual markets,” he adds.

Hank Morris, a business consultant, agrees that chaebol are stifling the development of South Korea’s small and innovative businesses.

“Chaebol companies have been known to tell potential customers that if they deal with such-and-such then they won’t get any business from them,” Mr Morris says. “They are essentially trying to corner the market by using unfair tactics. These threats can be very intimidating and they can make it very difficult for small companies to survive.”

S Korea watchdog tries to rein in cartels

By Anna Fifield in Seoul
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/00d89e1e-b479-11db-b707-0000779e2340.html
Published: February 4 2007 23:25 | Last updated: February 4 2007 23:25

South Korea’s Fair Trade Commission has pledged to this year take an even tougher line against companies that allegedly abuse their market dominance, focusing on cartels and mergers in particular.

Kwon Oh-seung, the FTC chairman, said companies outside the chaebol conglomerates need a chance to grow. “In the past we have been focusing on unfair practices,” Mr Kwon, who took over leadership of the FTC last year, told the Financial Times. “But from this year we will strengthen our law enforcement on the abuse of market dominance and merger control.”

His vow comes as the National Assembly prepares this month to consider ­government plans to ease restrictions on South Korea’s big businesses, allowing them to invest more in their affiliates. This runs contrary to Mr Kwon’s attempts to impose tougher regulations on cross-investment among chaebol companies such as Samsung and Hyundai, and curtail their ability to control megalithic enterprises with single-digit shareholdings. Instead, Mr Kwon will this year turn to enforcing competition law.

“There is no problem with large companies who have become large through their competitiveness but companies that are dominant in the market should not abuse their dominance. We’re going to strictly regulate or prohibit any anti-competitive practices,” he said.

The watchdog is already active. In the past year it has launched investigations into Qualcomm and Intel, the US technology companies, and forced Microsoft to unbundle the Korean version of its Windows operating system, as well as fining it Won33bn ($31m).

Last month it fined Hyundai Motor Won23bn for violating competition rules by putting excessive pressure on its independent car dealers to promote sales.

Mr Kwon said he saw “some concerning signs” that Hyundai Motor was becoming unfair but the carmaker is already bristling at the FTC’s new-found muscularity.

“These investigations are very intrusive,” said Oles Gadacz, Hyundai spokesman. “How can a government agency decide where we can have distributors?”

Hyundai has been going through a tumultuous period, which will come to a head on Monday when a Seoul court delivers its verdict on chairman Chung Mong-koo, who is charged with embezzlement and breach of trust. Prosecutors are seeking a six-year jail term.

In the 1960s and 1970s, South Korea’s chaebol propelled the then poor country’s explosive growth. Now, South Korea is the world’s 10th largest economy, yet the family-run conglomerates have become what some see as untameable beasts in need of reining in.

Rather than pursue a crackdown on the chaebol, South Korea’s government is pushing a plan to ease the regulations that govern the conglomerates and the often tangled shareholding structures via which their controlling shareholders run vast industrial empires, often with formal shareholdings of 5 per cent or less.

The National Assembly is this month to consider a change that would see the number of companies subject to cross-shareholding restrictions fall from 343 units of 24 chaebol to only 24 companies belonging to seven groups.

The finance ministry says the move is intended to encourage corporate investment, which is forecast to slow sharply because of economic uncertainties caused by the strong won and December’s presidential election.

The view is backed by industry groups. According to the Federation of Korean Industries, the country’s 30 largest business groups expect to invest Won52,000bn this year, only 0.6 per cent more than in 2006.

The finance ministry argues that any efforts to tame the chaebol would potentially halt an already slowing economy. Indeed, within South Korea there is a fear that the country’s GDP would not grow without the chaebol.

But Mr Kwon, whose efforts to push through stricter cross-shareholding limits have been stymied by the government, argues that the new rules will simply help distort the Korean economy further.

Many analysts say it is time for Korea to wean itself off its dependence on both the chaebol and on manufacturing, for it to start developing the service sector, and to allow small- and medium- size enterprises – which employ 80 per cent of the working population – to grow.

Mr Kwon argues that in Korea “power is concentrated in too few hands”, singling out Samsung, Hyundai Motor, Hyundai Group, LG, SK and Doosan as the main offenders.

“When I compare Korea with other countries, like the US, the UK, Germany, I see that large business groups here have the power to hamper the functioning of markets so I am very concerned,” Mr Kwon says.

The chaebol have vehemently resisted attempts to curb their power. Lee Seung-chol of the FKI chaebol club argues that the restrictions on large business that the FTC wants to pursue are simply “wrong”.

“Even though big companies dominate the domestic market they don’t dominate international markets. In a global, open economy, market share does not equate to market power,” he says.

S Korea tries to clip wings of the chaebol

By Anna Fifield in Seoul
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/708700b0-b4a7-11db-b707-0000779e2340.html
Published: February 4 2007 23:43 | Last updated: February 4 2007 23:43

In the 1960s and 1970s, South Korea’s chaebol propelled the country’s explosive growth, helping to transform it from one of the world’s poorest countries into an Asian tiger.

Now, South Korea is the world’s 10th largest economy yet the family-run conglomerates have become what some see as untameable beasts in need of reining in.

“The chaebol have become too powerful,” argues Kwon Oh-seung, the chairman of the Korean Fair Trade Commission and the anti-trust regulator leading the charge to stop what he sees as the conglomerates’ distortion of the Korean economy.

But rather than pursue a crackdown on the chaebol, South Korea’s government is pushing a plan to ease the regulations that govern the conglomerates and the often tangled shareholding structures via which their controlling shareholders control vast industrial empires, often with formal shareholdings of 5 per cent of less.

The National Assembly is due this month to consider a change that would see the number of companies subject to cross-shareholding restrictions fall from 343 units of 24 chaebol to just 24 companies belonging to seven groups.

Under the current regulations, chaebol affiliates with assets of more than Won2,000bn ($2.14bn, €1.65bn, £1.09bn) belonging to groups with assets of more than Won6,000bn are prohibited from holding more than 25 per cent of shares in an affiliated company.

Under the proposed revision, only chaebol with assets of more than Won10,000bn will be affected. Furthermore, the cross-shareholding limit will be relaxed to allow companies to hold up to 40 per cent in affiliates.

The finance ministry says the move is intended to encourage corporate investment, which is forecast to slow sharply because of economic uncertainties caused by the strong won and December’s presidential election.

The view is backed by industry groups. According to the Federation of Korean Industries, the country’s 30 largest business groups expect to invest Won52,000bn this year, only 0.6 per cent more than in 2006.

The finance ministry argues that any efforts to tame the chaebol would potentially hobble an already slowing economy. Indeed, within South Korea there is a fear that the country’s GDP would not grow without the chaebol.

But Mr Kwon, whose efforts to push through stricter cross-shareholding limits have been stymied by the government, argues the new rules will simply help distort the Korean economy further. Mr Kwon says the current limits can already see affiliates control 40-45 per cent of a chaebol company while owners technically hold just 5 per cent.

“The affiliates of large business groups can survive even if they are not competitive,” he says. “I wanted to make the market function properly so that all those who make quality goods can survive in the market.”

Many analysts say it is time for Korea to wean itself off its dependence on both the chaebol and on manufacturing, for it to start developing the service sector, and to allow small and medium size enterprises – which employ 80 per cent of the working population – to grow.

The huge size of the chaebol is being called into question, especially as Samsung and Hyundai Motor prepare to install third-generation chairmen, a process aided by complex webs of cross-shareholdings.

Mr Kwon argues that in Korea “power is concentrated in too few hands”, singling out Samsung, Hyundai Motor, Hyundai Group, LG, SK and Doosan as the main offenders.

Samsung, the biggest chaebol, now has more than 60 affiliated companies – ranging from hotels and a securities trader to shipbuilding and petrochemicals – and accounts for almost a quarter of the Korean stock market’s capitalisation and more than 20 per cent of total exports.

“When I compare Korea with other countries, like the US, the UK, Germany,– I see that large business groups here have the power to hamper the functioning of markets so I am very concerned,” Mr Kwon says.

The chaebol have vehemently resisted attempts to curb their power. Lee Seung-chol of the FKI chaebol club argues that the restrictions on large business that the FTC wants to pursue are simply “wrong”.

“Even though big companies dominate the domestic market they don’t dominate international markets. In a global, open economy, market share does not equate to market power,” he says.

But analysts see logic in Mr Kwon’s calls for stricter monitoring. “The resources that the chaebol can deploy are massive compared with their potential competitors,” says Hank Morris, a business consultant in Seoul. “So it makes sense for the government to play referee and be on the look-out for dirty tricks.”