South Korea has built a global reputation for its grueling working hours, standing out even among Asian countries that have a similar reputation. With the 21st presidential election, the four-day workweek has once more surfaced in public discourse. On April 8, 2025, a national petition calling for a four-day workweek was submitted. Although the petition was officially closed with 29,019 (58%) in its favor, presidential candidates and government officials have begun proposing various ideas in response to public support for more flexible and balanced labor policies. Can the four-day workweek truly be implemented all across Korean society?There are two main arguments in support of a four-day workweek. First, it is thought to enhance individual and social well-being by improving work-life balance. Korea has one of the longest working hours in the OECD, with an individual working an average of 1,872 hours annually. Under these long hours and performance-oriented working conditions, many feel their quality of life is low and expect that a shorter workweek would improve their health and sense of contentment.   A four-day workweek could also help address broader social issues, such as decreased productivity,  widespread sense of burnout, and rising rates of depression. A study involving 61 organizations in the UK found that reducing working hours by 20%—without cutting pay—led to 71% of employees reporting lower levels of burnout. At the same time, company revenue remained stable and even increased by an average of 1. 4%. In turn, a four-day workweek may contribute to a more sustainable society in the long term—environmentally, economically, and demographically.  In fact, a four-day workweek is already implemented in many countries worldwide. The first country to adopt the practice was Iceland. Since 2015, Iceland has proven that reducing working hours without reducing wages can maintain or even improve productivity and efficiency on a national scale. Japan and Singapore have opened the option of a four-day workweek for certain occupations, such as government positions, as part of broader flexible working hours. Additionally, even in Korea, there are certain businesses that are attempting to implement a rendition of the four-day workweek. For example, Samsung Electronics, Posco, and SK Hynix allow a four-day workweek once every two weeks if employees satisfy a certain number of hours that the respective corporations require.  However, this is not without its limitations and shortcomings. If workload stays the same with shorter working hours, employees may experience even greater stress. A four-day workweek would either force workers to complete their work in a shorter period of time or work overtime. Furthermore, many of the limitations of a four-day workweek are related to its effect on wages. If a four-day workweek is offered along with a wage cut, many Koreans are unable or unwilling to participate. If it is implemented without wage cuts, small and mid-sized businesses may struggle financially. These businesses are already experiencing labor shortages, and reducing working days would further delay production and service delivery. Larger corporations have greater flexibility and resources in handling such change, potentially deepening the economic polarization between large and smaller enterprises.  Furthermore, a four-day workweek is difficult to implement in certain industries and types of work, particularly those reliant on shift-based operations, such as healthcare and aviation. About 10% of Korean workers are shift workers, and as such is the case, a large number of Korean employees would not benefit from reduced working hours. This highlights the limitations of applying a nationwide policy of a four-day workweek within the modern Korean context.  Another concern is the potential impact of reducing working hours on national competitiveness. In an era of rapid change and technological development, there is pressure to invest more time and effort in research, development, and industrial productivity. Since there are many hurdles in implementing a four-day workweek once and for all, both the Democratic Party and the People Power Party are advocating for a 4. 5-day workweek. However, their approaches differ in some significant ways. The Democratic Party suggests reducing overall working hours from 40 hours to 35 hours without cutting wages, emphasizing work-life balance and labor reforms. In contrast, the People Power Party proposes a 4. 5-day workweek as a part of flexible working hours. The party advocates for maintaining 40 hours of work, focusing on supporting the innovation and growth of businesses and industries. According to a public opinion poll conducted by Global Research, over half of Korean employees (58. 1%) responded that a 4. 5-day workweek is necessary. Even more (66. 8%) expressed support for reducing total working hours, rather than simply expanding flexible work arrangements without any reduction. A four-day workweek leads to fundamental change in labor, productivity, and quality of life. As Korea is undergoing rapid societal change, characterized by rising rates of mental health issues, technological change, and an aging population, reforming the structure of labor is essential. However, it is a complex issue that involves many real-life concerns and trade-offs. Therefore, there are still many debates to be had and details to be ironed out if the four-day workweek is indeed to be implemented nationwide in the future.

South Korea’s low fertility rate is a phenomenon familiar to many high-income countries worldwide. One significant area that a nation’s lower fertility rate impacts is its higher education system. In Korea, declining birth rates have led to a considerable drop in the school-age population, leaving five out of ten universities in non-urban areas (referred to as “local universities” in the Korean language) in 2025 unable to fill even 50% of their enrollment quotas. This threatens the long-term survival of these local universities, and their potential closure is sure to harm the local communities, causing further regional decline. For these universities to survive, they must look into ways of maximizing student enrollment, such as through the admission of international students. According to the Bureau of Statistics, in June 2024, visas issued to international students entering Korea increased by 14. 6% compared to the previous year, bringing the total number of foreign nationals with student visas to over 200,000. With expectations that this trend will continue, a few questions come to mind. Are Korean universities and the government well-prepared to welcome these international students and provide them with adequate resources and support? Does the job market have enough demand to digest this amount of Korean-educated international graduates?Data from Daehak Alrimi (대학알리미) shows that the dropout rate of international students increased from 6. 28% in 2020 to 8. 59% in 2022. Several reasons are attributed to this phenomenon, namely, an inability to adapt on campus on an academic or communicative level, and a lack of support services and fair treatment by universities towards international students. In 2024, there was a case involving Hanshin University where 22 international students were intimidated by the university into leaving Korea, when they still had time left on their visas. Though this is the most extreme of cases, it does reveal the vulnerable position that international students can assume in Korea. Other issues include serious xenophobia and racism. Back in 2021, a notice was made by the Mungyeong City local government regarding a campaign to match Vietnamese international students with single Korean men from rural areas, sparking huge controversy. Moreover, international students in Korea often face significant challenges as they work to fund their education and living expenses. While some may argue that students should prioritize their studies over employment, it is difficult to fault international students for dedicating significant time and effort to work, given the higher cost of living in Korea. As of 2025, South Korea ranks 26th out of 139 countries in terms of its cost of living. In contrast, the primary demographic of international students—Vietnamese, Chinese, and Mongolian—come from countries that rank in the hundreds. Living expenses cost far more in Korea than back home, and a majority of students have no choice but to juggle work and study to sustain themselves. Moreover, according to research conducted by the Chungbuk Women Foundation, in 2018, 62. 7% of international students were shouldering more than half of their tuition costs themselves.  Meanwhile, the current regulation on working hours also poses a significant obstacle for these international students. The current limit on working hours ranges from 10 to 35 hours, depending on one’s Korean proficiency and academic level. A fried chicken stall owner shared with Dong-A Ilbo that, based on the current regulation, international student part-timers are only allowed to work 2 to 5 hours a day. That would mean that he would need to hire two to three international students to work a day of shifts, making the hiring of these students undesirable from a business standpoint. Consequently, the economic burden of studying abroad, combined with the strict limit on working hours pushes many to work illegally beyond permitted hours, leaving them more vulnerable to labor exploitation.  Financial hardships and obstacles in employment often persist when international students leave school. Limited employment opportunities and job security contribute to the growing number of those overstaying their visas. Among students who enter Korea on a D-2-1 student visa to study a two-year college program, nearly 30% overstay their visas, while the rate of D-2-2 visa holders studying for an undergraduate degree nears 10%. As a whole, according to the Ministry of Justice, the ratio of illegal stay is on the rise, with the figures of those who remain illegally in Korea after graduation being around 20% in 2023, a 47. 7% increase compared to just three years prior. Combined with the employment rate of international students remaining below 10%, many are more vulnerable to accepting lower wages and other forms of labor exploitation as they look for secure employment. The issue is not negligible.  Korea’s low fertility rate is not a short-term issue, and the steady decline of Korean students attending university is inevitable. This means that increasing the enrollment of international students is a must for the survival of many universities, particularly local institutions. However, the burden of adaptation should not fall only on the shoulders of international students; it should be a shared responsibility involving universities, the government, and society as a whole. A more inclusive and welcoming Korea will attract more foreign talents and encourage them to meaningfully contribute to the nation and beyond, fulfilling the core purpose of education. For this to happen, specific efforts must be made, including improving on-campus conditions for international students, revising restrictive working hour limits, and providing greater financial support to those in need. These steps will not only better the international student experience but also help foster a more inclusive, forward-looking society.  

“Koreans are not just the early adopters of ChatGPT, but they are also shaping how it is used across the world,” Jason Kwon, OpenAI’s chief strategy officer, remarked. This comment was made in Kwon’s interview with Yonhap News on the establishment of an OpenAI subsidiary in Korea. Certainly, it is only natural that a country with the second-largest number of paid ChatGPT subscribers is the next target in OpenAI’s plans to branch out. I myself pay $20 per month for a ChatGPT Plus account, and I don't think I have gone a day without using it to check for errors in my coding assignments or to do quick research. Since the launch of ChatGPT in 2022, we have seen generative AI evolve at incredible speeds. According to the Ministry of Science and ICT, in 2024, 60. 3% of internet users in Korea now use AI services. It is clear that generative AIs are here to stay. In that sense, the race for global AI dominance between countries does not come as a surprise. PwC estimates that AI will contribute over $15 trillion to global GDP figures by 2030, effectively meaning that governance over the AI market equates to power over the general flow of technology and trade. The release of the generative AI chatbot DeepSeek-R1 model by the Chinese AI company DeepSeek was thus an alarming wake-up call for the US government and AI giants. The Chinese startup had created a model that mirrored the capabilities of US ones despite US export restrictions on high-end semiconductors, believed to be central to AI development. It became clear that US trade bans were simply not enough to maintain a competitive edge. Certainly, DeepSeek-R1 challenged US hegemony by opening the possibility for low-income states to pursue their own AI research and application agendas through a non-US alternative. The competition has intensified. Increasingly, both countries are pursuing policy enterprises centered around securing and exporting their AI models. At no point has AI diplomacy been as crucial as it is now.  But what does this all mean for us ordinary users of AI? Why should we care about who is behind the technology we use?Turns out that the effects of AI diplomacy can be quite intrusive on our daily lives, and the dangers it poses are quite terrifying. Feeding and Getting Fed: The dangers of generative AIMany analysts have compared soft-power diplomacy and competition for AI dominance to the Cold War arms race. The eagerness of the Chinese and US governments to pitch their models abroad does indeed bear a resemblance to the rush to establish strong nuclear bases across the world in the 1960s. The differences, however, are what make the AI race more alarming. Whereas during the 20th-century Cold War, most, if not all, understood the nuclear arms race as a perilous war for weapons of mass destruction, what is unsettling about the AI race is that nobody really thinks about generative AI models as weapons. Despite casual mentions of privacy concerns and the surface-level fear of AI tools “listening in” on us, AI is typically viewed in a positive light by its day-to-day users. We are vaguely aware of its potential issues, but not fully conscious of what they entail. Yet, this lack of clear recognition that AI is a weapon is essentially what makes users unknowing participants in the AI arms race. It is precisely what makes AI diplomacy insidious: countries are able to present AI models as simple productivity tools in order to export them to foreign populations, thereby creating a network of data collection that makes the technology more powerful. Regardless of whether users are using privatized American systems or state-sponsored Chinese ones, every time they interact with an AI model, they give it new information for it to retrain itself. If the 9. 6 million inhabitants of Seoul interact with it once a day every day, that is still 3. 504 billion new pieces of information. Such a quantity is probably more than enough for an AI model to learn the values, antiques, and current or future threats of a community. Considering the current capabilities of AI and the pace at which it’s developing, it isn’t hard to imagine a scenario where such data is weaponized by governments and fed into an AI military device. AI diplomacy is thus dangerous because it makes use of day-to-day technology and creates situations where foreign populations unconsciously supply systems with power. An image generated using Gemini from the prompt “ChatGPT spoon-feeding people info”The dangers of AI diplomacy don’t only concern users spoon-feeding AI models information. Have you ever thought about what information your AI model is feeding you? When DeepSeek-R1 was first launched, users were quick to discover that the Chinese model refuses to comment on topics considered taboo by the Chinese government, namely the Tiananmen Square massacre and Uyghur Muslims. When asked about Taiwan, it responds with the well-known government narrative: “Taiwan is an inalienable part of China. ” Such self-censorship does not come as a surprise. However, we need to think of its broader implications. With AI diplomacy, China and the US are trying to integrate their AI models into state infrastructure abroad. The most pressing concern is that as foreign governments use these models in their key projects and public services, they are giving way to the subtle yet gradual assimilation of either US or Chinese socio-political values into their societies, as AI calculations inevitably encode the cultural and political values of their creators. The US and China are not unaware of this. OpenAI’s international expansion project and DeepSeek’s open-source nature are both stark displays of such efforts; as a Korean subsidiary of OpenAI is established and more Korean tech companies, such as Naver or Kakao, collaborate with OpenAI, Korean society may be more infused with US or Western political narratives. More so than we already are. This might not seem that imminent an issue. Don’t we just need to avoid asking AI questions on politics? But imagine you’re asking for a briefing of today’s news, and your AI tool covertly only gives you articles from specific predefined far-right sources. Or maybe you’re asking for some movie recommendations for your Chinese history project, and your AI tool only gives you films praising the CCP and its achievements. When considering these practices, DeepSeek comes to mind easily because we can distinctly imagine China’s centralized control system. These unnerving instances, however, are not absent even when the technology comes from Western democracies. Simply look back at the 2018 Cambridge Analytica-Facebook incident for reference. Ultimately, the threat of AI diplomacy is that no matter whose model you are using, the technology can and will feed you bias, giving its creators the power to manipulate public and private beliefs. At a societal level, this could shape how a community thinks, acts, and perhaps even governs. The AI race is about dominance over technology that is already deeply embedded and will have an increasingly large presence in everyday lives. What makes this especially sinister is the inherent opacity of the entire process. In many cases, we don’t even realize that we’ve become a part of this tech race, simply by using the AI tools available to us.  So, where does that leave us? We can’t realistically live in an AI-free world when AI has become so intrinsic to our civic and state technologies, and it’s true that it has brought unprecedented progress in areas such as healthcare and research. However, when considering the insidious consequences of the AI race, blind acceptance is also not the answer. As a generation that actively uses AI, it’s imperative for us to remain cognizant of the threats of generative AI and how these tools can be used by foreign and state governments to influence our belief system. Enhance your media literacy. And in any case, use ChatGPT; try not to let ChatGPT use you.

Different actors hold different visions for the future of higher education. Some imagine more global campuses, others call for greater efficiency through technology, while still others push for inclusion, accessibility, and democratization. These visions often remain abstract, circulating in policy documents, reform plans, and statements, but rarely take shape in a way we can see or feel. What would a truly international university look like? What would happen if algorithmic systems determined every aspect of campus life? In an era where institutional futures are increasingly shaped by narrative competition, visualizing these futures becomes crucial.  As Max Mundhenke, a German AI consultant, put it: “Using image generation is an attempt to reduce complexity, to offer a new, visual approach to politics, and to stimulate discussion about politics and the use of AI. ” Mundhenke has worked on translating German party manifestos into AI-generated cityscapes. The result is highly visual, yet disturbingly simplified. Each rendering reflects a clear narrative, but also shows how these narratives became unnaturally seamless when severed from reality. SNU, too, is increasingly shaped by narratives. From administrative reform to new digital platforms, actors are proposing, contesting, or opposing visions for how the university should change. What happens when we attempt to visualize a few of these visions? Institutional Mythos: The Emblem as a Fixed VisionThe university’s logo is a good place to start. In the middle, you see a pen, a torch, an open book, and the school gate symbol, all wrapped in a laurel wreath. The gate symbol is shaped like the Korean character ‘샤’, which combines the consonants ㄱ, ㅅ, and ㄷ—standing for 국립 (National), 서울 (Seoul), and 대학교 (University)—and resembles a key, symbolizing the “key to truth. ” Each part holds meaning: the laurel stands for academic honor, and the pen and torch show SNU’s dedication to lighting the way through knowledge. Our school’s motto Veritas Lux Mea, meaning “Truth is my light,” is written across the open book. It is an image of learning, wisdom, and dignity. A grand gate, students studying beneath a light shining down on them. Not too far from reality, but Gwanaksan is gone, and so are the daily struggles that make campus life real. Symbols like this don’t just show what a school values—they also set boundaries. They suggest that the university upholds one clear truth and path. When this emblem is turned into AI-generated images, the pictures rendered are of grand gates, marble pillars, students with books, and a light shining from above. These images feel more like a polished, official ideal than the real, sometimes messy life of the campus. A vision that’s honorable but possibly too simple. About Imported Structures: Whose System Is It Anyway?Back to its beginnings. SNU was founded in 1946 by merging Kyungsung Imperial University with ten public colleges under the U. S. Military Government. Although the aim was to create a new national university that would serve an independent Korea, early reforms were limited, and much of the colonial structure from Japanese occupation remained intact. After the Korean War, the American-led “Minnesota Project” restructured SNU’s system through the SNU Centralization Plan, introducing a thoroughly planned, modular, and centralized American-style campus model. Then in 1958, SNU architecture professor Yoon Chang-sup proposed a U. S. -inspired campus design based on postwar urban planning. Though initially rejected, his ideas shaped the final 1971 plan by the American firm DPUA. The result was a fused space, Korean in location, but American in logic. This marked a shift in Korean higher education: outdoor campus space became central. It became part of the university’s identity, shaping movement, behavior, and its students beyond lecture halls. AI turned this narrative into a traditional-style Korean campus, free from foreign influences. Paths connect the various departments and the people studying within them. At the main gate, now designed in a different style, the phrase Veritas Lux Mea is inscribed, not in Latin, but in Korean. Academically, SNU’s departments, evaluation methods, and degrees reflect this imported legacy, mixing American systems with Korean traditions. This creates tension: can SNU fully claim a Korean identity when its core structures are borrowed? What would the university look like if it broke away from these influences? One possible answer might be a university space shaped more by Korean cultural values, less divided by rigid departmental structures and more oriented toward shared spaces, collective learning, and cross-disciplinary exchange. Wayfinding and Who Gets LostThe architectural structure also extends to how people navigate the campus. Orientation is a part of the university’s narrative, one often designed not around lived experience, but around abstract structures. For international students, especially, this can mean entering a space that feels legible on paper but confusing in navigation. Inspired by this, Carlos Silva’s (2014) on “Wayfinding Design for Seoul National University Gwanak Campus” proposed transforming the campus map with a layered numbering system and multiple types of signboards (main, zone, college), reinforced by clearly designed street routes and aligned building panels. This would improve wayfinding speed by over 22%.  A split campus: one side, rigid, grand, and the other, fragmented, multilingual, and open. Students from both halves meet in the center, but are a bit unsure whether to pass or to talk. Silva also suggested harmonizing nature and design: extending the Jahayeon Pond along main pedestrian routes to guide visitors visually and auditorily; planting recognizable pine groves and willow trees; and standardizing pathway widths and materials to create cohesive routes. These ideas should not only aid navigation but create a campus environment where everyone can find their way, literally and figuratively. Techno-Futures: Optimization as Destiny?Building on this vision of accessibility, SNU’s Office of Information Systems & Technology sees a smart campus powered by AI services and seamless platforms. Projects like SNU Genie personalize academic support using student data, while private 5G upgrades connectivity. Platforms for interdisciplinary research, AI plagiarism detection, and big data tracking aim to enhance academic integrity and innovation. When visualized by AI itself, these ideas produce pretty sleek images: drones, touchscreen desks, and VR headsets. But do such digital visions risk reducing the university experience to a tech-driven environment? How can efficiency coexist with the dynamic, lived realities of campus life?A sleek smart campus: glass buildings with LED strips, paths lighting up with each step, and drones gliding overhead. The data tower flashes “Veritas Lux Mea. ” But even with all the lights and technology, there are still a few trees that stand their ground. So why use AI in the first place?Visualizing these narratives with AI is not to predict the future, but to simulate what happens when one narrative dominates. Each image is powerful, but also too sterile. AI doesn’t render friction, only amplifies dreams, filling gaps with familiar tropes, including Western architecture, modernism, and digital utopianism. This isn’t just about technology. It’s about how narratives unconsciously reproduce dominant ideas under the guise of objectivity or progress. AI, in the way it generates images by combining and reinforcing existing data, becomes a symbol of tradition and repetition, the recycling of what already exists rather than true innovation. It shows how institutional decisions can unintentionally reinforce old hierarchies and entrenched patterns. When one narrative dominates, the resulting visual uniformity serves as a warning against universities adopting corporate or purely efficiency-driven models. SNU is not a brand or software product, but a living social space that thrives on disagreement and experimentation. The emblem declares, “Truth is my light,” but truth is not a fixed blueprint. It is a process. And the light of that torch shines brightest not when it is held by a single actor, be it a planner, a state body, or an algorithm, but when it’s passed around and shared collectively. The images generated are not visions. They are provocations intended to challenge assumptions and reveal how easily futures can seem fixed when they’re still open to change and negotiation. SNU’s future should not be rendered by AI, nor sealed in strategic brochures. It should be shaped by the students who protest, the professors who question, the designers who rethink space, and the outsiders who imagine something different. Truth may be our light, but it only shines when carried by many.

What comes to mind when you think of knitting? Perhaps an image of your grandmother sitting in a rocking chair with needles and wool in hand. But this perception is quickly evolving. Once considered an outdated culture, knitting has become a widely embraced hobby among the younger generation in Korea today. From knitting cafes to cinemas, there are many places now where knitters can gather, share their projects, and enjoy their craft. What has sparked this change?The rise of knitting in Korea is closely related to the COVID-19 pandemic. With quarantines and other restrictions in place, people were forced to spend extended periods alone at home. In consequence, activities that required social interaction or travel declined in popularity, while “home hobbies” became the new norm. In this context, many, especially younger generations, developed an interest in handmade crafts. People sought ways to relieve their stress during such uncertain times, and crafting provided a calming, focused escape. Completing a project brought about a feeling of satisfaction and pride, while also being an outlet for creativity and self-expression. Knitting is one of these hobbies. Later on, as restrictions were lifted, the influence of the pandemic on people’s lives gradually decreased. Many returned to their lives before COVID, which naturally led them to quit their “home hobbies. ” However, unlike other hobbies, knitting has endured and grown even further in popularity. There are several explanations for this phenomenon. I think the most important factor is the role of social media and influencers. YouTube, in particular, has become a popular space for knitting-themed at-home vlogs, where people share their knitting projects and tutorials. Learning and honing one’s skills in the craft is more accessible than ever before. Moreover, hashtags like #knitting and #DIYhobby have helped build a strong online community where people can post their knitting projects, give advice and compliments, and share ideas. One prominent influencer in Korea’s knitting sphere is Daeri Kim, the daughter of the owner of BanulStory, a well-known brand among Korean knitters. Originally, mostly focused on the offline market, BanulStory has now expanded its reach online with Daeri Kim taking charge of its marketing. Through her social media presence, Kim attracts a younger customer base with beginner-friendly tutorials on simple designs. She not only teaches knitting but also shares more spontaneous content—knitting in different countries, making friends through knitting, interviewing other knitters, and telling fun anecdotes. The authenticity of Kim’s content highlights her warmth and humanity,  leading people to feel more connected to her and fostering the growth of an engaged online community of knitters.  However, what makes knitting culture particularly unique in Korea is the way that it has expanded to offline spaces. For example, there are many knitting cafes all around the country. Knitting cafes, true to their name, are spaces that combine the traditional cafe concept with knitting. Alongside coffee, tea, and desserts, visitors can also purchase yarns and knitting tools. Then, just like at any other cafe, people settle in comfortably and chat with friends—only they also knit while doing so. The presence of other knitters encourages everyone to talk freely with each other and share their current projects.  One of the better-known knitting cafes in Korea is the BanulStory knitting cafe. The first floor sells yarns and tutorial DIY kits and also hosts classes for beginners. On the second floor, visitors can order food and beverages to knit in groups. A popular dessert there is button-shaped bread.  There are also knitting cinemas in Korea where people can watch movies while knitting. In January 2025, CGV held a one-time knitting screening event. However, due to its immense popularity, CGV has decided to expand the event to be hosted every month in about 10 cinemas in Korea. Starting February 27, 2025, knitting screenings will take place on the final Thursday of each month. One participant reflected, “The fun has doubled with the creation of a space where people who share the same hobby can gather. ”As a knitter myself, I still remember the days when I was the only one among my peers who enjoyed the craft. Now, knitting cafes have become spaces where I can freely knit and connect with other knitters. During a visit to the  BanulStory knitting cafe, I spent hours working on my projects while having tea and enjoying their signature button-shaped dessert. It was a joy to watch other knitters, each deeply immersed in their unique projects. Lately, even some of my friends have taken an interest and ask me for projects to start on as a beginner. Knitting is truly experiencing a revival as an ever-growing hobby among the younger generation. Thanks to social media, influencers, and offline spaces like cafes and cinemas, I’m excited to see it quickly become a meaningful part of contemporary culture and community.

A warm yellow desk lamp, Lofi Girl on the screen. Ambient lofi beats in the background. Her presence is familiar to those who often study with music. For many, she has become a companion—a source of comfort in an oversaturated, overstimulating world. Yet, the fact that this peace we feel by being with her is curated and consumed digitally raises important questions. How does the digitization of peace reshape our understanding of it? What does it say about us when the calm we now seek is one that is carefully constructed rather than found in nature?  Is it comfort that we truly want or control?To understand this digitized shift, we must first look back. The desire for quietude is not a modern phenomenon. Long before our digital age, humans sought tranquility in the natural world—the sound of falling rain, the rustle of leaves, the warmth of sunlight. Indeed, this human inclination spans across centuries and cultures. From Eastern ink-and-wash painting of the 8th century to the natural world in Western Romantic poetry of the 19th century, nature has always been instinctively and aesthetically associated with peace and calm. This longing for solace can also be seen in other meditative practices such as incense burning, which has been known for its therapeutic effects, or the design of Zen gardens, which are intentionally crafted for quiet reflection. Without a doubt, the desire for serenity has always been universal and deeply human. However, what distinguishes our search for quietude today from the efforts of the past is the presence and role of technology. We no longer seek peace solely in the unpredictable world of nature. Now, we turn to digital spaces that can shape it to our exact preferences, with the touch of a screen or the click of some keys. We create playlists of nature sounds and lofi beats. We play long videos of cozy bedrooms with soft crackling fire. Using pixels and sound waves, we now construct our individual visions of calm. I felt this digitized shift acutely when I spent an entire afternoon without my headphones. As I strolled through the streets, I suddenly became aware of how loud everything was. I could hear the sound of people chattering, the roar of buses and car engines, and the blare of advertisements from loudspeakers. And it was not because the streets had changed; it was that I had grown used to filtering out the noise. Without my headphones, I was confronted with an overload of sounds. Just as I use headphones to block out the noisy streets, our turn towards digital tranquility is not only a change in tools, but a response to our current condition. In an age of digital overstimulation, our desire for peace is stronger than ever. Think about how often we talk about the importance of slowing down and staying grounded. What cannot be ignored, however, is the fact that the very technology that overwhelms us is also the medium through which we actively construct our spaces of calm. The devices and the platforms that contribute to sensory overload are what we actively turn to for healing and relaxation. It is quite paradoxical—we seek refuge in a system never designed for stillness. Moreover, there are now no limits to when and where we can curate calm. Even while being out, we can and often do escape into our inner worlds, a sign of a modern cultural tendency toward withdrawal. This distancing from reality reflects a deep human desire for control. In our digitized reality, we prefer aestheticized, tailored peace over the rawness of the real, shaping not just our surroundings but our emotional states within them. Thus, this makes one wonder—does our ability to slip away into our curated spaces offer a healthy refuge, or does it disconnect us from the richness of the present moment? In the end, though the digital calm we create may not be perfect, it reflects an intrinsic need within us for control and stillness. This form of peace allows for introspection, even though its digitized nature is inherently different from the tranquility found in the natural world. Perhaps that is the point: streaming our silence is an attempt to be still amidst chaos—to feel, if only for a moment, truly at peace in a world that rarely offers such reprieve.  

One day, you pass by a cafe decorated with eye-catching banners and posters of a K-pop idol. Due to curiosity or perhaps because you’re craving an Americano, you decide to step inside. The interior of the cafe has even more items related to the idol on display—photocards, hand crafts, balloons, and autographed memorabilia. Huge screens play close-up shots of the idol in various performances, as their hit songs echo throughout the space. You’re not sure why, but these elements pique your interest. At the counter, you proceed to make your order, which comes in a set with a drink in a themed paper cup, some snacks with the idol’s photo cards, and stickers. Looking around, you see a group of customers arranging all these items on their table to take pictures, another walking around viewing what’s on display, and a third discussing the idol’s comeback album. This cafe is what’s known as a birthday cafe or saeng-ka (생카, abbreviated from 생일 카페). Unique to Korean fandom culture, such cafes are rented by individual fans or entire fan communities to celebrate the birthdays of their favorite K-pop idols. While there is no traceable record for the origin of birthday cafes, they have undoubtedly become an indispensable part of the fan experience over the years. During a popular idol’s birthday month, maps on fandom applications like Offmate are filled with birthday cafe listings from all over Korea, highlighting their popularity. These cafes feature idol-specific merchandise and run interactive activities, such as lucky draws. Visitors also typically receive merchandise when they order from a designated menu, with different sets offering different items. Extensive preparation goes into organizing a birthday cafe event. Fans collect merchandise, decorate venues, and negotiate with cafe owners purely out of a passion for their favorite idols. This is an undoubtedly costly process, but it can be spiritually rewarding. According to ChosunBiz, preparations for a single birthday cafe can take up to two months and cost more than one million won. Nonetheless, despite the cost, the birthday cafe phenomenon continues to grow in popularity and has even expanded to involve characters outside of the entertainment industry. Jesus, King Sejong, Isaac Newton, and Admiral Yi Sun-sin are just a few notable examples. One such birthday cafe event, organized in honor of the famous physicist Isaac Newton, featured academic talks by scholars. These cases illustrate how birthday cafe culture is becoming much more diverse and engaging. They also have the potential to attract the attention of a broader public, introducing the culture to those who are not familiar with K-entertainment. At the same time, birthday cafe culture provides significant economic benefits for many small and medium-sized business owners. According to an article by MoneyS, the daily sales of a cafe that specializes in event organization can reach up to 2. 9 million per birthday cafe event. This huge potential profit is enjoyed by the owners of several different businesses, providing them with more sources of income. In terms of the provision of services, cafe owners often supply the venue and beverages, confectionery production businesses create food items such as cookies with edible prints, and customized products manufacturers contribute merchandise and other idol-related items, based on the request of fans or cafe owners. Following the global spread of the K-wave, birthday cafe culture has also now arrived in countries abroad. There, the “idols” celebrated are no longer limited to Korean artists but also include local celebrities. This fusion of Korean fandom culture and the cafe experience is both unique and incredibly profitable, driving its steady growth. On top of being a successful business model, birthday cafes also provide an accessible platform where fans can express their admiration for their favorite idols. Given the strong impetus of the birthday cafe phenomenon and its expansion to include characters outside of K-entertainment, we can expect the culture to continue diversifying into the future.

On March 2nd 2023, more than 2000 people stood in front of the Everland theme park—not to get into the park itself, but to bid farewell to the most beloved panda in Korea, Fu Bao, who was about to embark on her journey back to China. Pandas had initially been given out to other countries as gifts by China since the period of the Second World War, becoming a way to break the ice with the Western world after the establishment of the communist regime. This was later changed into a leasing policy due to the panda species becoming endangered, but the policy’s diplomatic and political purposes remained. Following this policy, should the leased pandas produce offspring, the offspring were to be returned to China eventually to maintain conservation efforts, and the leased pandas themselves must also return after 10 years. Yet, the ulterior motive of this “panda diplomacy” is not only to help protect the species, but also to maintain positive relations between China and the recipient countries, as pandas often bring tremendous economic gain such as in the case of Korea’s Fu Bao. Although these practices may appear as beneficial in all regards, including the conservation of pandas and the maintenance of their biodiversity, there are legitimate concerns about the commercialisation of pandas and the purity of China’s panda conservation efforts. Recipient entities like zoos must afford an annual leasing fee up to 1 million US dollars, while any cubs born in the foreign zoos can cost up to 400,000 US dollars to lease, making the leasing of pandas a huge money maker for China. When pandas are sent out under diplomatic action, they are inevitably treated as a tool for political gain, forced to become the so-called ‘Panda Diplomats,’ and then be relocated to an unfamiliar environment and thereby causing them immense stress. Furthermore, once the lease term ends, they will need to be uprooted once more from their habitat. The treatment they receive under the leasing terms is also questionable, potentially violating animal rights. The effectiveness of China’s panda leasing policy in helping conservation efforts is also debatable. According to an investigation done by the New York Times, there are more pandas being captured from the wild by the Chinese government compared to the number of pandas being released. Meanwhile, cubs born in the US and European zoos were never released into the wild. The investigation results revealed that pandas that were sent to the US have done little to help biodiversity, as China usually sends out pandas with genes that have been well represented in the population, which does not help much in  panda population gene diversity. Based on an expert who has been working in the Chengdu breeding center under affiliation of a US zoo, she has witnessed the excessive use of the anesthesia on the pandas. The anesthesia is part of the process of the artificial insemination. Combining these with accusations regarding the inhumane treatment of the pandas, especially during artificial breeding, the original goal of promoting biodiversity and conserving the panda seems heavily distorted. Although it is impossible to remove the political aspect of ‘panda leasing’, its current state of over-commercialisation is undoubtedly unethical. The practice should be returned to its original purpose—conservation and the promotion of biodiversity—with the leased pandas acting not as Chinese or economic diplomats but as diplomats for the conservation effort and raising awareness for their species. Recipient countries and establishments that keep the pandas should focus on raising public awareness and educating people rather than investing heavily in commercial activities. The Chinese government should also take care to ensure the safety of their ‘panda diplomats’, correcting any errors and making corrective statements regarding rumors that can cause public concerns.

Dieting and weight loss has long been a hot topic in popular media—but now, more than ever, these topics are gaining immense traction. Social media platforms like YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok are saturated with content promoting thin bodies and offering detailed instructions for achieving and maintaining them. Whether it is through restrictive diet plans or intensive workout routines, this obsession over thinness is accompanied by celebrities and influencers whose images dominate our feeds, significantly impacting the public’s body image. These influencers are always pushing trendy diet plans and workout routines, which consistently garner massive amounts of engagement. While such content might seem harmless—after all, what is wrong with admiring a fit body?—the impact runs deeper. Body image is not formed in isolation, nor is it a one-way street. It is a product of an interactive relationship between those displayed in the media and the audience consuming it, producing a vicious cycle.  The issue is especially visible in Korea and its prominent media industry. K-Pop idols with their unrealistically thin bodies are propped up as the standard, and they often share extreme dieting tips and workout regimens. Yet, these same celebrities are also seen promoting high-calorie and unhealthy junk foods like fried chicken and pizza through advertisements. These advertisements send mixed messages: on one hand, they glamorize such indulgent foods by associating them with celebrities. On the other hand, they imply that maintaining a slim figure is unrelated to one’s diet, suggesting that thinness is only a matter of self-discipline, exercise, or even genetics. Thus, they confuse the public, encouraging people to feel shame for both not having the self-discipline to maintain a skinny body and not being born “naturally thin”. Thinness is a highly idolized bodily trait not only in Korea but also globally, with the media playing a crucial role in cementing this obsession. Obesity, on the contrary, is subjected to hate and considered a public health crisis. Although morbid obesity can be detrimental to one’s health, so can extreme thinness. Yet only one end of the spectrum has this widespread negative perception.  However, even this perception of obesity is less than a century old. For much of human history, plumpness symbolized wealth, fertility, and health. In times of scarcity, a well-fed body was a sign of success and the corpulence and increased flesh were desirable, as reflected in art, literature, and medical opinion of the times.  This shift is not just about health. Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of distinction explains how body weight became a marker of class and morality. In this framework, thinness signifies self-control, discipline, and access to resources like gym membership and organic foods, while obesity is often unfairly associated with laziness, poverty, and poor habits. These opposing traits are directly reflected in how the media portrays people and reproduces this stereotype. Anthropologist Anne Becker's 1998 study in Fiji proves this trend. The study, conducted in a rural town which had only recently been introduced to television, found that the rates of body dissatisfaction amongst adolescent females increased strikingly compared to before western media influence. In addition, the obsession with body image often intersects with gender and generational dynamics. Viral trends like the “girl dinner” meme—where tiny portions of low-calorie foods are presented as a complete meal—highlight the disproportionate pressure on women to eat sparingly. This meme, which started out as a joke about not having the energy to prepare a full meal and thus scraping together whatever leftovers are in the fridge to satiate one’s hunger, evolved into what portrays a hegemonic expectation women keep being pushed into. Contrast this with older generations, where grandmothers and mothers often encourage larger portions with phrases like “Eat more!” This generational divide reflects broader societal changes. While older generations view food abundance as a marker of prosperity, modern media glorifies controlled, minimalist eating as a sign of sophistication and beauty.  The glorification of thinness, while often marketed as a pursuit of health, has deeper consequences. It perpetuates narrow definitions of beauty, stigmatizes alternative body types, and fosters an environment where people feel pressured to conform. To break free from this cycle, we must critically examine the media we consume. Who benefits from these ideals? How can we create a culture that celebrates diverse body types instead of idolizing one narrow standard? Thinness may be “in”, but at what cost? 

As high school graduation looms near, every student faces that inevitable period of uncertainty, when the weight of a seemingly life-defining decision hangs over them: What career path should I choose? For most, it's a daunting but normal part of growing up, and this decision is often not an ultimatum. However, for most student-athletes, this decision is much more difficult, proving both promising and risky—and more impactful due to its binding nature. For athletes like Lim Se-Eun who have familial support, these decisions come easier. At just 18, Lim had already achieved remarkable milestones, including a bronze medal in the Asian Games. Her dedication earned her an  athletics scholarship, allowing her to major in Physical Education at university. Balancing the dual demands of academics and competition, she represented both her university and the national team for a year. However, the pressure became unsustainable, forcing her to retire from elite sports. Lim then redirected her focus toward academics and began exploring opportunities beyond athletics. Lim’s story highlights a systemic issue in Korea's approach to sports education. In the pursuit of excellence, the system prioritizes athletic development over academic growth, leaving many athletes ill-prepared for life after sports. Lim's decision to step away from her athletic career reflects the strain of this imbalance. Despite these challenges, Korea has achieved remarkable success in international sports, showcasing its commitment to elite athlete development. Yet, this raises an important question: Must academic growth be sacrificed for competitive excellence?A comparison with the United States offers valuable insight. American universities, under the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA), prioritize balancing sports and education. Athletes receive scholarships to compete while pursuing diverse academic majors. Universities provide tutors, mental health resources, and structured support to help student-athletes effectively manage their dual roles. Beyond competition, the NCAA offers over $10 million in annual scholarships for graduate studies, emphasizing the importance of preparing athletes for life after sports. These strategies, along with policy changes over the years, have established a solid system in which Division I student-athletes in the United States have achieved a record-high 91% on NCAA Graduation Success Rate. This showcases long-term improvements across all sports and the success of academic reforms and support initiatives. Furthermore, the American collegiate athletic system has significantly contributed to Team USA’s Olympic success; according to the U. S. Olympic & Paralympic Committee, 75% of the olympians competing in Paris 2024 have collegiate experience across all NCAA divisions, junior colleges, NAIA school, and club programs. Such support systems are largely absent in Korea, limiting opportunities for student-athletes like Lim and others. Lee Joon-Hyuk, a former rugby athlete, echoes these concerns. After being admitted to Seoul National University’s Physical Education program, Lee chose to keep rugby as a hobby, fulfilling his childhood dream of representing the university. Looking ahead, he is exploring a potential career in marketing. Reflecting on his journey, he shares:“As a student-athlete, I had diverse experiences. From teamwork to mental resilience, my training shaped me. However, the intense focus on athletics made transitioning to other fields challenging. ”While Lee acknowledges the systemic challenges, he offers advice to aspiring athletes: “Do what you want, and once you decide, go for it with no regrets!” Lim, who briefly studied in the U. S. , has a broader perspective. “When I went to the United States, I realized being an athlete was just one chapter of my life. Study hard, because sports aren’t your entire life. Believe in yourself—there are so many fields you can pursue. ” She emphasizes the need for Korea to adopt reforms like career counseling and tutoring for athletes. Every country has its priorities and limitations. While Korea excels in preparing athletes for international competitions, it must strive to balance athletic and academic development. Student-athletes deserve access to quality education, ensuring a solid foundation for life beyond sports. Both Lim and Lee reflect on their journeys with no regrets. Lim concludes:"I’d make the same choices again. Those experiences shaped me, allowing me to dream bigger and embrace life beyond sports. " Lee shares a similar sentiment: "I’d still choose rugby—it’s what brought me here and remains a part of who I am. " Their stories highlight the resilience of student-athletes, but also underscore the importance of a system that allows them to thrive both on and off the field.