A nation without children has lost the best part of itself. From Unsplash



By Amanda Price



This will be the question on the lips of Koreans, and visitors to Korea, if the current birth rate does not change. Demographers are now projecting a new set of endgame figures that point to the possibility of a nation without children. Korean children, inarguably among the most delightful in the world, are statistically disappearing. This is without question a national crisis, but perhaps it is also a deeply personal one.



Various articles quote young and not-so-young Korean women who feel that being free of familial constraints will enable them to enjoy a new-found freedom. Others reason that Korean society is no longer an environment in which to raise a family, or that the financial requirements of educating children are beyond the reach of families. I am aware that busyness, lack of finances, stress, competition, gender inequality, careers, familial burdens, missing grandparents, disenchantment and societal pressures all contribute to South Korea's abysmally low birth rate.



To minimize the significance of these issues would be wrong. These are very real problems facing everyday Koreans and decisively affecting their present and future choices. There is, however, another influential factor that receives far less attention. It is the issue of space.



Naturally, one might assume that I am referring to physical space; however, the space I'm referring to is emotional. Some will likely be familiar with this space. It is the room we make in ourselves for others to share. It is where the best of us is kept for those who mean the most. In this intangible space, life seems worth living and worth sharing with others, especially children. In this space no one feels alone and unwanted. Yet today, for many South Koreans, this space is missing and no one seems to be asking why.



Instead, the questions at the centre of this crisis focus on fiscal consequences, expanding debt, vastly under-funded pensions, an aged society, the rapid decline of a workforce and the slow death of Korean culture. It is terrifying stuff, but its roots reach far back beyond this present generation.



Few seem to discuss that, only decades ago, the governments of the time provided low-cost housing to parents who agreed to be sterilized (over a million Koreans underwent this process), or medical insurance was suspended to women with three or more children. Families with more than two children were refused claims for educational expenses.



Free birth-control devices were distributed and government slogans such as "Even two children are too many for our crowded country" were plastered on office walls. Children were perceived as obstacles to economic growth. By 1991, Korea had won the ominous title of being the nation with the second-highest percentage off sterilized citizens.





With tragic short-sightedness, past governments believed that fewer children would lead to industrial wealth and national prosperity. From South Korean Government archives



Sadly, in the busyness of achieving economic success and industrial wealth, Korea forgot its greatest achievements, the Korean people and the Korean family. With tragic short-sightedness, governments meddled and manipulated people's lives to increase productivity. Assuming the role of parent, government programs not only led to population decline, they redefined social order.



Despite what was being said, the family was no longer the apex of Korean society, the worker was. Core values were subtly being changed, but a vastly improved lifestyle made that hard to detect.



The table has almost turned full circle and those who enjoyed the vastly improved lifestyle are now the parents of grown children, grown children who are struggling within themselves to find a life that is worth passing on to the next generation.



Even though governmental decisions led to population decline, many assume that the problem lies with this younger generation of Koreans, who, according to some, do not care about Korea. The media is quick to draw attention to the minority who may feel this way and the minority are eager to be interviewed. Though they do not represent the majority, their voices are often louder.



Far softer are the voices asking for advocacy. These are the men and women wanting families and children, who are faced with realities that make that impossible. There is limited space in their heart, because fears for the future, a sense of hopelessness and emotional fatigue occupy what space is there. Halfway between anger and sorrow, they grieve for a loss they cannot describe. What they do know is that theirs is a space that is not worth sharing.



Oftentimes, these would-be parents are held under a microscope. They are scrutinized for their choices and then told they are wrong. They are verbally attacked by their elders for ruining the nation, bullied by their employers into prioritizing work over potential human beings and enticed by their government with money to produce more money in the shape of babies! And the space grows smaller.



As this space dwindles, the birth rate falls synchronously. To reverse this equation, the generation of potential parents must feel that their lives are worth living and therefore worth sharing. This is about more than an improved lifestyle, this is about the need to feel valued as a person, not just a producer. There is no space to breathe, let alone to feel the compelling desire to have children.





It is time to remember that South Koreans and South Korean children are the nation's greatest achievement. The focus must be on people and not percentages. From Unsplash