In Seoul, death allows a bridge to live in infamy.

Visually, Mapo Bridge is not a particularly distinctive structure. Simple and utilitarian in design, it is an artery ferrying a lifeblood of suited salarymen over the Han River and onto the island of Yeoiudo — abode of investment banks and South Korea’s legislature, beating financial heart of an Asian Tiger.

However, this artery sometimes leaks the blood it carries. Despite appearances, Mapo Bridge is quite distinctive indeed: it is one of Korea’s top suicide locations. Seoul’s morbid analogue to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge (the world’s top suicide spot), Mapo has seen more suicides than any of the Han River’s 26 other bridges. Like the Golden Gate, it has become part of popular culture. As one particularly poignant example, the 2009 Korean film Castaway on the Moon catalyzes its plot with the protagonist’s failed jump from what Seoulites have nicknamed “Suicide Bridge.”

I first discovered the bridge through Castaway. It stood silently in the background, watching as the movie wove its two human characters’ narratives of isolation together, garnering a place in the back of my mind. Going forwards, Mapo was a latent curiosity.

A few years later, latent became manifest when I spotted a New York Times op-ed addressing South Korea’s recent suicide epidemic. The piece was penned by postmodern South Korean writer Kim Young-Ha, whose 1996 debut novel I Have The Right to Destroy Myself centers around a man who helps others commit suicide. Lamenting the unfortunate juxtaposition between his novel’s implications and 2014's reality, Kim urged for more sensible approaches to combating suicide. His prime example of what not to do starred a familiar character: Mapo Bridge.

In 2012, the creative agency Cheil, hired by the Seoul Metropolitan Government and Samsung Life Insurance, thought it would be a good idea to transform “Suicide Bridge” into what they called the “Bridge of Life.” Starting in April of that year, lights and motivational messages began decorating Mapo, ostensibly comforting pedestrians away from suicide. Despite numerous awards and initial accolades, the Bridge of Life initiative had the opposite effect: since its installation, suicides have increased sixfold.

Perhaps we can attribute this rise to increased publicity — maybe there were suicidal individuals who wouldn’t have known to choose the bridge if it wasn’t for all the Bridge of Life media buzz. But I think darker explanations are afoot.

On the surface, the Bridge of Life appears to be a creation of love; if you visit the bridge and look for the project’s commemorative sign, you’ll see it actually displays a heart-shaped logo. But saccharine symbols and motivational messages belie the dirty truth: the Bridge of Life was not built out of love. It was built out of fear.

How could this be the case? To answer why, there is a question we must answer: why do we prevent people from killing themselves?

The most common, immediate, and politically correct answer is “because we love them.” Because we want to “help” and “reach out.” Because we want to be altruistic and “save lives,” “make a difference,” and “make the world a better place.”

Selflessness and a desire to help those close to us are certainly valid driving factors for suicide prevention, and they exist on a more personal (and more anecdotally cite-able), level. But such kind motives do not translate to a larger scale. The sad truth is that not everyone has friends or loved ones to stand by or care about them, and in the absence of these personal connections the burden of care falls upon society at large. At this level, what truly motivates the wonderful mechanisms of our world to take action against suicide is not altruistic love, but rather selfish fear.