Why do young people in South Korea refer to their country as hell? The answer depends on who you ask.

"I want to get this question right, I know it's a complex topic," I say nervously.

It's Saturday night in Gangnam, Seoul; a bustling neighbourhood inseparably linked with the K-pop song.

Inside a building surrounded by bright neon advertisements, a group of South Koreans in their late 20s and early 30s stare back at me.

I've entered the hive of the 'Honey Bee English' class.

After some hesitation, I ask my first question.

"Why do young South Koreans refer to their country as 'Hell Joseon'?"

Inside 'Hell Joseon'

South Korea has experienced extraordinary economic growth since the Korean War ended in 1953, but the speed of change has opened a chasm between generations.

Societal pressure, competition and family expectation weigh heavily on young adults.

The suicide rate in South Korea is one of the highest in the world.

"It's difficult to live in Korea. It's getting worse and worse," says Kate, a woman in the English class.

Korea was formed after the fall of the Joseon dynasty. Because it failed, 'Joseon' is sometimes used as a pejorative term.

"For Koreans, it's like we're insulting ourselves," fellow student Charlie explains.

"In the Joseon dynasty we suffered a lot, so we're calling it that because that history wasn't good."

Son A-Ram is a rapper turned author and cultural commentator. At 40, he sees himself "in-between generations".

While he wants me to be careful with the expression, he's clear about the hardship young people face.

"Koreans felt ... as long as they try hard, work hard and study hard, they can succeed. But now, even that is collapsing," he says.

"Young people don't just feel left behind, they are left behind," he says.

"They think, 'companies are getting big, but that means only less for us'."

'We competed and competed and the best one survived'

When I ask the English class to pinpoint where a typical young Korean's challenges begin, the unanimous answer is the education system.

Attending after-school academies — on top of normal classes — is the norm.

Students work ahead, so by the time they get to a topic in class they already know the answers.

"From 8:30 to 5:00pm I'm at school. After that I'm at an academy until 10pm. Then I go to the library to study on my own, and go home at midnight," says high school student Kim Ju-hee.

She is preparing for the national exams; the culmination of her lifetime of study so far.

"Obviously, it's excessive," she says.

"But if I think about my parents' support, expectations and how much they've invested in all of this, I can't betray them."

Even if Ms Kim makes it into a top university, it's unlikely the parental pressure will fade.

In fact, Kim John-hun, a student at Donguk University, says that's when it really kicks in.

"After you make it to university it starts again with job seeking. 'My friend's son got a good job — what are you doing? You should try harder'," he says.

"After you get a job it starts again. 'My friend's son got married, what are you doing? You should go out and date or something'. And on, and on."

This competitive nature undoubtedly helped drive Korea's economic success — but at what cost?

"This society forces you to compete so much. Growth was competition. We competed and competed and the best one survived," Mr Kim says.

"We let go of the others and we take the better ones. And we compete again."

The generation 'giving up' on marriage and children

Mr Kim doesn't want children, but his girlfriend does. And that makes him nervous.

"The consequences — if that's the right word — would kill you," he says.

"In Korea, compared to income, the prices on raising a kid would be very high."

The high cost of living and limited job opportunities are driving many young people to reject traditional life paths such as relationships, marriage, and having children.

This phenomenon has been coined the 'sampo generation', which translates to 'three give-up'.

High school student Ms Kim has already thought about giving up on marriage.

"I'm grateful for what my parents did for me, but I don't want to sacrifice myself for my children," she says.

"I don't think I could do that."

Others, like 30-year-old Sienna Ha, say marriage and kids are on the cards — just not yet.

She's happy in her job as an accountant, and isn't ready to put her career second.

"If I get married I will be giving birth and I'll have to take a break for that period," she explains.

When I ask the English class who wants to give up on marriage, no-one raises their hand.

The English teacher, Simon Roh, explains the term is nuanced.

"To be honest Korean people are saying things about sampo but [not all] are actually giving up on it," he says.

'Young people are making excuses!'

On Korea's national public holiday, known as Gaecheonjeol, I went to talk to older people gathering in Topgal Park.

This is the generation that helped rebuild the country after the war.

Their sacrifice, belief and hope dragged Korea out of poverty.

"I think the term 'Hell Joseon' is a misunderstanding of the Korean situation," says Chung Sun-kim , 70.

"I believe our future is bright.

"Young people aren't marrying because they're achieving other things in life. They'll probably marry in the future; they're just having a little break."

While many have an upbeat outlook, life is also difficult for older Koreans.

About half live in relative poverty and the suicide rate for this generation is also very high.

Lee Hung-gi is 70 and says these days, children "don't want to take care of us".

"We took care of them but now when they grow up — even if they become doctors or lawyers — they don't want to support us. So, what can we do?" he says.

Park Ho-seok, 80, is less forgiving.

"If you think Korea is such a hell, then go to North Korea," he says.

"They don't know what it's like to starve.

"We built this nation from scratch, with agriculture. What did they do?

"Young people should work harder. They are making excuses!"

A growing sense of desperation

But many young people are working as hard as they can.

Sitting in the gutter between academies, Terry Cho says he feels like a rat on a hamster wheel.

He failed his final year high school exams. Now 28, he's desperately trying to pass the civil servant test.

Civil servant occupations, such as government bureaucrats, are prized for their high income and job security.

Mr Cho doesn't know what civil servants do; he just wants a stable job.

"I don't have a choice. I put so [much] time and money on this. There is no option," he says.

When Mr Cho uses the term 'Hell Joseon' he means it literally.

"It is too cruel to be a joke," he says.

"Ninety-nine per cent is real, 1 per cent is joke, for prohibiting suicide."

Mr Cho's roommate, who took his own life, used the phrase 'social cartel' to describe Korean society.

It is said that powerful alumni connections, friends and family are all required for success in Korea.

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But despite the challenges, Terry is spurred on by his desire for a wife and kids.

"That is the reason why I am still here. I need to get a stable job to attract the Korean girl," he says.

Some nights, Terry only gets three hours' sleep. Then starts a painful cycle to stay awake the next day.

"I borrow the power from the energy drink," he says — sometimes as many as seven a day.

On those days, he gets chest pain.

"My chest felt like squeezing. I'm really worried about my health," he says. "But I cannot stop, it's a paradox."

He fantasises about his academy going bankrupt.

'My team sucks, but I still want us to win'

Back in the English class, I try to frame the topics of Hell Joseon, sampo and competition in a different way.

"What is your idea of happiness?" I ask.

"Nowadays, after work, when I come home, I see my dogs smiling and I feel happy," says Erika, one of the members who didn't want kids.

This is an example of 'Sohwakhaeng'.

It's a new term that young people use to describe small but certain happiness.

Mr Roh, the English teacher, explains: "Maybe getting a beer after work is Sohwakhaeng."

"Young generations are talking about Sohwakhaeng because they know they can't overcome that big gap between rich and commoners. They are just saying, 'yeah, I'm satisfied with this'," he adds.

I've been curious about Mr Roh's idea of happiness because, although born in Korea, he has a US passport and grew up there.

At any time, he could leave Korea. So why stay?

"I want to get married. I want to have a family," he says.

"I lived all my life without my parents. I was lonely, for a long time. So I guess that's my desire — make a family; make one that I can really love. And can really love me.

"For me, happiness is to make people around me happy."

Mr Roh believes young peoples' use of the phrase 'Hell Joseon' can have a positive meaning.

"I think Korea is hopeful because we're always trying to find the problem. If we don't try to find the problem, I think that is when we don't have hope," he says.

"Let's think of Korea as a big baseball team. This is my baseball team.

"Sometimes I don't like my coach, I don't like my team. My team sucks.

"But at the same time, inside we want to win the next game.

"Saying 'Hell Joseon' is actually [an] insult to our own team, hoping it might change the country."

While all of the young people I spoke to told me about challenges, pressure and expectations, they also believe in Korea.

All have been quick to add that, despite the hardship, Korea is a good country.

"Regardless of my own life, I believe society has room to improve, and it can improve," Mr Son says.

"Korea has a high engagement in politics. I think that's the one chance we have.

"People react fast to politics. People are aware an issue can be resolved by voicing their opinions.

"Even though each individual is powerless, together we can make a difference."

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You can hear more about Shifting Cultures in this special series on ABC Radio National.