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| Yoo Seo-yun gives a high-five to her father Sang-ryong at their home in Seoul, Oct. 21. The 10-month-old baby was born on Dec. 20, 2021, few weeks before the Omicron variant took over as the dominant strain in Korea, leading to the worst COVID-19 wave the country has experienced throughout the pandemic. A world of masks and social distancing is all the toddler knows. But as the country prepares to return to normalcy, the baby will now have more exposure to the outside world. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
People learn to live COVID-19 as country enters endemic phase
By Lee Hyo-jin
When Korea confirmed its first case of the coronavirus on Jan. 20, 2020, few expected the respiratory virus to be around for this long, or to disrupt people's daily lives this severely. At the peak of social distancing restrictions, private gatherings of more than two people were prohibited in the evenings, while restaurants and bars were forced to close at 9 p.m.
As of Oct. 28, which marks 1,013 days since the identification of the first virus case, nearly half of the country's 52 million population has been infected with the virus at least once, with nearly 30,000 cumulative deaths.
The virus is still widespread, but it has become significantly less lethal than in 2020, with the fatality rate currently standing at 0.11 percent. But medical experts still aren't sure when the virus will be eradicated, if at all, considering the waning immunity after infection or vaccination as well as the continuous emergence of new variants.
Yet life is inching towards normalcy.
The government is shifting its focus from controlling the virus spread to treating it as an endemic. After almost all social distancing measures were dropped in April, all remaining outdoor mask requirements were lifted in September, in what was widely viewed as a major step in entering the endemic phase.
As learning to live with the virus is increasingly being seen as the way forward to a new normal, The Korea Times spoke with various individuals who, despite lingering consequences of the prolonged health crisis, are bracing to unfold the next chapter of the pandemic.
Light at the end of a dark tunnel
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| Kim Bong-hwan, 63, owner of a Korean barbecue restaurant in central Seoul's Myeong-dong, looks out the window of his restaurant, Oct. 17. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
Kim Bong-hwan's life over the past two years and nine months was like "hanging from a cliff" as he describes it.
He opened a two-story Korean barbecue restaurant in Seoul's largest tourist district of Myeong-dong 13 years ago, catering to foreign customers looking for a taste of authentic Korean cuisine.
The 63-year-old restaurant owner never imagined a virus would turn his flourishing business upside down.
"I remember the day when I first heard about the coronavirus discovered in Wuhan at the end of 2019. Of course, I was kind of worried, and got even more worried when the first case was identified in Korea a few weeks later. It reminded me of the painful memory of MERS, but I didn't expect things to be worse than that," he said.
His business had suffered hardships due to a decrease in the number of tourists amid the Middle East respiratory syndrome (MERS) outbreak in 2015, but it normalized in less than six months.
But the coronavirus was different.
"By the end of February 2020, tourists, who make up over 70 percent of my customers, evaporated from the streets in Myeong-dong. It was devastating," Kim said. "But the biggest challenge was the uncertainty. No one knew when they would come back," he added.
His monthly sales, which used to stand at an average of 50 million won before the pandemic, dropped by 60 percent in the next few months, and then by 95 percent during the Omicron wave which wreaked havoc on the country in early 2022.
"On our worst days, we didn't have a single customer. On better days, many people ordered soup," Kim said.
Kim watched with fear as neighboring shops and restaurants shut down permanently. His debt snowballed to 380 million won in the last two and a half years, during which he had to fire seven of his nine employees. Government subsidies and disaster relief funds were way too small to cover his losses.
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| Kim Bong-hwan sheds tears during an interview with The Korea Times at his restaurant in downtown Seoul's Myeong-dong, Oct. 17. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
"It was like walking in a dark tunnel with no end in sight. All I could do was to pray, telling myself that there's hope. I had suicidal thoughts sometimes. I just wanted everything to end," he said, breaking into tears. "There's simply no words to describe what I went through."
In recent weeks, however, he is seeing a glimmer of hope. Tourists are trickling back to Korea after COVID-19-related travel restrictions were fully lifted. Streets and shops in Myeong-dong are once again bustling with foreign visitors.
But it's too early to rejoice, said Kim.
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| Tourists walk through downtown Seoul's Myeong-dong, Oct. 17. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
With the emergence of new variants remaining an ever-present threat, adding to his worries are rising supply prices, soaring inflation and increasing labor costs.
"It's a new beginning. I don't know how long it will take for me to fully recover," he said. "But for now, I just hope new variants don't appear."
Pandemic baby
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| Yoo Sang-ryong looks in the mirror while carrying his 10-month-old daughter, Seo-yun, on his shoulders, while his wife, Yun Ji-eun, watches them in their home in Seoul, Oct. 21. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
Giving birth to a baby is tough, but doing so has been much more challenging during the pandemic. Delivering her baby during the COVID-19 pandemic added multiple layers of stress for Yun Ji-eun, 38, who became a mother on Dec. 20, 2021.
"I had to rush to a public health center for a coronavirus test just days before getting a C-section. And as visits at maternity hospitals were completely restricted, my parents held their granddaughter for the first time several weeks after she was born."
The birth of her daughter, Yoo Seo-yun, came only a few weeks before the Omicron variant took over as the dominant strain here, leading to the wave with the most COVID-19 infections of the pandemic ― 626,000 per day in March of this year.
Since then, she and her husband, Sang-ryong, strictly limited their outdoor activities out of concern that their little one could get infected.
"I worked from home for about two years and barely met anyone during that period. Since I didn't go to any gatherings or didn't eat out, I didn't even know that restaurants close at 9 p.m. due to the social distancing measures limiting operating hours for eateries. The restrictions didn't affect my life at all," said Yoo.
Yun said, "We're still cautious about inviting someone over to our home or having play dates. But at the same time, I'm a little worried that a lack of interaction with others may slow her development."
The world of masks and social distancing is all their toddler knows and the parents are wondering when and how they should explain to Seo-yun what the pandemic is and that wearing masks every day isn't something that is done in normal times.
"I feel sorry for our daughter, for every baby actually, who was brought into the world at a time like this. As an adult, I want to give them back a safe and peaceful world."
'Can't wait to take my mask off'
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| Hyeon Seul, a fifth grader at Seoul Anpyeong Elementary School in Dongdaemun District, plays the kalimba during a music class, Oct. 19. Since the COVID-19 pandemic began, the string instrument has emerged as a replacement for wind instruments which students are unable to play in the classroom due to mask mandates. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
On an afternoon in October, about 20 fifth grade students ― all masked up ― were seen playing the kalimba, an African thumb harp played by plucking small metal bars, during a music class at Seoul Anpyeong Elementary School in Dongdaemun District.
The kalimba was a lesser-known musical instrument in Korean schools before the pandemic. But the string instrument has emerged as a perfect replacement for wind instruments such as recorders and danso (Korean traditional bamboo flute), which students are unable to play in classrooms due to mask mandates.
Much was said about how the older generation struggled with COVID-19, but children, who have had their schools shuttered, outdoor activities canceled and recreational venues closed, suffered serious disruptions in their lives, too.
Hyeon Seul, an outgoing fifth grader who loves physical education class among other subjects, struggled with pandemic boredom. School was switched online in 2020, and 2021 was a mix of virtual and in-person learning.
"For me, 2020 felt like a month. It went by so quickly because there was little chance to meet my friends. I don't have a lot of friends from my third and fourth grades," he said. "But one good thing about online classes was less homework assignments."
His perceptions of the pandemic changed over the past two years.
"I used to think that the coronavirus is a really scary disease that you might get very, very ill with. But when I got infected in March this year, it wasn't so painful. I just felt a little dizzy and nauseous," he said. "And after seeing my friends, family and teachers getting sick with it too, I'm not so worried about it now," he said.
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| Hyeon Seul, a fifth grade student, poses during an interview with The Korea Times in Seoul Anpyeong Elementary School in Dongdaemun District, Oct. 19. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
Nasal swabbing for PCR tests was a painful and scary experience at first for the 11-year-old, but he got used to it after receiving the test about a dozen times.
After in-person classes fully resumed for the spring semester earlier this year, everything has pretty much returned to normal for Hyeon, except for the fact that he still has to wear a mask all day at school.
While some students feel nervous about ditching the mask due to virus concerns or shyness, Hyeon can't wait for the day when he can finally go to school mask-free.
"It's disturbing when I can't hear clearly what my friends are saying or read my teacher's facial expression. We've been in the same class for nearly a year, but I only know the upper half of my classmates' faces. It still feels weird to see their faces outside the classroom," he said.
Life on the frontlines
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| Lee Sung-woon, head nurse on the neurology unit at Ilsan Hospital in Goyang, Gyeonggi Province, works at the ward, Oct. 25. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
Lee Sung-woon, 51, is a head nurse on the neurology floor at Ilsan Hospital in Goyang, Gyeonggi Province. She has been working there since its establishment in 2000. In her over two decades of experience, however, Lee had never seen anything like the coronavirus pandemic.
Like many other people, the nurse also feared the previously unknown virus.
"In particular, I was worried of getting the virus and transmitting it to my patients and colleagues. No one knew back then how fatal it is, or how we can treat it," she said.
But fear did not stop Lee from volunteering to respond to the first wave of infections in the southeastern city of Daegu in early 2020. Later that year, she volunteered to work at her hospital's isolation ward for COVID-19 patients. The public hospital showed a proactive response to the pandemic and has played a critical role in caring for coronavirus patients in the region.
"In the beginning, we all thought it would be similar to the battles against SARS in 2003 and MERS in 2015. We knew what we had to do thanks to past experiences, but we didn't expect the pandemic to last this long."
For one thing, the coronavirus forced her to wear more personal protective equipment (PPE), including a suit, two sets of gloves, goggles and a face mask, than ever before in her professional life. But what was more stressful was facing daily tragedies.
"It wasn't easy to handle the psychological stress. For me, it was painful to report the death (of a coronavirus patient) to the family, who never had the chance to visit the patient," she said.
As in-person visits were restricted due to infection risks, bereaved families couldn't say their final farewells. They could only watch their loved ones die through the surveillance camera installed in the wards.
And as the pandemic dragged on with no end in sight, the nurses suffered from burnout.
"We were at a loss because the number of infections surged no matter how hard we worked here. Some of us thought we would never be able to return to our previous jobs in normal wards," Lee said.
The feeling of disconnection from the outside world also caused her stress.
"Even without the pandemic, the hospital is an exhausting environment where people ― not only patients, but also medical workers ― are in need of emotional support. But it was a lonely fight. We ate our meals separately due to virus risks and could barely communicate with each other during work," she said.
But there were some joyful moments. Lee still remembers the day earlier this year when she witnessed a pregnant woman, who was in critical condition due to COVID-19, deliver her baby and make a miraculous recovery.
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| Lee Sung-woon poses at the ward of Ilsan Hospital in Goyang, Gyeonggi Province, Oct. 25. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
Although the worst stages of the pandemic seem to have passed, the fight with the virus is still ongoing, Lee stressed.
"I wouldn't say that we are free from the pandemic since infections are still occurring in the local community. But what I can say is that now we are better prepared for future pandemics using the lessons we learned," she said.
"Looking back at the past two years, I feel proud to have done my part. I was there where I was needed," Lee added.
Post-COVID campus life may never recover
Lee Yoon-hye, 22, a sophomore studying engineering at Sookmyung Women's University, was not in Korea when COVID-19 struck the country. She was traveling in Saipan to celebrate the end of the school year.
"I didn't know that it would be my last trip overseas. I haven't been abroad since then," she said.
After entering university in March 2021, the second year of the pandemic, her freshman year consisted mainly of logging onto Zoom and sitting in front of the computer. Like many other college students, Lee missed out on vibrant campus life such as orientations, campus festivals and extracurricular activities.
"Until lectures were switched back to in-person for this fall semester, I'd visited my campus less than five times. So everything is still quite new to me," she said.
With festivals and other gatherings returning in earnest, Lee is now enjoying a normal campus experience with plenty of face-to-face interactions and hanging out with friends after class. But she has mixed feelings about it.
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| Lee Yoon-hye, a sophomore studying engineering at Sookmyung Women's University, poses during an interview with The Korea Times at the university campus in Seoul, Oct. 19. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
"Frankly speaking, I kind of prefer when classes were conducted online," she said, pointing to some benefits of remote learning such as flexible time management, as well as being able to pause, slow down and rewind lectures.
She added, "Some professors are still uploading videos of their lectures, and some have created YouTube channels, which I find quite helpful."
These changes brought on by the virus spread could outlast the pandemic, she viewed.
While it was common for students to gather for group assignments and seminars before the pandemic, those who have adjusted to the convenience of non-face-to-face events seem to prefer virtual meetings.
"If the seniors graduate next February, there will be no one left on campus who knows how things were before the pandemic. So I think some good pandemic experiences will stay on," she said.
Losing loved ones to COVID
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| Lee Dong-sook, 75, holds a portrait of her late older brother Lee Dong-soo, who passed away in January after being infected with the coronavirus, at a memorial altar set up for victims of COVID-19 vaccine side effects in central Seoul, Oct. 22. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
Lee Dong-soo would be enjoying the fall foliage season, if he hadn't died in January after being infected with the coronavirus. He was 77.
He walked his two dogs every morning and went hiking on the weekends. He was a diligent, caring, warm-hearted brother, recalls Dong-sook, his 75-year-old younger sister. They lived together in Yongin, Gyeonggi Province.
The circumstances surrounding her brother's death still torment her.
On Dec. 18, 2021, Lee felt a slight sore throat and headache, which he thought to be the common cold. He was rejected for a consultation with a doctor at a hospital due to the protocol requiring patients with COVID-19 symptoms to be screened for the virus first.
After his test results came back positive the next day, an ambulance came to their home to transfer him to a hospital as he was classified as a patient of a high-risk group.
"It happened so fast. They literally took him away, not telling us which hospital they were taking him to," said Lee.
In a phone call, he told his younger sister that he was transferred to a hospital in Osan, Gyeonggi Province, and assured her that he was not experiencing any serious symptoms and that everything would be fine.
But he never came back.
His condition deteriorated rapidly in the next few weeks. By the time Lee was allowed to visit her brother in mid-January, for the first time since he was admitted to the hospital, she saw him lying unconscious in an ICU bed.
"I could only see him though a glass wall. I still remember how his face had turned all blue," she said.
Her brother passed away on Jan. 25. Lee never had the chance to say goodbye or hear his last words.
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| Lee Dong-soo talks about her late older brother who died after being infected with the coronavirus. Korea Times photo by Shim Hyun-chul |
Lee, who had thought the coronavirus was fatal only to those with underlying diseases, still can't believe she lost her brother to the virus, who never smoke or drank. And the loss is not just emotional, but also financial. Her brother was the breadwinner of the family working as a delivery driver for a retail store.
"It's surreal. I still feel like he will come home from work in the evening."
Lee Dong-soo's death is one of nearly 30,000 COVID-19-related fatalities in Korea. While talks have shifted to how the less-lethal coronavirus can be treated as an endemic disease, about a dozen deaths are still being reported daily ― a grim reminder that the virus is still very much here.
And behind every single coronavirus death, there are family and friends. For them, things may never return to normal, even if the coronavirus is eradicated.
