In S. Korea, quiet talk of exit plans

Mr. Kim, a business executive here, considers his family "very patriotic." He attends club meetings, reads the papers, feels proud of Korea's rising stature in Asia.

But in the past few months - a time of rapid political change and a nuclear standoff with the North - Kim (not his real name) heard his wife counsel their son, who is studying in the US, on the phone: "Don't come back right now. Find a way to stay in the US."

Among the many undercurrents in this restless society, there's one that might be called "the discourse of departure" - an exit strategy.

Life in Korea is already highly competitive, and Koreans talk of many mood swings in this small, sea-locked state. But when tension or disillusionment surfaces - for example, over redeploying US troops, or inadequate education (a chronic complaint) - so does the discourse. Mainly it is heard among elites, the urban, the wealthy, or conservative older generations. But it also crops up among students seeking to go abroad and delay compulsory military service.

"Things seem tense for a couple weeks, then relax," says Kim. "You won't find it on the surface. 'Leaving' is what we say in dinner talks, inside families."

A poll of college students raised eyebrows around Seoul several weeks ago. Some 40 percent of students at Ewha Women's University said they would leave if a war broke out. At Yonsei University, 92 percent of students said they would forgo military service if possible.

Granted, such poll data don't tell the whole story. Those questions were asked as news of US troop changes hit the South Korean press, and took place in tandem with fears of US military strikes on North Korean nuclear facilities, something US officials have since said is not seriously under discussion.

Still, exit strategies tend to be thought of as a natural option to keep in reserve. Evidence shows that departures are rising, even if the overall numbers are low. In March, the Korean ministry of foreign affairs reported that while 720 persons emigrated in December, the February number rose to 926. Most émigrés were wealthy enough to afford the $200,000 to $300,000 security guarantee needed to get a fast-track, special visa.

"People aren't leaving like Hong Kong people left for Vancouver," prior to the British handover of the colony to mainland China, says a 32-year-old Seoul woman. "It's not like that. It is more what we think. But people are considering quick visas for places like New Zealand and Canada, more than before."

Nonetheless, compared with the nuclear crisis 10 years ago, the panic button in Seoul is covered with cobwebs. Longtime expatriates remember the hoarding of food in 1994, and genuine fear. One American tells of a colleague's wife who taught English to eight mid-level executives at the time. When she asked what they planned if war seemed certain, all said they were ready to leave.

"I think she was a little surprised at how matter of fact these guys were," the American remembers. "There wasn't a lot of talk about patriotism. They were ready to go."

To be sure, Koreans have been going abroad, or talking about it, for years. A sharp migration took place in 1998 after the Asian financial crisis. And the "dream" of prosperity overseas is part of Korean lore. Most cite better education or career development as a reason to depart. The term "wild geese fathers" is used for dads who send the family abroad and then visit periodically.

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