[Reportage] “Where do we go?”: A winter night with young Seoul runaways

Posted on : 2016-01-12 18:11 KST Modified on : 2016-01-12 18:11 KST
Sunset to sunrise finds the homeless youth, many victims of abuse, in a never-ending search for money, food, warmth, and a place to sleep
Jan. 7
Jan. 7

“Ji-seong” left home in the summer of 2015. The boy, who turned 16 this year, stayed with an “older friend” for a while before moving on to a youth shelter, but was kicked out recently for violating the rules after police questioned him over the theft of some cigarettes. Left with nowhere to go, he went back to his friend’s place. He didn’t feel like going there on the night of Jan. 7, though. The friend’s mother had been visiting a lot recently, and she regularly criticized Ji-seong for living off her son.

This evening’s destination was a cafe. Open 24 hours, it was the only place he could go to escape the subzero temperatures without money or a resident registration card. He might have been able to rest a bit more comfortably at a 24-hour sauna or an internet cafe, but the saunas bar entrance to minors after 10 pm. This wouldn’t be the first time Ji-seong spent the night at the cafe.

“A few days ago, I was at the cafe until 2 am before I ended up following some friends of mine to a motel,” he explained. “The five of us got together the 30,000 won (US$25) for it.”

On this particular evening, he didn’t have a coin in his pocket. His plan was to spend the whole night at the cafe.

■ Ten o’clock: Hanging out at a 24-hour cafe
 12:00 am
12:00 am

The area around Sillim Station on Line 2 of the Seoul subway in the city’s Gwanak district is lined with coffee shops and fast food restaurants decorated with fluorescent neon signs bearing the number “24.” Most are two or three stories high. At 10 pm, Ji-seong and five or six of his young friends descended on one of the coffee shops there. The others were runaways like Ji-seong; one wore shorts, despite temperatures dipping to seven degrees below zero.

Upon entering the cafe, the teenagers headed straight for the smoking room.

Su-bin, a 16-year-old chain smoker, passed around her cigarettes. Previously a third-year middle school student, she fled her home in Gangwon Province last year and made her way to Seoul on a wing and a prayer.

“I ended up meeting my four ‘big brothers’ here. We share a one-room apartment that’s 16.5 square meters,” she explained.

Su-bin’s parents haven’t looked for her since she ran away.

“We weren’t exactly well off. They’re probably thinking it’s one less mouth to feed,” she said.

Her bland tone changed as she began talking about money.

“I’m earning money myself now and paying the 420,000 won (US$350) rent on the apartment,” she boasted.

“I get 60,000 won (US$50) a day doing computer administrator work for a guy I know. If I go over to his studio for work every day, I make a million or two (US$830-1,670) a month,” she explained. “He even gives me money when I don’t go to work.”

Su-bin seemed to dance around the exact nature of her high-paying work.

“She’s talking about an ‘arrangement’ with the guy,” one of the others next to her explained.

■ Midnight: Sharing stories of violence at home
 Cafe 3rd floor: The kids find a place on the cafe’s third floor where employees don’t often come
Cafe 3rd floor: The kids find a place on the cafe’s third floor where employees don’t often come

As the night deepened, another teenager joined the group in the cafe. The friends gathered in a section on the third floor where employees rarely visit.

All of them stared at their smartphones as they killed the passing hours. Occasionally, an employee would come up and straighten the tables and chairs without saying much to the kids - just giving a sidelong glance before heading back downstairs.

Eventually, they seemed to tire of their smartphones and began gathering to chat.

“I beat up my grandfather about five days ago,” said one. “But he’s been beating me since I was six years old! With a board. He beat me because he thinks I look too much like my mother who left my father. I reported my grandfather to the police and left home.”

“Min-jae,” 20, said he had left home and gone back a number of times since dropping out of high school in his first year. Five days ago, he ran away once again. Both his parents had remarried and were living with their new spouses. Having grown up with his grandfather, Min-jae emerged with many scars. He quit school three years ago and has done just about everything possible to make money since leaving home: deliveries, cooking, even training to become a teen pop singer with an entertainment agency.

Ji-seong listened wordlessly to his friend before finally sharing his own story.

“My dad beat me every day with a golf club. I don’t want to go home. My mother nags me. This is, like, 10,000 times more comfortable than home,” he said.

Min-jae and Ji-seong had met each other for the first time at a youth center earlier that day, but they talked like old friends. After chatting away for a while, the kids rested against the cafe walls or stretched out on the sofa using decorative cushions for pillows.

■ Two o’clock: No place to go
 spending a couple hours killing time on their smartphones.
spending a couple hours killing time on their smartphones.

As the clock hit two, the group that came with Su-bin stood up and headed up to their 16.5 square meter “hideaway.” They left behind Ji-seong and Min-jae, who had no place to go themselves. Tired of talking, the two left the cafe and began wandering the cold streets, Ji-seong dressed in a fall-weather mountain climbing jacket and Min-jae in summer sneakers and a vest.

“Jesus, it’s f***ing cold,” they grumbled.

As he rubbed his numb hands, Min-jae suggested going to a coin-operated karaoke room. Fully automated, it allows patrons to select two songs for 500 won (US$0.42). There would be no one there giving them looks, and it would be a chance to escape the winter wind.

The two fished out three coins and took turns singing six songs for 20 minutes. Once they had finished, they resumed their walk through the city streets, peeking into one of the 24-hour hamburger restaurants along the way.

Inside, they saw a number of young people sitting alone with a single tray in front of them.

“Hey, isn’t that the girl we met earlier at the food truck?” one of them asked as they pointed to one of the teenagers sitting alone. The food truck is a service that provides free meals to young people.

“Did she run away too?”

“Looks like it.”

“She’s pretty.”

“She’s supposed to know a lot of guys.”

After whispering for a bit about the girl, the two boys finally decided they didn’t like the atmosphere and headed back to the cafe.

“We often get kids like that late at night. The store’s pretty quiet then, so we never say anything,” the employee behind the counter explained, as though there were nothing unusual about it.

■ Four o’clock: “Where do we go today?”
Jan. 7
Jan. 7

“So where are we going in the morning?”

Ji-seong’s muttered words betrayed a note of worry as he lay across a cushion on one of the tables. He asked the same question every 10 minutes or so.

“I can deal with being hungry, but it’s cold, and sleeping is the big issue,” he continued. “We’re at here at the cafe because it’s warm and nobody’s going to say anything, but once it starts filling up in the morning we won’t have anywhere to go.”

“Could you go along with us to the internet cafe?” he suggested to the reporter.

The questions continued.

“We can go to a sauna, and you can be our guardian while we get some sleep.”

“Could you put us up at your place - just for, like, 10 days?”

As a minor, Ji-seong has to leave internet cafes and saunas after 10 pm. The 24-hour cafes are the only places a runaway youth like him has to go.

“I can get in anywhere now,” Min-jae boasted. He currently has just a week or so remaining until his 20th birthday.

“Ji-seong, you should just go to another shelter,” he finally said. “They’ll take pretty much any kid who’s run away and doesn’t go to school.”

“They’re all full. You have to go on the waiting list,” Ji-seong fired back. “Plus, there’s a nine o’clock curfew. If you come in at nine, they always sit you down for counseling.”

A little while later, he stretched out on the cafe sofa and went to sleep.

■ Six o’clock: “My third meal of the day”
 10:00 pm
10:00 pm

Min-jae was tossing and turning at the cafe when a phone call came.

“It’s my ex - a girl I dated for a while,” he explained.

The ex-girlfriend had asked him to find a computer so they could play a game together, he said. When he explained that he didn’t have the money to go to an internet cafe, she immediately wired 30,000 won (US$24.80) to his account.

Excited over the cash infusion, Min-jae began pacing around between the cafe tables.

“I’m not planning on doing anything with her again. I’ll use the 30,000 to go to the karaoke room,” he said.

The long night ended and day finally broke.

“I just want to lie down and sleep somewhere,” Ji-seong said as Min-jae led him to a nearby diner. They ordered a bowl of ramen and a roll of seaweed-wrapped rice.

“Hey, this is my third meal of the day,” Ji-seong said, as though boasting.

“A lot of times I go three days on just one meal. This is my third meal today! I had a cup of instant noodles at the [youth] center, rice cake soup at the food truck, and now we’re here at the diner.”

With food on the table and a bit of cash, this counted as a lucky day for Ji-seong and Min-jae.

By Kim Mi-hyang and Hwang Keum-bi, staff reporters

Please direct questions or comments to [english@hani.co.kr] 

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