From Hallways to Headlines: Korea’s Bullying Reckoning

“Nobody will protect you, Dong-eun. Not the police, not the school, and not even your parents. What do you call a person like that? An underdog.”

— Park Yeon-jin, The Glory

A fiction quote, inspired by real stories — and far too close to reality to ignore.

Every few months, South Korea trends globally — sometimes for its music, sometimes for its dramas, sometimes for something far less glamorous: headlines about bullying.

Recently, another one caught my eye.

Forty-five students were denied admission to the country’s top universities because of their past bullying records. Not rumours, not vague gossip — documented school violence.

On paper, it sounds simple: hurt someone badly enough, and it comes back later.

But when you sit with it a little longer, it becomes less of a headline and more of a mirror.

Is this finally accountability?

Is it punishment arriving long after the damage is done?

Or is it a sign that Korea is only now willing to say, “This was never okay,” out loud?

South Korea and the Bullying no one wants to see

Bullying in Korean schools is not a discovery. It has existed for decades — whispered in corridors, hinted at in anonymous posts, acted out behind gym buildings where adults rarely go. Everyone “knows” it happens. Very few people actually move.

Part of this comes from hierarchy. In many cases, the students who bully are not just “popular kids” — they are often children of wealth, status, or influence. When the aggressor’s family name holds weight, discipline suddenly becomes “complicated.” Teachers worry about complaints. Principals worry about reputation. Schools worry about rankings and image.

And then there are the students who watch. They see what happens to those who speak up. They know how quickly “witness” becomes “next target.” Silence, in that environment, starts to feel like self-defence.

K-dramas have attempted to portray this — "The Glory" being the most direct example — but even then, it is often presented as extreme fiction. In reality, survivor accounts talk about things that go beyond what most screens are allowed to show: physical assault used as entertainment, humiliations recorded and shared, forced obedience, and emotional abuse that doesn’t leave visible bruises but never really fades.

Over the years, some of these stories have followed people into adulthood. Idols, actors, and public figures have seen their careers end overnight when school-day bullying allegations surfaced. Agencies cancel contracts, brands pull deals, public apologies are issued — but these are mostly individual consequences. The system itself, the one that allowed everything to continue for so long, doesn’t change as quickly. That’s what makes this university decision feel different. For once, it isn’t just public opinion cancelling someone — it’s institutions drawing a line.

Too soon? Too late? Or Something in Between?

The moment the news came out, the reactions divided into distinct threads — and all of them, in their own way, make sense.

• “This should have happened years ago.” For this group, it’s not harsh at all; it is late. Schools once let things slide, and now universities are trying to correct what should have been stopped at twelve, thirteen, or fourteen.

• “What’s the point now?” Others feel the timing makes it symbolic more than meaningful. The victims have already carried their trauma for years. The bullies have already moved on. A blocked university admission doesn’t rewrite what happened in a classroom years ago.

• “Is this justice, or karma dressed up as policy?” Some see it as moral balance finally catching up — the idea that the past doesn’t disappear just because you grew older.

• “Shouldn’t this have been handled inside the school walls?” Many point out that real change begins where harm begins. If there were proper counselling, real disciplinary systems, and safe reporting spaces in schools, this kind of delayed punishment might not be needed.

• “What if they’ve changed?” Then there’s the uncomfortable but necessary question: if someone genuinely regrets their actions, tries to grow, and doesn’t repeat that behaviour… should their teenage self still be allowed to decide their adult future?

None of these perspectives cancels the others. They sit next to each other, forming an uneasy truth: Korea is trying to balance its idea of justice with its belief in second chances — and it hasn’t quite figured out how yet.

Why this is a bigger issue than “school drama”

If this were only about a few bad students and a few strict universities, it wouldn’t have this big a discussion. Bullying in Korea isn’t just about individual cruelty. It’s a structure. The same patterns repeat later in life:

• At work, seniors belittle juniors because “that’s how it’s always been done.”

• In offices, staying silent about power abuse is safer than becoming “the difficult one.” Team dinners become a breeding ground for sexist or humiliating “jokes” under the guise of bonding — places where direct bullying hides behind toasts and laughter.

• Social hierarchies — based on age, school, company, or status — decide who gets to speak and who must endure.

  The classroom is just the training ground.

This is also one of the reasons youth suicide is such a heavy, heartbreaking topic in South Korea. Recently published data from The Korea Times shows that 12.6% of teen suicides were linked to “bullying or conflicts with peers”.

And studies from Ballard Brief show students who experienced school bullying were twice as likely to report suicidal ideation and 3 times more likely to attempt suicide.

Now place this inside a country already worried about its dropping birth rates and shrinking younger generation. Every teenager lost to bullying and despair is not just a number in a report — it’s a life, and also a reminder that something in the social fabric is cracking.

The Quiet Economic Shadow

It’s easy to think of bullying as purely emotional, but social issues always spill into economics sooner or later. A country’s reputation — as safe, fair, and humane — affects:

• How many international students apply and stay.

• How willing foreign companies are to send their teams there.

• How comfortable does global talent feel building a long-term life in that place.

  For instance, according to the Financial Times, the national suicide rate in South Korea remains at 27.3 per 100,000 people — the highest among OECD countries.

A country where young people’s emotional safety is in question becomes less attractive, even if its pop culture is adored worldwide. Soft power is not just about how many people stream your content. It’s also about how many people trust your environment enough to live, learn, and work inside it.

And trust is hard to build when the message young people receive is: “If something happens to you, we might not protect you… but years later, we might punish the person who hurt you.”

Where Does This Leave Us?

There isn’t a simple answer to whether those 45 students “deserved” rejection. What feels clearer is this:

• For some victims, it may be the first time the world says, “We believe you.”

• For those who truly changed, it may feel like a past self still owns their future.

• And for schools, it’s a reminder that silence doesn’t erase anything — it only delays the consequences.

  
  

This decision isn’t perfect, and it isn’t final. But it may signal something Korea has struggled to say out loud: emotional violence is real violence, and “kids being kids” cannot be a shield forever.

The real work doesn’t begin at university admissions offices — it begins years earlier, in classrooms, staff rooms, and dining tables where dignity must be protected long before it needs to be avenged.

Because what a country allows in its schools, it quietly carries into its future...

~Hiyaa