South Korea's intensive hagwon (cram school) system—long credited with powering the nation's educational excellence and economic transformation—faces renewed questioning as parents, educators, and policymakers debate whether academic pressure has come at too high a cost to childhood wellbeing.
The system, in which students routinely attend private tutoring academies for hours after regular school ends, has become synonymous with Korean educational culture. Walking through Seoul's education-focused neighborhoods at 10 PM reveals a distinctive sight: middle and high school students streaming out of hagwon buildings, heading home to complete homework before starting the cycle again the next morning.
But the model that propelled South Korea to top international rankings in math, science, and reading is facing scrutiny from an unexpected quarter: the children who succeeded within it. Young adults who excelled in the hagwon system increasingly question whether the intense academic pressure prepared them for meaningful lives or simply trained them to excel at standardized tests.
"I did everything right—top university, prestigious job," said Park Soo-jin, a 32-year-old software engineer in Seoul. "But I missed my entire childhood. No hobbies, no free time, just studying. Now I wonder what it was all for, and whether I want my future children to go through the same thing."
The generational reckoning comes as South Korea faces a demographic crisis, with the fertility rate having plummeted to 0.72—the world's lowest. Many experts point to the hagwon system as a contributor, arguing that the enormous time and financial costs of raising competitive children deter young people from becoming parents.
The economics are staggering. Korean families spend an estimated ₩26 trillion ($19 billion) annually on private education, with affluent families in Seoul spending ₩2-3 million ($1,500-2,200) per month per child on hagwon fees. The expense has become a source of educational inequality, as wealthy families can afford elite tutoring while middle-class families strain their budgets and lower-income families are effectively priced out.
Daechi-dong in Seoul's Gangnam District has emerged as the epicenter of hagwon culture, with some of the nation's most prestigious cram schools clustered in a few blocks. Real estate prices in the neighborhood—driven partly by parents seeking proximity to top hagwon—reflect the system's economic impact on Korean society.
Yet even as the costs mount, parents feel trapped by competitive pressure. South Korea's labor market offers limited opportunities for those without degrees from elite universities, and admission to those universities depends heavily on the ultra-competitive College Scholastic Ability Test (CSAT). The result is a system in which opting out of hagwon means accepting diminished career prospects.
"It's a collective action problem," explained Dr. Kim Min-jung, an education researcher at Seoul National University. "Individual families would prefer less pressure, but no one wants to unilaterally disarm when their children are competing against peers who spend 12 hours a day studying. The only solution is systemic reform, but that's politically difficult."
The government has attempted various reforms over the decades. Regulations limit hagwon operating hours—officially they must close by 10 PM—but enforcement is inconsistent and many academies find workarounds. Other initiatives have included university admission reforms, but these have often generated fierce backlash from parents who see changes as threatening their children's prospects.
More recently, attention has focused on mental health consequences. South Korea has among the highest youth suicide rates in the OECD, with academic pressure cited as a significant contributing factor. Schools report increasing numbers of students experiencing depression, anxiety, and stress-related health problems.
The pandemic offered a brief glimpse of alternatives. When COVID-19 forced hagwon closures and reduced academic pressure, many families reported that children seemed happier and less stressed. Some parents discovered that their children had interests and talents beyond test-taking. But as the pandemic receded, most families returned to pre-COVID patterns, unable to resist competitive pressures.
International comparisons offer potential models. Finland's education system—which emphasizes student wellbeing, shorter school days, and minimal testing—achieves strong outcomes without the stress levels of Korea's approach. Japan, while also known for intensive education, has a less dominant cram school culture than Korea.
Yet any comparison must account for distinctive Korean context. The hagwon system emerged in part from a society that transformed from wartime devastation to developed economy in a generation—a transformation powered by belief in education as the path to advancement. The system succeeded in creating a highly educated workforce and internationally competitive human capital.
The question now is whether the model that served Korea's industrial development remains optimal for a mature knowledge economy. Creativity, critical thinking, and innovation—skills increasingly valued in technology and service sectors—may be less well-served by rote memorization and test preparation than the manufacturing and assembly work that dominated earlier economic phases.
Some younger parents are experimenting with alternative educational approaches, including Waldorf schools, democratic schools, and homeschooling. These remain niche options, but their growing popularity suggests at least some families are willing to diverge from conventional paths.
In Korea, as across dynamic Asian economies, cultural exports and technological leadership reshape global perceptions—even as security tensions persist. But the hagwon debate reveals a society grappling with whether the educational system that powered transformation can adapt to changing values and economic needs.
The challenge is particularly acute for a generation that excelled academically but increasingly questions the price of that success. "I was an honor student, admitted to Seoul National University, did everything society told me to do," reflected one young parent. "But when I think about my own child's future, I keep asking: is there a better way? Can we find success without sacrificing childhood?"
For now, the cram schools of Daechi-dong remain packed every evening, filled with students racing toward uncertain futures in a country debating the very premise of the race itself.
