[82nd Edition] Letter from the Editor
Dear readers,Autumn, my favorite season, fled early in 2024, but at least Mother Nature gifted us with the most majestic first snow. Alongside the winter breeze, I wrapped up my second year at university and Quill. Within these years of change, I’ve experienced a chaos of emotions, more intense and varied than ever before. At times I felt like a misplaced puzzle piece, struggling to fit into the broader picture of the school community. But behind the facade to blend in, this feeling of disorder and displacement seem to be shared by everyone in their 20s: ironically, it was this shared sense of isolation that strengthened the bond between me and my fellow members. So whether it was the guilt or the defiance, joy or the sorrow, isolation and its tolerance, I look back, and say, at least it was beautiful. Isn’t that the irony of scattered fragments, disorderly yet weirdly beautiful? Originally, our 82nd theme of Fragments intended to play with this idea, to expand the term’s interpretation beyond its negative connotations. A fragment was once a part of a whole, so is it now unable to fulfill its intended purpose? Or does it gain a new purpose? The world moves at a fast pace—outpacing laws and at times even culture—breaking things along the way. How can we find new beauty, new meaning, in this chaotic world? How do we piece back fragments and reconstruct identity based on this new world? And observe how, though back together, its form has changed, ever so slightly. To the naked eye, white light appears uniform. But when dispersed, it reveals the spectrum of distinct constituting colors: fragments that, though individually vivid, collectively form an illusion of singularity. And just like light passing through a prism, a seemingly singular entity can be dispersed into its many components, where the fragments are not new, but have always existed. The same holds true for identity, whether that of a country, community, or individual: what may ostensibly appear homogeneous, is a collection of all the contradictions, tensions, and individual stories that define it. But perhaps it is only through fragmentation—through dispersion—that we can fully understand what we take for granted. Old stories linger on our campus, and new conflicts emerge. We open SNU Society with a piece on the history of our very own campus, often overlooked in our daily walks to class. Our in-campus investigations continue: from debates on the usage of electric vehicles (whether you love them or hate them) to a critique of the contemporary Student Council which seems to embody a new era of apolitical leadership. But perhaps tensions and disagreements still display a shared endearment towards our university. Beyond campus, Features delves into larger societal shifts and the challenges they create. A look into Sejong City—once an ambitious dream—reveals the administrative failures that reduced it to no more than a lofty vision. We also examine the dilemma law faces as technology giants accelerate innovation while edging toward monopoly. From this macro-level conflict, we zoom in on generational tensions by exploring the rise of No-Kid Zones. Even amid the growing friction in this fragmented society, empathy may offer a path forward. On a more personal scale, a piece analyzes self-help books as a reflection of the mental state of Korean youth. In Arts and Culture, our articles explore memory and its preservation, distortion, and transformation through art. How does digitally assisted memory reshape our perception of nostalgia, and what does the film Past Lives reveal about this theme? How does House of Hummingbird use the female gaze in cinema to portray girlhood, and what does it say about the act of remembering history? Our articles shift to cultural disagreements and societal changes. We turn to the conflict within the Korean Football Association, questioning how this split may sacrifice performance of the league. Alongside these issues, we examine the commodification of self-love, once an act of resistance, now appropriated by corporations; in the over-consumerist setting we live in, how can we reclaim the practice?Finally, the Short Articles section begins with a trilogy that follows the journey of Korean elite athlete trainees and the systemic failures that leave them lost once they leave their dreams of turning professional. In another piece, we look at AI’s growing dominance and a natural resurgence of the necessity for nuclear energy in response to such demands. What Korean dopamine-centric media and the return of the thin beauty ideal reveal about the ever-amplifying influence of social media on modern culture. We discuss the failures of panda conservation policies, the effect of US-China trade conflict on Korea’s automotive industry, and the ongoing issues with safety regulations and traffic accidents on campus. Welcome, readers, to a selection of articles that dissect a seemingly singular entity, fragmenting it into the constituents that form it: whether it be the individual shards of history that shape the present or the current conflicts and divisions that may have gone unnoticed. How, in an ever-changing world, can we reconstruct meaning, identity, and systems?It was a pleasure reading these articles at every stage and having my worldview gently expanded. I express my deepest appreciation to the Quill staff. Each writer has brought admirable talent to the table, and the editors and sub-editors have polished and refined these powerful ideas into the final product we present to you today. To our art team, thank you for bringing all these great ideas to life. Each design and aesthetic decision shaped this issue into something beautiful. And to our photographers who have captured the essence of this edition, I express my admiration for your work that adds depth and dimension to these pages. Last but not least, thank you to the strategic team, for the dedication to make Quill recognized in our school community. Sincerely yours,Joo Young
Fragmented Foundations: How the KFA’s Disunity Stifles South Korean Football
Football in KoreaFootball is more than just a sport in South Korea—it's a source of national pride and identity. From the 2002 World Cup semifinals to Son Heung-Min’s global stardom, Korean football has made a name for itself in the global football community. Yet, beneath these successes lies a system that struggles to consistently develop future stars. The Korea Football Association (KFA) has long been plagued by a history of internal fragmentation. The endless internal turmoil within the association has stunted youth development in Korea, forcing some of the brightest talents to leave the country for a better future. If the players begin to lose faith in the KFA and flock out, the overall competitiveness within the nation will dip and lead to weaker performances in international tournaments. The Fragmented Structure of the KFAThe KFA is responsible for overseeing football at all levels in South Korea, from grassroots programs to the senior national team. However, its internal structure has long been marked by instability and division, hampering its ability to fulfill this role effectively. Currently, the association is split into two parties. Led by the current KFA president Chung Mong-Gyu, the Chung faction currently holds the most power within the association, with his position as the chairman of HDC Hyundai Development Company playing a huge role in his power game. The Chung faction’s focus is on maximizing profit from various events organized by the association. Directly locking horns is the “ex-players” group. Composed of former players, this group prioritizes the sport’s technical aspects. Due to this difference, these two parties have always quarreled with each other, rarely able to find common ground. A prime example of this impasse is the recent selection process of the Korean national team’s manager, taking place right after the 2023 Qatar Asian Cup. A task force was assembled and given five months to find three candidates fit to lead the national team back to its former glory. Aiming to utilize their experience as professional players, numerous “ex-players” members were selected. However, it was revealed that the KFA was already leaning towards Hong Myeong-Bo, who did not even make the top three. Ultimately, Hong was appointed as the new manager. This case epitomizes the deep distrust currently plaguing the KFA. How Fragmentation Impacts Youth DevelopmentAt the core of the KFA’s responsibilities lies youth development, and this is where the effects of fragmentation are most evident. The KFA’s divisions have made nurturing young talent an inconsistent process. For instance, ever since its collaboration with the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism in 2008, the KFA has aimed to implement changes like limited playing time for youth players and the creation of 8-player leagues. These changes, meant to prevent injuries, were often halted due to internal backlash. Like this, the KFA is rarely able to implement and maintain necessary changes, leaving the youth programs unable to provide adequate tools for players to flourish. One of the most damaging outcomes of the KFA’s internal fragmentation is the absence of a unified youth development strategy. The growth of amateur football culture is key to the overall development of football in Korea, and the KFA’s efforts in this area have been lacking. Youth programs currently lack clear KFA standards. The programs rely on producing promising young talent for schools and teams to recruit. While this issue exists elsewhere, the “luck” factor plays a larger role in Korea. If more talented players happen to live in a single district, the district will likely receive an unmatched level of extra attention from schools and teams. This leads to various forms of additional support, ranging from equipment to matchday experiences. All these forms of support lead to an inequality in experience among the youth players, which is an issue the KFA must be able to tackle. Another consequence of the KFA’s fragmentation is the "talent drain," a phenomenon where many of South Korea’s bright young footballers choose to leave the country to further their development. Countries like Germany, England, and the Netherlands have become prime destinations for South Korean players seeking opportunities to grow. In the past, players like Lee Young-Pyo and Ki Sung-Yueng proved themselves in Korea before going overseas. Nowadays, more and more talented youngsters are eager to leave Korea, and this compulsion to leave the country reveals deep flaws and distrust in the domestic system. In fact, current superstars like Son Heung-Min and Lee Kang-In have never even spent a single year under the domestic youth program. This leaves people with the impression that the key to success is leaving Korea. This talent drain has significant long-term consequences. It reduces the quality of local players, weakening the domestic K-League. This widens the gap between homegrown and international players. Plus, the cohesion of the national team is also at risk. While international exposure can benefit individual players, heavy reliance on foreign systems leaves many with a weakened sense of connection to their home country. As more players begin to lose this emotional attachment, it will only become tougher for the KFA to elevate the overall quality of domestic football. This would also lead to hardship for the national team to present a united front in international competitions. A Way Forward for the KFAFor decades, football has been a constant source of recreation for South Koreans. While there are other genres of sports like baseball and esports that the country has had global success in, they do not come close to football in terms of the longevity of their success and their nationwide impact. Given how football has such meaning in this country, it is imperative that the KFA finds a way to resolve its ongoing internal conflict. First and foremost, the KFA needs stable and transparent leadership. Constant turnover in executive positions has led to inconsistency and a lack of continuity in policy. Fixed leadership terms and reduced political interference could foster long-term focus. By prioritizing a clear and consistent vision for youth development, the KFA can avoid the short-term thinking that has often derailed progress. This requires a strategic plan that outlines specific goals for youth programs and ensures that future leaders are committed to those goals. Once stable leadership is in place, a national standard for youth development needs to be established. This would involve the KFA working closely with K-League teams, local academies, and schools to establish a unified curriculum with national benchmarks for coaching, fitness, and technical skills. This way, the KFA can ensure that every young player has access to a high standard of development. Centralized oversight would also help close the gap between elite and underfunded programs, creating a more equitable system for nurturing talent. Over the past few years, the KFA has been testing out new ways to spotlight underfunded youth programs. There has been an increase in the number of youth tournaments that are sponsored and broadcasted by the KFA, providing more chances for players to showcase their skillset. The KFA has also begun to sponsor former professionals turned influencers like Cho Won-Hee and Kim Young-Kwang to raise awareness for youth football. This is just one example of how the KFA can utilize its various resources to further aid youth players. With these changes, the Korean football community will end up with a healthier football culture. Ideally, if the KFA creates an environment in which players feel like they can reach their full potential, there will be an increase in the number of quality players with emotional ties to the country. Once the number of quality players increases, the national team will be able to come up with various combinations of game plans in tournaments, increasing the chance of good performances. As the national team grows, the fanbase will provide more support by attending various KFA events with greater enthusiasm. The stylish brand of football displayed by the national team in the 2022 Qatar World Cup has already proved how quality football leads to fervent fan support. This performance has reignited the fire in the hearts of many football fans, as they were shown a glimpse of the heights Korean football can reach. Fans have since displayed increased interest in the administrative aspects of the sport, which is a good start for the growth of this nation’s football culture. Rebuilding the Future of South Korean FootballThe Korea Football Association’s internal fragmentation has cast a long shadow over the domestic football scene. Yet, the story of Korean football has always been one of resilience and transformation. Reforming the KFA is more than just an administrative challenge—it is an opportunity to redefine football in South Korea. A united KFA, committed to nurturing homegrown talent, can inspire a new era of success. With the right vision and commitment, South Korea can rise again. The road may be long, but the rewards will be remarkable: a national team that plays with heart, a league that thrives with talent, and a country united through its love of the game. All of this can empower the next generation of athletes and give fans a renewed sense of pride.
The Power of Gaze: Inside House of Hummingbird
We understand the power of gaze almost intuitively from a very young age. One must have heard an adult saying, “How dare you look straight in my eyes?” when growing up. This statement implies that there is a significant difference between the one who can look and who cannot. Bell Hooks explores the dynamic in her acclaimed book Black Looks:“Imagine the terror felt by the child who has come to understand through repeated punishments that one’s gaze can be dangerous. The child who has learned so well to look the other way when necessary. Yet, when punished, the child is told by parents, “Look at me when I talk to you. ” Only, the child is afraid to look. Afraid to look, but fascinated by the gaze. There is power in looking. ” As Hooks explains, as we grow up, we are drawn to the act of gazing. We are constantly told to look or not to look, forced to conform to the power embedded in the dominative gaze. Looking, therefore, is not just a visual exchange but a mechanism of control that shapes our behavior. This dynamic becomes particularly potent during adolescence, a stage when we first experience the pain of growing up. In response, some begin to reclaim the agency of their gaze by looking back, an act of resistance against control and a subversion of power dynamics. As Hooks strongly declares in her book, “Not only will I stare. I want my look to change reality. ” This is the empowering gaze — a gaze that fights against domination and strives to assert its vision of the world. The concept of gaze is important in cinema because it communicates with the audience in a nonverbal way, guiding their attention and revealing power relations. In coming-of-age films, the gaze often plays a crucial role in navigating the journey of growing up. However, many of these films fail to resonate with real teenagers because they are shaped by an external gaze that imposes authority over their lives. In contrast, House of Hummingbird(Dir. Bora Kim) is a good example of what it means to embody the empowering gaze. We view Seoul in 1994, through the eyes of a 14-year-old Eun-hee. Eun-hee is given the power to direct the film’s gaze, which allows the oppressed teen to enjoy the taste of liberation. Her gaze is not only a source of excitement but also a vessel for the sentiments of insecurity and grief of her generation. By placing the tragic collapse of the Seong-su Bridge as a pivotal moment in the film, the film connects the personal journey of growing up with societal tragedies. Thus Eun-hee’s gaze allows us to see the two aspects of adolescence: the influence of the dominative power in daily life and the lingerings of historical trauma. By examining this specific gaze, we step closer to figuring out how we can remove the heavy burden that weighs on the shoulders of the future operators of the world. Firstly, Hummingbird mirrors the lives of teens pressured by the system — at school, at home, and even among peers, whom they constantly struggle to keep up. In many coming-of-age films, teenagers are often objects of observation, while the audience has the authority to exercise power over them as observers. However, this film turns over the conventional gaze by granting Eun-hee agency over how she is perceived. This empowering gaze is prominent in the way the camera views her physicality by focusing on her body as a source of vibrant movements. Eun-hee’s bodily movements, particularly in the film’s dance scenes, exemplify the empowering gaze. At a dance club, Eun-hee gathers her friends under the dazzling mirror ball and dances to the sound of banging music — swinging her limbs and spinning around in a way that feels more like romping than dancing. Later in the film, Eun-hee dances alone in the living room, madly jumping up and down, flinging her arms in the air. Her disorganized moves are somewhat experimental: the manic stomping, tossing, and turning is a form of risk-taking. It’s not just dancing, but rather an expression of rage and freedom: a declaration of breaking free from the oppressive aura surrounding her. The gaze further expands the sense of possession of space, resisting the prevalent hierarchical power through her movements. At school and home, the authoritative figures impose standards of female demureness and student-like manners on the schoolgirls, punishing them if they deviate from those lines. When Eun-hee and her friends sit in a classroom, they must constantly prove their values through conformity. But when they enter the dance club, they no longer feel the need to prove themselves to anyone. Similarly, the living room — a place where the family gathers at the end of the day — is often steeped in a silent atmosphere shaped by patriarchy. When Eun-hee dances alone, however, she briefly but fully dominates the space. When Eun-hee dances, she owns the moment: she can thrive and turn the room into a place for dance, not for punishment. By reclaiming the gaze, Eun-hee dismantles the dominant power that once pervaded these spaces. Just like this, we need to provide opportunities for teenagers to realize that they can do the same. Their bodies create movement, and their actions fill up a space . There are not many spaces where teens can express their honest feelings and desires. But they do need physical spaces where they can be free from the external gaze and be led by their autonomous gaze; they need somewhere to breathe. Therefore, society should be ready to give up the position of guiding, supervising, and judging the teenage demographic. Only when we allow them to move their bodies in whatever way— from dancing and singing to running, screaming, jumping, and smoking (all of which Eun-hee does in the film) — can we awaken the sense of joy of growing up. While the empowering gaze liberates Eun-hee individually, it also serves as a lens to examine societal grief and loss. The film delves deeper into the historical scale the gaze reflects. Teens grow up within the dominant system, but a much broader concept weighs on them — history. A professor of historical theory Frank Ankersmit once argued that history is “a companion permanently closer to us than even our parents, our wives, and husbands, or our most intimate friends,” stating that “all of our life is a continuous fight with history. ” To better understand the struggles of teens, we must peer into their intimate relationship with history, especially its emotionally devastating aspects. We grow up amidst recurring tragedies, and one of the most enduring struggles we need to “fight” against is the permanent mark that they leave on us. At the heart of Hummingbird exists the historically traumatic accident of Seong-su Bridge. The collective experience of the tragedy is represented by Eun-hee’s individual memories. Eun-hee’s gaze captures “the emotional baggage of the time” by encapsulating what is left after the tragedy. Eun-hee loses her only sanctuary, teacher Young-ji, because of the accident. Young-ji was the first person to tell Eun-hee to stand up against her abusive older brother, helping her realize that she was, in fact, important. The film doesn’t include dramatic scenes of the bridge collapsing nor Young-ji’s death. Instead, we notice her absence. In one scene, Young-ji’s mother1 wonders: “How can that bridge collapse? It was such a huge bridge…” Next, we see Eun-hee staring at the pictures of Young-ji on the wall, while the tidy, brightly lit room that once belonged to Young-ji seems so vacant without her. The camera also pans to the half-broken bridge in the middle of the Han River, and then to Eun-hee’s face as she gazes at the sight. In short, the film shows us the people left behind and the ruin itself, asking us an important question that resonates with us even today. How can we — survivors or descendants of the tragedy — overcome this personal and collective devastation when the traces of death still linger in the air?Here, the empowering nature of reclaiming the gaze is highlighted: we must become the main agents of “looking. ” We are not just spectators, but historical witnesses. Though we may not be able to prevent major tragedies as individuals, it’s our task to decide what and how to remember the history. As witnesses, we can take part in the gradual progress from mourning to healing. Thus, “emotional baggage” does not need to hinder our growth. Instead, it brings us to recognize the importance of remembering. Some historical catastrophes may be painful to even think about in the present, but the only way to reconciliation is in the action of seeing and remembering, not forgetting. House of Hummingbird portrays not just a private story of a young girl but also the profound entanglement of individual and collective trauma. Although set in the past, the film deals with timeless themes, reinforcing the connection between history and contemporary realities. Each generation carries the sorrow and shock of its time, passing them on to the next. Growing children are burdened by the collective sorrow of society, thus the journey of growing up is a kind of traumatic experience that accumulates across generations. Where can we find solace in this fractured world? While writing this article, I came across the Nobel Prize lecture in literature by Han Kang, who wrote beautiful works that revisit the pain of our history. She mentioned two following questions: “Can the past help the present? Can the dead save the living?” These questions resonate with us through and through. The past is in the past and the present seems to be merely an echo of the past — how can they take us out from the pit of helplessness? Perhaps the answer to all of these questions lies in the act of looking. Our gaze connects the dead with the living and brings hope to our approaching future. The quiet, watchful gaze bears the scars of the past not as a burden but as proof of resistance and resilience. So, don’t be afraid to look back. The act itself may seem silent and restrained, but it can be one of the most compelling and courageous acts that one can do to bring change to the world. This is the strength that every Eun-hee on the Earth deserves to acknowledge: unceasingly beating their wings, and stepping forward as witnesses to their history.
