Hee-kyung offers a soft laugh as she enters Seoul’s novel “warm-hearted convenience store”.
At 29, she might not be the demographic one typically associates with initiatives designed to tackle loneliness in the South Korean capital.
Yet, Hee-Kyung is a daily visitor, drawn by the free instant ramen and the opportunity to spend hours in conversation with fellow visitors and social workers.
“I tell myself, ‘another day, another escape from feeling lonely’,” Hee-kyung confides.
A former teenage runaway, she is estranged from her family. Her friendships, forged online through a shared passion for the K-pop group SuperJunior, are geographically distant. Currently unemployed, she lacks the social interaction of work colleagues.
Living alone, she spends her time watching animal videos on her phone as she lies on the floor.
“I have no other place to go if it weren’t for [the store].”
Hee-Kyung is among the 20,000 individuals who have visited the four stores since their opening in March, far exceeding the city’s initial projection of 5,000 visitors in the first year.
This particular location, situated in the north-eastern district of Dongdaemun, welcomes approximately 70 to 80 visitors daily.
While the majority of visitors are in their 40s and 50s, Hee-Kyung is not the only young person availing herself of the store’s services.
A 2022 study indicated that an estimated 130,000 young people in the city, aged between 19 and 39, are either socially isolated or reclusive. The same study revealed that single-person households in the capital had reached nearly 40%, prompting concern from a government already grappling with declining birth and marriage rates.
During a recent visit, a dozen visitors – men and women, young and old – were observed relaxing on benches or beanbags, watching a film together.
“We have movie days to encourage low-level bonding,” explains Kim Se-heon, the manager of the city’s Loneliness Countermeasure Division.
The stores are intentionally designed to offer a welcoming, café-like atmosphere. In one corner, an older woman reclines in an automatic massage chair. Nearby, stacks of instant noodles are readily available.
“Ramen is a symbol of comfort and warmth in South Korea,” Kim notes.
While waiting for their noodles to cook, visitors are invited to complete a brief survey about their mood and living situation.
These are but a fraction of the growing number of socially isolated individuals that the city is endeavoring to reach.
South Korea has undergone a profound transformation, transitioning from a war-torn agrarian society to a developed economy within a single generation.
Decades ago, it was common to see extended families with six to eight children living together. However, urbanization has fragmented families and transformed cities like Seoul into sprawling metropolises.
Unaffordable housing, rising costs, and demanding work schedules have led increasing numbers of young people to forgo marriage and parenthood. Simultaneously, an aging population feels neglected by children struggling to keep pace with societal pressures.
“You know the saying that the least tasty meal is the one you are having alone? I ask older people who come in if they were eating okay. They would tear up, just being asked that question,” says Lee In-sook, the store’s counselor.
Having experienced divorce and her adult children leaving home, she empathizes with the feeling of loneliness.
Hee-kyung, who is around the same age as In-sook’s daughter, immediately caught her attention upon her first visit to the store.
Like many new visitors, Hee-kyung was reserved on her initial visit, barely interacting with others. On her second visit, she began to engage in conversation with In-sook.
Seoul officials were spurred into action by the increasing incidence of “lonely deaths,” in which older individuals died alone at home and their bodies were not discovered for days or weeks.
This mission soon broadened to address the broader issue of loneliness itself. However, Seoul is not the first to undertake such an initiative.
In 2018, the UK appointed a Minister for Loneliness. Japan followed suit, establishing an agency to tackle a problem exacerbated by the Covid-19 pandemic.
The phenomenon of complete social withdrawal is sufficiently prevalent in Japan to warrant its own term: hikikomori. In South Korea, too, a growing number of young people are voluntarily isolating themselves from a highly competitive and demanding society.
“Perhaps the pandemic contributed to this trend,” suggests Lee Yu-jeong, who manages one of Seoul’s anti-loneliness programs.
She observes that her own children remain engrossed in their smartphones even when friends are present. “People today express how difficult it is to maintain a network of friends. Loneliness has become a societal challenge that needs to be addressed.”
The first step was establishing a hotline for individuals seeking someone to talk to. A nationwide survey in 2023 revealed that one-third of Korean adults lack someone to ask for help with household tasks or to confide in when feeling sad.
Counselors provide 40-minute calls to discuss any topic. Park Seung-ah conducts three such calls daily from her cubicle.
“I was surprised by the number of young people seeking these sessions. They want to unburden themselves, but power dynamics often exist with parents or friends. So, they turn to us.”
The “warm-hearted convenience stores” quickly followed, offering a physical space where the lonely are welcomed.
The Dongdaemun location was strategically chosen due to its proximity to low-income housing, where residents often live alone in small, subdivided apartments.
Sohn, 68, visits the store weekly to watch films and escape his cramped living quarters.
“[The stores] should have opened before I was born. It’s good to spend even just two to three hours,” he says.
Sohn dedicated over five decades of his life to caring for his mother, who suffered a brain aneurysm when he was a child. Consequently, he never married or had children.
The personal cost of this dedication became starkly apparent after her death.
Penniless and walking with a cane following a brain hemorrhage several years ago, he laments the lack of accessible social spaces.
“Places cost money, going to the cinema costs money,” he points out.
The stores were specifically designed to welcome those who are not welcome elsewhere, explains store manager Lee Bo-hyun.
They offer more than just a room and a film; they provide air conditioning during the sweltering summer months for low-income individuals who cannot afford it at home.
The stores also aim to circumvent the stigma associated with seeking help. The deliberate choice of the name “convenience stores” seeks to distance them from psychiatric clinics, which is particularly important in a country where there remains a stigma surrounding mental health, especially among older residents.
However, this hesitation is often evident when visitors first enter the store, compounded by their experiences of isolation.
Visitors often feel uncomfortable speaking to others or eating together initially, notes store manager Lee.
“Typical loneliness, if it persists for days, months, even half a year, becomes more than just a feeling,” Lee explains.
“These individuals begin to avoid places with people. Many ask if they can take the ramen to go because they are reluctant to eat with others.”
Lee reassures them that they are not obligated to talk. They can simply sit at the same table and enjoy their noodles.
It has been several months since Hee-kyung was a quiet newcomer.
Has it made a difference? In-sook recalls a conversation with a local paper. When she mentioned her daughter, she felt a sudden pang and her voice faltered.
“I am going to hug you,” Hee-kyung declared.
She walked across the room and embraced In-sook.
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