Korea’s ‘Iron Rice Bowl’: The Rise (and Fall) of Civil Service and Teaching Careers

This is Part 9 of my “Growing Up in Korea” series. Find the full journey here.


The Day the Dream Died

Imagine living in a country where landing a job at giants like Samsung, LG, or Hyundai practically guaranteed lifelong employment. This wasn’t just a career—it was the South Korean dream, deeply embedded in society until the late 1990s.

Then came the “IMF Crisis.”

It wasn’t a war or a natural disaster, but a brutal economic collapse in 1997–1998. The economy tanked so badly that South Korea needed an emergency bailout from the International Monetary Fund (IMF). Overnight, the promise of stable, lifelong employment shattered.

Massive conglomerates, known as chaebols (재벌)—family-owned corporate giants once thought to be invincible—began unprecedented mass layoffs.

In the book Trauma and Korean Society (트라우마로 읽는 대한민국), Jinju Jeong, director of the Social Health Research Institute (사회건강연구소), highlights that these layoffs weren’t merely economic setbacks; they triggered collective trauma. Job security transformed from an expectation into an obsession.

As South Koreans desperately searched for stability amid this uncertainty, two careers stood out: civil servants and public school teachers.

Both jobs gained a nickname symbolizing stability: cheolbaptong (철밥통), meaning “iron rice bowl”—an unbreakable guarantee of income, security, and pensions.

This is how an economic crisis reshaped Korean dreams.

Korean economic crisis

Part 1: The Stampede for Stability – The Rise of Civil Servants

Before the IMF Crisis, civil servants (gongmuwon, 공무원) weren’t exactly top-choice careers for ambitious youth. Government jobs were respectable but offered modest pay, especially compared to salaries at major corporations.

The crisis changed everything. Secure government positions suddenly looked appealing as corporate jobs vanished. Civil servants faced no mass layoffs, and their smaller but consistent paychecks reliably arrived every month.

In a world where security was suddenly priceless, government jobs became a rare beacon of hope.

The book The Life of IMF Kids (IMF 키즈의 생애) by journalist-turned-writer Ahn Eun-byul, featuring interviews with those who were teenagers during Korea’s IMF economic crisis, indirectly captures the shift in the status of civil servants.

One of the interviewees, Lee Dong-seok, born in 1985, said his mother did various side jobs to supplement the low salary of his father, who was a civil servant after passing the civil service exam. However, he remembers that during the foreign exchange crisis he experienced in middle school, his family wasn’t directly caught in the storm because his father was a civil servant—although he also recalls that people became more intense during this time.

Factory owners” who had been part of the neighborhood’s wealthy class were hit hard, and a friend’s family, who had always seemed urban and well-off, lost everything except their house. The outskirts became even more chaotic.

Scenes like this were all too common in Korean society at the time.

The lower salary was no longer a dealbreaker; it felt like a small price to pay for lifelong peace of mind.

Crucially, many civil service exams, depending on the specific role, didn’t have strict age limits. This was huge in a society where companies often unofficially (and sometimes officially) favored younger applicants.

As highlighted in a 2013 article on “civil servant fever,” opportunities opened for a wide range of people: older laid-off workers, mid-career changers, and mothers re-entering the workforce.

The civil service jobs, seen as iron rice bowls (cheolbaptong, 철밥통) offered a chance at stability for people across all age groups who felt locked out elsewhere.

As a result, competition for civil service positions became fierce.

A screen capture from KBS news on May 29, 2007, covering Korea’s fervent pursuit of civil servant jobs (공무원 되기 열풍). According to this report, the intense competition tragically led one applicant, who repeatedly failed the exam, to take her own life. Others quit their unstable jobs or postponed university admissions to fully dedicate themselves to exam preparation.

In 2016, a tragic case made national headlines: A man who had been preparing for the civil service exam for six years repeatedly failed but told his family and friends he had passed. To maintain the illusion, he took out high-interest loans totaling over 20 million won (approximately $17,000 USD at the time) and gave his mother 2 million won every payday. When the money finally ran out, he died by suicide in a run-down motel room.


Part 2: Teaching – From Modest Stability to Elite Ambition

Becoming a teacher at public schools followed a similar path, though its starting reputation was a bit different.

Teaching had always been seen as a stable profession in Korea. It offered a predictable career path, decent benefits, and, importantly, long vacations.

However, before the crisis, it often carried a certain social perception. It was frequently viewed as a “good job for women,” particularly those looking to balance work and family life. But for men aiming to be the primary breadwinner, it perhaps lacked the prestige or earning potential of a corporate career. The pay was respectable, sure, but generally couldn’t match what a successful employee at a major company could earn.

Here’s a little anecdote that captures this past perception: My own grandmother told me about her friend back in the day. This friend strongly objected when her daughter, an elementary school teacher, wanted to marry a fellow teacher.

Why? Because she thought teaching was a good job for her daughter—but not good enough for her future son-in-law.

She reportedly only agreed to the marriage on the condition that the prospective son-in-law quit teaching and find “other work.”

While just one story, it reflects a time when teaching, despite its stability, wasn’t always seen as a path to high status or significant wealth.

The IMF crisis dramatically boosted teaching’s status.

Like civil servants, teachers kept their jobs through the economic turmoil. Their stability, combined with pensions and regular schedules, suddenly looked incredibly appealing. The typical path to becoming a public school teacher involves graduating from a specialized university of education (gyodae, 교대, for elementary; sabumdae, 사범대, for secondary) and passing a notoriously difficult certification exam (imyonggosi, 임용고시).

Competition for these spots exploded. Data shows a stark trend: For elementary school teachers, the competition rate for the certification exam went from near-guaranteed appointment (around 0.68 applicants per available position in 2000) to intensely competitive (1.95 applicants per position by 2007).

This surge happened even as the number of available teaching spots began to shrink due to Korea’s rapidly declining birth rate. Universities of education became incredibly selective, attracting top-performing students—often those who ranked highest in their entire high schools.

The “iron rice bowl” offered by teaching—steady pay, regular promotions, and a solid pension—became a highly coveted prize in an anxious nation.


Part 3: Cracks Appear – The Fading Allure of the Iron Rice Bowl

Today, however, the appeal of civil service and teaching has significantly faded. Competition rates dropped from an incredible 979.1 applicants per spot in 2006 (not a typo—at the time, it reached the highest competition rate ever recorded for civil service exams in Korea) to about 24.3 by 2025.

Similarly, teacher-training universities now struggle with empty seats and rising dropout rates.

Several factors contributed to this decline:

Tough Environments: Rigid government bureaucracy frustrated younger workers eager for innovation. Teachers faced additional stress from demanding parents (goemul bumo, 괴물부모, “monster parents”) known for excessive demands, reducing the profession’s appeal further. (For those interested, The Birth of Monster Parents (괴물부모의 탄생) by Hyunsoo Kim is an insightful read.)


Before we move on, there’s something I feel strongly about addressing.

As a scholar researching media literacy, I’ve had the opportunity to meet many teachers in Korea, both online and offline, and I also have quite a few family members and friends who are civil servants.

Based on these connections, I know these individuals chose their professions not because they were simply swept up in societal trends, but based on their talents, convictions, and dreams. My series, ‘Growing up in Korea,’ focuses on exploring broad social shifts and the landscape of an era.

While this approach helps shed light on major trends, I am fully aware of its limitationIt cannot delve into the nuanced, deeply personal motivations behind every individual’s career choice.

Therefore, I want to be clear that this article is not suggesting all Korean teachers and public officials simply followed the crowd. My aim is to describe the context of the times, a landscape within which countless people made personal choices, many acting on passion rather than just external pressure.


What’s Next? From Stability to… Something Else

So, if the iron grip of the cheolbaptong (철밥통) has loosened, where are Korean ambitions heading now?

As the allure of civil service and teaching waned, a new career obsession seemed to take hold—one promising not just stability, but also prestige and high income: becoming a doctor.

The intense competition and pressure haven’t vanished; they’ve merely shifted focus.

But how exactly did medicine become the new ultimate career goal for so many in Korea?

That’s a story for next time.

Stay tuned for the next post on this Substack!


This article refers to the following sources:

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