expect to last long as the market leader based on only one innovation. Competitors may appear on the horizon out of nowhere any day.’ After all, his company has just sprung a nasty surprise on the Americans and the Japanese. Might a relatively unknown fuel cell manufacturer somewhere in Nigeria decide that, if Tres Estrelas was able to move from the darkest shadows to the top of the tree, then perhaps it could too?
Mozambique may or may not succeed in living up to my fantasy. But what would your reaction have been, had you been told in 1961, a century before the Mozambican dream, that South Korea would, in 40 years’ time, be one of the world’s leading exporters of mobile phones, a strictly science-fiction product at that time? Hydrogen fuel cells do at least exist today.
In 1961, eight years after the end of its fratricidal war with North Korea, South Korea’s yearly income stood at $82 per person. The average Korean earned
As for Samsung,* now one of the world’s leading exporters of mobile phones, semiconductors and computers, the company started out as an exporter of fish, vegetables and fruit in 1938, seven years before Korea’s independence from Japanese colonial rule. Until the 1970s, its main lines of business were sugar refining and textiles that it had set up in the mid-1950s.[2] When it moved into the semiconductor industry by acquiring a 50% stake in Korea Semiconductor in 1974, no one took it seriously. After all, Samsung did not even manufacture colour TV sets until 1977. When it declared its intention, in 1983, to take on the big boys of the semiconductor industry from the US and Japan by designing its own chips, few were convinced.
Korea, one of the poorest places in the world, was the sorry country I was born into on October 7 1963. Today I am a citizen of one of the wealthier, if not wealthiest, countries in the world. During my lifetime,
The house I was born and lived in until I was six was in what was then the north-western edge of Seoul, Korea’s capital city. It was one of the small (two-bedroom) but modern homes that the government built with foreign aid in a programme to upgrade the country’s dilapidated housing stock. It was made with cement bricks and was poorly heated, so it was rather cold in winter – the temperature in Korea’s winter can sink to 15 or even 20 degrees below zero. There was no flushing toilet, of course: that was only for the very rich.
Yet my family had some great luxuries that many others lacked, thanks to my father, an elite civil servant in the Finance Ministry who had diligently saved his scholarship money while studying at Harvard for a year. We owned a black-and-white TV set, which exerted a magnetic pull on our neighbours. One family friend, an up-and-coming young dentist at St Mary’s, one of the biggest hospitals in the country, somehow used to find the time to visit us whenever there was a big sports match on TV – ostensibly for reasons totally unrelated to the match. In today’s Korea, he would be contemplating upgrading the second family TV in the bedroom to a plasma screen. A cousin of mine who had just moved from my father’s native city of Kwangju to Seoul came to visit on one occasion and quizzed my mother about the strange white cabinet in the living room. It was our refrigerator (the kitchen being too small to accommodate it).My wife, Hee-Jeong, born in Kwangju in 1966, tells me that her neighbours would regularly ‘deposit’ their precious meat in the refrigerator of her mother, the wife of a prosperous doctor, as if she were the manager of an exclusive Swiss private bank.
A small cement-brick house with a black-and-white TV and a refrigerator may not sound much, but it was a dream come true for my parents’ generation, who had lived through the most turbulent and deprived times: Japanese colonial rule (1910–45), the Second World War, the division of the country into North and South Korea (1948) and the Korean War. Whenever I and my sister, Yonhee, and brother, Hasok, complained about food, my mother would tell us how spoilt we were. She would remind us that, when they were our age, people of her generation would count themselves lucky if they had an egg. Many families could not afford them; even those who could reserved them for fathers and working older brothers. She used to recall her heartbreak when her little brother, starving during the Korean War at the age of five, said that he would feel better if he could only hold a rice bowl in his hands, even if it was empty. For his part, my father, a man with a healthy appetite who loves his beef, had to survive as a secondary school student during the Korean War on little more than rice, black-market margarine from the US army, soy sauce and chilli paste. At the age of ten, he had to watch helplessly as his seven- year-old younger brother died of dysentery, a killer disease then that is all but unknown in Korea today.
Years later, in 2003, when I was on leave from Cambridge and staying in Korea, I was showing my friend and mentor, Joseph Stiglitz, the Nobel Laureate economist, around the National Museum in Seoul. We came across an exhibition of beautiful black-and-white photographs showing people going about their business in Seoul’s middle-class neighbourhoods during the late 1950s and the early 1960s. It was exactly how I remembered my childhood. Standing behind me and Joe were two young women in their early twenties. One screamed, ‘How can that be Korea? It looks like Vietnam!’ There was less than 20 years’ age gap between us, but scenes that were familiar to me were totally alien to her. I turned to Joe and told him how ‘privileged’ I was as a development economist to have lived through such a change. I felt like an historian of mediaeval England who has actually witnessed the Battle of Hastings or an astronomer who has voyaged back in time to the Big Bang.
Our next family house, where I lived between 1969 and 1981, at the height of Korean economic miracle, not only had a flushing toilet but also boasted a central heating system. The boiler, unfortunately, caught fire soon after we moved in and almost burned the house down. I don’t tell you this in complaint; we were lucky to have one – most houses were heated with coal briquettes, which killed thousands of people every winter with carbon monoxide poisoning. But the story does offer an insight into the state of Korean technology in that far-off, yet really so recent, era.
In 1970 I started primary school. It was a second-rate private school that had 65 children in each class. We were very proud because the state school next door had 90 children per class.Years later, in a seminar at Cambridge, a speaker said that because of budget cuts imposed by the International Monetary Fund (more on this later), the average number of pupils per classroom in several African countries rose from 30-something to 40- something in the 1980s. Then it hit me just how bad things had been in the Korean schools of my childhood.When I was in primary school, the poshest school in the country had 40 children in a class, and everyone wondered, ‘how do they do that?’ State schools in some rapidly expanding urban areas were stretched to the limit, with up to 100 pupils per class and teachers running double, sometimes triple, shifts. Given the conditions, it was little wonder that education involved beating the children liberally and teaching everything by rote. The method has obvious drawbacks, but at least Korea has managed to provide at least six years’ education to virtually every child since the 1960s.
In 1972, when I was in Year 3 (US third grade), my school playground suddenly became a campsite for soldiers. They were there to pre-empt any student demonstrations against the martial law being imposed by the president of the country, (former) General Park Chung-Hee. Thankfully, they were not there to take on me and my friends. We Korean kids may be known for our academic precocity, but constitutional politics were frankly a little bit beyond us nine-year-olds.My primary school was attached to a university, whose rebellious students were the soldiers’ target. Indeed, Korean university students were the nation’s conscience throughout the political dark age of the military dictatorship and they also played the leading role in putting an end to it in 1987.
After he had come to power in a military coup in 1961, General Park turned ‘civilian’ and won three successive elections. His electoral victories were propelled by his success in launching the country’s economic ‘miracle’ through his Five Year Plans for Economic Development. But the victories were also ensured by election rigging and political dirty tricks. His third and supposedly final term as president was due to end in 1974, but Park
