After a lifetime of waiting, these Seoul women are getting a chance at education | Canada Voices

When Han Oksoon was a little girl, she would watch her friends leave home each morning dressed in their school uniforms. But Ms. Han never joined them.

It was her job, instead, to stay on the family’s farm. Her family, unlike some of the well-off ones, did not own a cow, and it was her job to guide the plow instead. “I’d run and hide,” she said. “I was so ashamed.”

Ms. Han never did attend high school. Until recently.

On a Wednesday morning last month, Ms. Han, now 70 years old, was on a break between classes. She had short white permed hair and wore a pink plaid windbreaker. She was practising English with her friends in the courtyard. “It’s nice to meet you,” they took turns saying. “Welcome to our school.”

This is Ilsung Women’s Middle and High School in Seoul, where the average age is 69 years old. There are 850 students enrolled at the school for elderly women, founded in 1953. The oldest student is 91.

Not having completed high school “was always in the back of my mind,” said Ms. Han. “It affected my self-esteem.”

Until just half a century ago, a considerable number of South Koreans lived in poor and rural areas. Because of this, much of the now-elderly population missed out on the opportunity for formal education. This is especially true among women – in cases where families had to be selective about which children to send, the boys were generally chosen.

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As the girls grew older, they were expected to support their own families, said Na Gyeonghwa, a teacher at the school – to sacrifice their own happiness for others.

“These women spent their lives raising their children. And helping their husband achieve their dreams,” she said. “They’re the reason why Korea has been able to develop so quickly. And now it’s their turn to fulfill their dream.”

Sitting next to Ms. Han that morning was 60-year-old Lee Hyunhee. When Ms. Lee first started classes here two years ago, she could read, but not write.

“I wasn’t able to go to school properly because I didn’t have parents,” she explained. She was raised by an aunt and uncle who expected her to stay at home and care for her cousins. She covered her face with her hands, her voice breaking.

Ms. Lee’s own kids are 34 and 38 now. She put them through high school and university – even hired private tutors for them. And throughout, she said, “I realized there are so many things I don’t know.”

She’s learned so much at Ilsung, and made so many friends.

“I’m feeling myself improving every day.”

Another friend, 66-year-old Jung Gonsoon, reached out and rubbed her back. Ms. Jung was wearing a floral dress and a bucket hat.

“My dream,” said Ms. Jung, “has always been to study.” Her time here has been a dream fulfilled.

But all of that is in jeopardy.

Since the death of the school’s founder, Lee Seon-jae, last year, the school can only continue to operate legally if it incorporates as a foundation, which would cost 1-billion won, or about $1-million. As such, the school is scheduled to shut down in February of 2028.

When she first heard the news, said Ms. Han, “I was distraught.”

While there are other schools for elderly students in Seoul, she fears that the quality of education won’t be the same.

At Ilsung, the curriculum is tailored towards older women. In physical education class, the lessons emphasize low-impact activities and exercises that help to prevent dementia. In English, Ms. Na teaches vocabulary practical to their day-to-day lives. She teaches them to read signs at the grocery store and how to order coffee at Starbucks.

After the break, the women sat in Ms. Na’s class, discussing an upcoming exam.

The women had on their desks reading glasses and thermoses of barley tea. They wore quilted vests and running shoes with thick soles. Each of them had several bags – two, three, sometimes four bags – hanging from their desks.

One woman put up her hand and suggested an upcoming Monday for the test. But Ms. Na shook her head. Too close to Chuseok, the midautumn festival, she said. “You’ll have to do your grocery shopping.”

Ms. Na, who has taught at other schools in the past, said she’s never before encountered students so committed to learning.

One of her former students, a woman in her 60s, was a taxi driver. She’d study all day, and then drive all night. Others have attended school while caring for relatives or undergoing cancer treatment. Others, too, have attended here in secret – so deep was their shame, even their families weren’t aware they hadn’t completed school.

“These women,” said Ms. Na, “are superwomen.”

At the end of class that day, the students wanted to send their visitors off with an English song they’d been practising.

The music began to play, and a small group of the women stood at the front of the room – including Ms. Han, Ms. Lee and Ms. Jung. They were snapping their fingers and swaying to the beat.

“I have a dream, a song to sing. To help me cope with anything.”

It was I Have a Dream, by ABBA.

“I’ll cross the stream. I have a dream.“

Soon, the whole room was singing along. Ms. Han held an imaginary mic in front of her. Her chin was lifted; she was singing with her whole chest.

Afterwards, Ms. Jung reached out and gave her friends a squeeze.

Before this school, she said, she felt like “an ignored person.” But no more.

“I don’t want to be an ignored person,” she said. “I want to know the world a bit more.”