It was a crisp late-October night near the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), the air thick with the scent of pine and the distant, almost ghostly hush of the world’s most heavily fortified border. Inside a rustic mountain cabin, the first floor buzzed with the boisterous energy of about twenty graduating students from two universities. They were celebrating the end of a long day’s work.
Whiskey and Wisdom
Upstairs, in a room dimly lit by a single desk lamp, Dr. Park, a professor of geology, and Dr. Kim, a professor of ancient Korean history, were nursing glasses of aged whiskey. The chatter and singing from downstairs provided a low, rhythmic background to their conversation.
“The relentless focus on immediate ‘utility’ is exhausting, isn’t it, Kim?” Dr. Park sighed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “My university president—a former investment banker, of course—keeps sending me articles about lithium and rare earth element deposits. He genuinely thinks I can just point a stick at the ground and find a multi-billion dollar mine. He’s confusing geological surveying and structural analysis with a treasure hunt.”
Dr. Kim chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “It’s worse in the humanities. Our institutional motto is practically ‘discover the next Gojoseon capital!’ Meanwhile, we’re trying to prove the continuity of Paleolithic settlements and are fighting over a budget to replace a broken dehumidifier in the archive. The austerity measures are so tight, I half-expect them to start taxing the very dust we excavate.”
The students downstairs were part of a unique, government-mandated “patchwork project.” Due to drastic budget cuts for non-revenue-generating academic fields, the two seemingly disparate departments were forced to collaborate on an archaeological-geological survey of the area, a region known for its complex history and geology, straddling an active tectonic boundary and rumored to hold important, early historical sites.
From Barricades to Bulletins
“It’s ironic, this place,” Dr. Park mused, taking a slow sip. “Back in the late '70s, I was serving here in the R.O.K. Army security force. Never in a million years did I imagine I’d return as a professor, leading students to analyze the metamorphic rock formations and fault lines of the Hantan River area.”
Dr. Kim smiled wistfully. “And I was a student in the '80s, dodging tear gas canisters on the streets of Seoul, demanding democracy. We fought for an open society, and now I’m a scholar of Three Kingdoms era pottery—ancient history, a field that’s perpetually on the chopping block. It feels like we traded one kind of struggle for another.”
The conversation drifted to the looming shadow of the job market.
“How are your history seminar students faring? Any prospects?” Dr. Park asked, knowing the answer was likely grim.
“Ancient Korean history? They’re brilliant, insightful, and almost universally unemployed in their field,” Dr. Kim confirmed with a rueful shake of his head. “Yours, though… I hear the outlook for geology is slightly better?”
“Better, but not in academia or research,” Dr. Park corrected. “They’re being snapped up by the civil engineering sector and the mega-infrastructure firms. They’ll be using their knowledge of soil mechanics and geotechnical stress to design foundations for high-rise apartment complexes or tunnels, not studying the Precambrian basement rocks. They’re digging the ground, yes, but with a bulldozer, not a trowel. It has little to do with the why of geological science.”
The Next Generation
Downstairs, the students began a slurred rendition of a folk song.
“I’m retiring next year,” Dr. Kim said quietly, gazing at the condensation on his glass. “I’ve held out hope for so long. I’ve been waiting for a young soul to walk into my lecture hall—one who understands that the most impractical knowledge of today is often the essential, foundational wisdom of tomorrow.”
Dr. Park nodded slowly. “Me too. I’m waiting for the student who realizes that much of what we accept as established scientific fact—especially in applied fields—is built on assumptions that should constantly be challenged. The one who will fundamentally question the data we take for granted.”
“This collaboration,” Dr. Kim gestured broadly with his hand, indicating the shared project. “It was born of necessity—a bureaucratic patch forced upon us by budget cuts. But perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. My history students are learning about sedimentary layers and carbon dating limitations, and your geology students are seeing how human activity is recorded in those very layers. We’re gaining a truly interdisciplinary perspective.”
A sudden, clumsy stomping sound announced the ascent of several individuals up the wooden stairs. A sharp rap came at the door. Dr. Park opened it to find Jihun, a geology student known for his high spirits and an already-blurry gaze, swaying slightly.
“Professor! Dr. Kim! We, uh, we finished the Makgeolli!” Jihun announced, struggling to form the words. “Come down! We must have a celebratory soju toast to the ‘unpractical’ sciences!”
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
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