Written by: Lee Joon-ho

I never thought I would grieve an alleyway. But as I stood in the middle of a narrow golmok in Seoul’s Seochon neighborhood, watching a bulldozer idle beside a row of shuttered hanok, I felt something tighten in my chest. The air smelled of dust and damp earth, the remnants of a place that had once been alive with the clatter of dishes, the rustling of drying laundry, the hushed gossip of shopkeepers. Soon, all of it would be gone.

I am not an urban planner or a historian. I am a photographer, and for the past six months, I have been documenting the quiet vanishing of Seoul’s backstreets—its hidden arteries that once pulsed with life but are now being consumed by sleek glass towers and uniform concrete high-rises.

A City Built on Its Past—And Paving Over It

Golmok are not just passageways. They are the living history of Seoul, winding through the city’s hanok villages, traditional markets, and pockets of time-worn businesses. They are where generations have lived, worked, and built communities. Yet, according to the Seoul Metropolitan Government, the city has lost more than 30% of its historic alleyways since 2000, as redevelopment projects have surged to accommodate an ever-growing population and the demands of modernization.

In Jongno District alone—home to some of Seoul’s oldest neighborhoods—over 2,100 hanok (traditional Korean houses) have been demolished in the past decade, per data from the Korea Land and Housing Corporation. What replaces them are luxury apartments, high-end cafés, and co-working spaces that cater to younger, upwardly mobile generations.

I understand the need for progress. Seoul is one of the most densely populated cities in the world, with nearly 16,000 people per square kilometer (Statistics Korea, 2023). But I can’t help but wonder: At what cost?

Memories Trapped in Brick and Wood

I first became fascinated with Seoul’s alleyways as a child, trailing behind my grandmother as she led me through the maze-like backstreets of Euljiro. She knew every shortcut, every hidden restaurant with the best dumplings, every tiny workshop where craftsmen had worked for decades. Those alleys felt like secret pathways to another world, a Seoul untouched by time.

One of the first places I photographed for my project was a small print shop in Euljiro, run by an elderly man named Mr. Kim. His shop, wedged between two towering office buildings, had been there since the 1970s. When I visited, stacks of yellowing paper and ink-stained tools filled the tiny space, the air thick with the scent of old books.

“We used to be a community here,” Mr. Kim told me, his hands still blackened from ink. “There were dozens of us—printers, sign-makers, bookbinders. Now, I am one of the last.”

Less than three months later, I returned to find the entire block flattened, a construction sign declaring a “luxury mixed-use development” set to open in 2025. Mr. Kim was gone.

Who Decides What Stays and What Goes?

The erasure of these spaces is not just about buildings; it’s about the stories embedded in them. Urban redevelopment is often driven by policies that prioritize economic growth over cultural preservation. According to a 2023 study by the Korea Research Institute for Human Settlements, more than 70% of urban renewal projects in Seoul focus on commercial and residential expansion rather than heritage conservation.

Government initiatives such as the “2030 Seoul Plan” aim to transform the city into a global economic hub, but many critics argue that this approach neglects the soul of Seoul. There have been efforts to slow the pace of demolition—like the “Seoul Hanok Support Project,” which provides grants to homeowners willing to preserve traditional houses—but these programs remain limited in scope and funding.

For many residents, the fight to save these neighborhoods feels like an uphill battle. The cost of maintaining old buildings is high, and younger generations, drawn to modern conveniences, often prefer new high-rise apartments over creaky hanok with thin walls and outdated plumbing.

The Future of Seoul’s Golmok: Is There Hope?

Not all of Seoul’s alleyways are doomed. Some have found a second life as cultural and artistic hubs. In Ikseon-dong, once a decaying hanok district, young entrepreneurs have transformed the alleys into a vibrant mix of cafés, boutiques, and galleries. The area’s revitalization—rather than outright demolition—has drawn praise as a model for preserving history while adapting to modern life.

However, this gentrification also comes with its own issues. Many original residents have been priced out, their homes now occupied by trendy businesses catering to tourists rather than locals. The question remains: Can Seoul’s past coexist with its future?

Why I Keep Photographing

I know I cannot stop the tide of change. I know that no matter how many alleyways I capture in my photographs, they will continue to disappear, swallowed by cranes and wrecking balls. But I also know that by documenting them, I am preserving a piece of Seoul’s identity, a reminder of what once was.

A few weeks ago, I wandered into an alley in Seochon, where an elderly woman was hanging clothes on a line outside her hanok. She saw my camera and smiled. “Take a picture,” she said. “Before it’s gone.”

So I did.

And I will keep doing so, for as long as there are alleyways left to photograph.

About:

Lee Joon-ho is a  Thirty-three-year-old documentary photographer born and raised in Seoul. His work focuses on urban transformation, cultural heritage, and the intersection of memory and modernity. Inspired by his grandmother’s stories of old Seoul, Joon-ho has spent the last year documenting the rapid disappearance of the city’s historic alleyways. His work has been featured in local art exhibitions and independent media outlets that explore the impact of redevelopment on traditional communities. When he’s not behind the camera, Joon-ho can be found wandering the backstreets of the city, searching for fragments of the past before they fade away.