2019-08-24 The Economist Latin America

28 Asia The EconomistAugust 24th 2019

1

A

fter-workgatherings in South Korea

used to follow a pattern. After a boozy

dinner and several rounds of beer and soju,

a local spirit, the party would decamp to a

dingy basement and squeeze onto faded

upholstery in an airless room with a kara-

oke machine. There, employees would be

pressed into accompanying the boss on the

tambourine as he howled his favourite bal-

lads and forced to offer their own rendi-

tions, before being allowed to stumble

home in the early hours. Karaoke parlours,

imported from Japan in the early 1990s and

originally intended as entertainment for

teenagers and families, did brisk business

with drunk office workers.

No more. Changing work patterns and

social tastes are pushing noraebang(“sing-

ing rooms”, as they are known in South Ko-

rea) out of business. The government re-

cently restricted the working week to 52

hours, cutting the scope for late-night gal-

livanting. Growing awareness among em-

ployers of sexual harassment and other bad

behaviour in the dark basements means

that more and more dinners wrap up early,

or conversation is continued over non-al-

coholic drinks at late-night coffee shops. It

is slowly becoming more acceptable for

employees to say no to group activities

after work and spend their spare time alone

or with friends.

Industry analysts expect the decline in

the number of noraebang, which has been

accelerating for a couple of years, to speed

up. Nearly 33,000 of them survive (down

from a peak of more than 35,000 in 2011).

But more than 1,400 shut in 2018, and 650

went during the first quarter of this year

alone. Similar trends are afoot in Japan, the

home of karaoke, where desperate owners

have reportedly resorted to renting out

their unused parlours as temporary offices

during the daytime.

Karaoke is not dying. South Koreans are

relieved that their careers no longer hinge

on jangling a tambourine for their tone-

deaf bosses. But many still like to use their

newly won spare time for singing. Places

aimed at groups are shutting down, but

“coin noraebang” for individuals and cou-

ples are becoming popular with teenagers,

students in their 20s and older single pro-

fessionals. Unlike old-school karaoke par-

lours, they tend to be above ground, well lit

and colourfully decorated. Rather than pay

hourly rates of between 15,000 and 20,000

won ($12-17), users can sing individual

songsforaslittleas 500 won.Kim,a 24-

year-oldconscriptfromSeoul,saysitisa

goodwaytokilltimeonhisown.“Ilove

singingbutI’mnotverygoodatit,soprac-

tisingalonealsomakesitlessembarrass-

ingwhenI’mwithmyfriends.”

Themovetowardsbeltingouttuneson

one’slonesomedoesnotseemtohaveaf-

fected musical preferences. Apart from

current hits, the noraebang charts are

dominated by old-school ballads and

cheesy Western pop staples. Even as

Seoul’sbasements are refitted forother

purposes,SouthKoreansandtheirguests

willcontinuetocomeupwithoff-keyren-

ditionsofQueen. 7

SEOUL

Long karaoke sessions with colleagues

are no longer compulsory

Social life in South Korea

Dropping the mic

SuiteSeoulmusic

T

he teenager riding down National

Highway 31 was already living a night-

mare. Two years earlier she had been raped,

she claimed, by a group of men starting

with Kuldeep Singh Sengar, a powerful pol-

itician in her home district of Unnao, in Ut-

tar Pradesh, India’s most populous state.

Her family tried to file a complaint with the

local police, who brushed them off. Then

they began receiving death threats. In 2018

her father was allegedly beaten senseless

in broad daylight by Mr Sengar’s brother

and a bunch of goons—and then jailed on

unrelated charges. His daughter despaired

of finding justice in Unnao and left for the

state capital of Lucknow, where she stood

before the residence of the chief minister,

Yogi Adityanath, a Hindu cleric, and

doused herself in kerosene, but was over-

powered before she could light it. The next

day her father died in police custody.

The victim continued to seek justice, to

no avail. A witness to her father’s death

died in jail. Her uncle was sentenced to ten

years in prison on a 20-year-old charge. Mr

Sengar and his allies in the Bharatiya Janata

Party (bjp), including Mr Adityanath and

the mpfrom Unnao, celebrated a resound-

ing victory at the polls in May. The victim

wrote a letter to the chief justice of the Su-

preme Court asking for help.

At 1.30pm on July 28th, the same young

woman, now 19 years old, was seated in a

compact car with her two aunts, on their

way to visit the jailed uncle. They were sup-

posedly under police protection, although

the assigned officers did not escort them

on the journey. A lorry travelling in the op-

posite direction swerved into their lane. Its

licence plate was blacked out and it did not

slow down. The impact flattened the front

of their car and killed both the aunts. A

month later, the rape victim remains in in-

tensive care, unable to speak. If she does

not recover, it is likely that her rape will go

unpunished, since no witness’s testimony

may stand as evidence until it can be sub-

jected to cross-examination.

It is a dangerous business being the wit-

ness to any serious crime in India, espe-

cially when the accused are powerful. In-

timidated witnesses often recant their

initial testimony and refuse to co-operate

with the prosecution. As cases drag on, it

becomes harder for victims and their fam-

ilies to bear the pressure. Catastrophic mis-

carriages of justice are not unusual. In 2013

riots in Muzaffarnagar, also in western Ut-

tar Pradesh, killed at least 65 people, most

of them Muslims. All 53 of the men accused

in 40 related homicide cases were acquit-

ted. All the witnesses changed their minds,

including five who had previously reported

seeing their own relatives murdered. A

murder case that involved the man cur-

rently responsible for India’s internal secu-

rity, Amit Shah, ended with no convictions

after 92 witnesses recanted.

Lorries with blacked-out number plates

have become especially dangerous in re-

cent years. Prashant Pandey, an expert wit-

ness in corruption cases against the previ-

ous state government of Madhya Pradesh,

narrowly survived a collision that tipped

over his family car. Early this year the fam-

ily of Sanjiv Bhatt, a decorated civil-service

officer who had made an enemy of many

senior bjpmembers, was rammed by an-

other heavy, blank-plated vehicle.

Conviction rates tell the tale. Whereas

in most rich countries 80% or more of

those charged with crimes are found guilty,

in India the rate is between 40% and 50%—

DELHI

The justice system does far too little to

protect witnesses

Crime in India

Silence or the grave