Translation result.
“Mom, pack my rice roll (kimbap).”
On a May morning, a child wakes earlier than usual, slings a backpack over their shoulder and stands at the front door. They retie their shoelaces several times, proudly show off a new water bottle and fidget so they won’t be late. Parents watch that small back as the child runs toward the schoolyard and pause for a moment. They can’t know how this day will shape the child’s life. But they do know one thing: they once had a day like this themselves.
We forget a lot. Lessons from textbooks and test questions grow faint. But the wind that day, the sunlight, a friend’s laugh—those memories linger. Everyone has a day like that: the one special day they wait for all year.
But now, that day is disappearing.
In the same month, a young elementary school teacher can’t sleep the night before a field trip. They keep checking the bus for safety and worry about every small variable. The day before departure, parent group chats fill with concerns and demands. The teacher keeps a copy of a court ruling in their desk drawer. After a 2022 accident in Sokcho—when an elementary student was struck and killed by a bus during a field trip—and a supervising teacher was subsequently held criminally responsible, that ruling spread through every classroom. Since then, some teachers have even become afraid to take a child’s hand.
When did we let adults turn a child’s day into this? While adults argue about who is to blame when something goes wrong, children’s out‑of‑class experiences are shrinking. Picnics, school trips, experiential activities, retreats and field days are disappearing one by one. Children grow up sitting inside square classrooms at square desks. They lose chances to brush past friends on a walk, to feel the thrill of unfamiliar scenery, to share awkward laughs, or to build friendships while dancing and singing together. Those moments teach lessons no textbook or test can replace. Haven’t we forgotten that our priority should be to nurture and amplify children’s joyful laughter?
Protecting a child’s day is a responsibility we all share, beyond finger‑pointing. Instead of stopping the buses, we must build systems in which adults share and shoulder the risks. A structure that places the burden of field‑trip safety on a single teacher makes it difficult for those buses to start again. To preserve children’s special days, schools, education offices, local governments and the national government must jointly take responsibility for safety outside the classroom.
“Mom, pack my rice roll (kimbap).”
I hope a May morning returns when that phrase sounds natural again. I hope the sight of children boarding buses and waving from the schoolyard becomes ordinary rather than exceptional. Protecting the precious day that stays with a child for a lifetime ultimately means returning the time we once received to the next generation.
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