4:25 is the time
that I get into my truck. Bit sleepy, but I turn on my radio,
usually. So I try to boost up myself by listening to all the
old goodies... (CHUCKLES) ..like this. And I try myself to be a bit,
you know, cheerful and then bit fresh, so I can enjoy
my whole day, in fact. This is national anthem, though. The starting of the day. This is Korean national anthem. 61-year-old delivery driver
Huh Wonjea is a subcontractor with the Korean Postal Service. He works an average of 14 hours
a
day, or 70 hours a week. His shift begins at the regional
distribution centre. There are thousands of parcels here
waiting to be sorted, not by warehouse staff,
but by the drivers themselves. This is one of the major complaints
of these delivery drivers. They spend hours at the beginning
of their shift sorting and then loading
these packages onto their truck and they say they're not paid
for those hours. Our job is deliver the stuff,
that's our job. It's clearly stated in our contract. But befor
e that we have to spend
like four hours every day before we begin our job,
without payment. Drivers are only paid
when they deliver an item, around $1 to $1.50 per parcel. The boom in online shopping
due to COVID-19 means drivers are spending even longer
sorting packages, delaying when they can start
their deliveries. Since the pandemic began,
21 delivery workers have died. Unions say it's from overwork. This is not right. This is not right. We are the ones who are sacrificed
to support the syst
em. South Korea has the longest working
hours in the developed world. Hard work transformed this country
from a war-torn Japanese colony into the world's tenth-largest
economy in just a few generations. Leaders promised the people
that their sacrifices would pay off. Their children would reap
the rewards. But many Koreans say they're still
paying the cost. Death by overwork is so common,
there's a word for it - 'kwarosa'. (WORKERS CHANT) Delivery workers stage a rally
in downtown Seoul. In Janua
ry this year, logistics
companies agreed to hire new staff to sort parcels,
to reduce working hours, and to stop deliveries after 9pm. Six months on, unions say
the promises have not been honoured. The protest comes just days after
yet another driver collapsed. On June 13th, a 48-year-old father
of two named Im Gwang Soo suffered a massive brain haemorrhage
and fell into a coma. Lee Seong Wook worked
side-by-side with Gwang Soo. He knows how easily
it could have been him. Like Gwang Soo, Seong W
ook
is in his 40s with two kids and works around 90 hours a week. His workload means he rarely
sees his children. After sorting packages all morning, it's afternoon before he can make
his first delivery. Just before 9pm,
after 14 hours on the job, Seong Wook gets an automated message
from the company. Seong Wook keeps working. It'll take at least another hour
to finish. For the fresh food he delivers
after 9pm, he'll pay penalties. That's a fine of roughly $60 for an item he's paid
less than $1
to deliver. Seong Wook finally wraps up
around 11pm. For a 16-hour day,
he's earned around $180. That's before he's paid tax,
his petrol or phone bills, or any penalties
for late deliveries. WOMAN: 27-year-old Jang Deok-joon returned home from a night shift
at 6am on October 12, 2020. He went to the bathroom to shower. When he hadn't emerged an hour
later, his father opened the door. Deok-joon worked
for the e-commerce giant Coupang, often described as Korea's Amazon. He worked in one of their
f
ulfilment centres, preparing items for delivery. Coupang manages its own logistics and has used artificial intelligence and real-time productivity monitoring to make its distribution chain
the fastest in the business. Deok-joon died of a heart attack. Coupang insisted
it was not work-related, but his parents
refused to accept the denial. They travelled to fulfilment centres
all over the country with a delivery truck bearing
the slogan "Coupang Killed My Son." Finally, after months of campaigning
, they received an official ruling - their son's death
was caused by overwork. MAN: Our sincere condolences
go to his family. They have our deepest sympathy. Um, you know, today Coupang is the third-largest
employer in Korea and, um, that's about 50,000 people. And if you think about 50,000 people
over the course of a year, you're gonna have any number
of personal medical conditions from within that...that population. So, just be clear, though, do you believe that this
was a personal medical inc
ident or this was a work-related death, a death because of
overwork at Coupang? The government ruled this to be
an industrial incident and we do accept that. The logistics industry in Korea averages about 80 accident-related
fatalities a year. And, you know,
Coupang, from the start, has prioritised the health
and safety of its workers. We have nurses
working with our medical director who are trying to
continue to refine... And do I keep doing this side?
Hm? Do I keep doing this side,
or should I
do this side? No, no. That one first. I'm back with Huh Wonjae, helping him sort parcels at
the distribution centre in Incheon. Carrington, you know that I'm not
getting paid for this, right? Yeah, that seems crazy to me. No, what I'm saying is that I...
so I won't be able to pay you. Oh...
(BOTH LAUGH) Wonjae never planned
to be a delivery driver. He holds a master's degree
in English and ran his own language schools
in Canada and Japan. He moved back to Korea
to be close to his ageing mother,
who has early-stage dementia. Despite his qualifications
and experience, he struggled to find work. I still thought at the time
that I could get some positions... ..in some university, because I used
to teach in universities as well. But, uh... ..I have to support myself and then also
I have to support my mother. She's sort of handicapped
because of her illness. So I visit my mum as often
as possible, whenever I can. Mama. Her memory fades away. She was kind of mixed up
with her memory just now
when I asked her when she married. Wonjae's father was an activist
in the Korean Independence Movement that fought to liberate Korea
from Japanese colonial rule. He met Wonjae's mother in the 1940s,
when she was just a teenager. What she's really clearly
remembering is the first moment
that he kissed her under the light of an electric pole,
she's telling. While we've been filming this story, COVID infections have soared
in South Korea to their highest level yet. As restrictions begin
to tighten
once more, so does the strain
on delivery workers. Lee Seong Wook is busier than ever. He's a branch leader
of the Delivery Workers' Union and has been trying to organise
a protest in honour of his colleague
Im Gwang Soo, who is still in a coma. Seong Wook has brought his workmate's
truck back to his house for safekeeping. Seong Wook is separated from his wife
and lives alone. It's been six months
since he's hugged his daughters. Captions by Red Bee Media Copyright Australian Broadcasting
Corpo
ration
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