type: article

info: written in 2020 for thedissolve.kr

description: I travel back home to Seoul from New York in the midst of the utter chaos and uncertainty in the early days of Covid-19. I document the stringent policies South Korea implemented for those coming in from abroad, which included my location being tracked and a government employee coming to visit my home every single day for the 10 days of mandatory quarantine. A wild change of pace from the US's Covid response.

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Covid-19, From New York to Gangnam

The pandemic was sweeping the globe, but pre-takeoff was the same. Passengers shushed their fussing children as they crowded the aisles, trading seats and cramming baggage into the overhead compartments.

Everyone had some form of protection on their face to guard against strangers’ deathly spittle. This was before we could settle on whether masks were necessary or not, so only a few wore actual face masks while most others made do with makeshift face coverings—scarves, bandanas, ski masks. One lady wore a plastic visor as a makeshift face shield and rubber dishwashing gloves, both a blinding shade of neon pink.

Officially, the airline was seating passengers in every other seat. In reality, only a few in the back rows were given that luxury. Every Korean expat in New York seemed to have realized, as I had, that their chances of surviving Covid-19 were far higher back home with friends, family, and government sponsored healthcare.

It was late March, and New York was two weeks into the “shelter-in-place” order, which required residents to stay indoors, going out only for necessities. Lines wrapped around the block of every Trader Joe’s across the city, each person with an Ikea bag in one hand and a bottle of Purell in the other. Inside, the pasta and toilet paper were long gone. Stories of overwhelmed hospitals and overflowing morgues were delivered to our newsfeeds everyday.

Despite all this, I felt that I was doing quite well. There was a grocery store across the street and a liquor store around the block. Netflix made for perfectly good company. However, these same news stories were reaching my family in Korea and, in their minds, Manhattan had become an apocalyptic wasteland. Before long, I was heading to Seoul.

South Korea became one of the safer places to be during the pandemic, once the initial spike in February had been reigned in with mass testing, digital connectivity, and a bit of decisiveness.

I arrived on April 1, just as a mandatory two-week quarantine was first imposed on all overseas arrivals to slow the spread of new cases.

The plane doors opened and the line of passengers burst forth, starting the walk-jog race to customs. We all knew from the detailedness of the health questionnaires we had completed on the flight that the lines would be hellish.

Sure enough, a herd of people were already at the entry points. Men in camo t-shirts and cargo pants—the military, I realized with a jolt—were pacing up and down the lines, urging everybody to download the “Self-quarantine Safety Protection” app on our phones.

“No app, no entry!” they yelled.

The military personnel looked very young. I presumed they were the unfortunate souls whose mandatory service had to fall during a global pandemic.

The line split into four health check stations. I handed over my questionnaire, on which I had marked the boxes for runny nose and stomach pains—most likely allergies, plus the chili from the night before, but I wasn’t taking any chances. The man at the booth wore only a mask and gloves for protection. He took my temperature and scanned through my papers.

“Coming from Manhattan?” he asked.

I nodded.

He indicated toward a screened-off area of the floor where workers stood waiting in full personal protective equipment—masks, gloves, goggles, face shields, coveralls, head covers, rubber boots, the whole nine yards.

They led me to a plastic-covered chair at a plastic-covered table, then asked about my every move for the past two weeks: where had I been, who had I seen, how did I feel and how had I been feeling. I had never ventured far from my kitchen table, reality TV had been my only company, and I had felt fine until the chili. My phone was checked once more for the Safety Protection app; then I was told that I was free to go home. The interviewer reached over a gallon bottle at the edge of the desk and vigorously pumped what I assume was hand sanitizer into his gloved hand as he beckoned the next interviewee over.

I later found out that those with more telling symptoms of Covid-19 would be transported to a government facility, where they would have to spend their two-week quarantine alone.

Outside the airport, I was approached by another person in full protective gear who proceeded to herd me and other overseas arrivals to a separate bus terminal. Those that had arranged a ride home with family were excused. The rest of us lined up for buses headed to our respective districts.

There must have been only one bus operating per route, because we had to wait a couple of hours for our ride to come around. Again, social distancing was attempted, but the bus was near full capacity by the time it left Incheon.

It was 10pm when I finally arrived at my destination, the Gangnam Public Health Center. Two tents had been set up outside the building. More workers in full protective gear ushered us toward the tents, where we sat at wooden school desks and filled out another questionnaire. Journalists flashed giant cameras at us as we were taken one by one to a makeshift lab to be tested.

It was past 11 by the time I finally reached home, five hours after disembarking at Incheon.

I woke up the next day to a call from an unknown number. On the other line was a government official assigned to keep tabs on my quarantine. He went over the rules that would dictate my next two weeks:

1. Don’t leave the house, not even for fresh air.

2. Don’t turn off the phone, or disable location sharing for the Self-quarantine Safety Protection app.

3. Twice a day, every day, record your temperature and symptoms on the app.

He also informed me that I would be receiving ₩100,000 (roughly $100) for any food or necessities to see me through the two weeks, and that he would be coming to my address every day to check up on me.

Sure enough, the doorbell rang midday the following day. I opened the door to find a middle-aged man and his younger female colleague standing a healthy six feet away from the door. A shopping bag was at my feet. A care package, they explained. They must have placed the bag down, then quickly shuffled back before I could open the door. My mom had done the same with my breakfast earlier—she slid the tray into my room wearing gloves and a face mask, and scurried back before I could come near.

The care package included a packet of single-use thermometers, disinfectant, hand sanitizer, and trash bags. I was to collect my trash separately and leave it out for collection at the end of my quarantine so that it could be disposed of safely.

After a final warning to make sure my location tracking was on at all times, they left.

Two days later, I received a text saying that I did not have Covid-19.

The same government officials dutifully came by every afternoon for the next two weeks for a brief but awkward visit. They had the same questions for me each time: Have you been staying home? Do you have any symptoms? Are you keeping your location on?

I was chided a lot for that last part. Out of habit, I would absent-mindedly swipe the Safety Protection app closed. Whenever this happened, I would immediately get a call and a stern warning from my official to keep the app open.

Government alerts blared constantly from my phone, listing the profiles of the latest confirmed cases.

[Gangnam District Office] 18:00 - COVID19 confirmed: US study-abroad student and Gangnam resident. Contact tracing info available on our website. If you have any symptoms, please immediately report to your district clinic for testing.

I quickly got fed up with the screeching alarms of the government alerts and disabled them completely.

My quarantine came to a blissful end on April 14. As somewhat of a homebody, being indoors has never been difficult for me personally, but the constant reminders of restrictions and the feeling of being watched made the two weeks feel particularly stifling. I mentioned this to a Korean friend, who remarked on the importance of citizen cooperation. The reaction of my friend back in the States was markedly different: “surveillance!” They said.

At the time of writing, Korea’s coronavirus record stands at 37,546 confirmed cases and 545 deaths for a population of 51.8 million.