Parasites, Oscar-winning director Bong Joon Ho was part of a social fairy tale that turned tragic when heavy rains flooded his apartment. Water rose to his waist, and a dark flood from a blocked toilet mirrored the chaos of a city under siege by the elements. On a night as relentless as a scene from a film, three people drowned because the current made it impossible to open the doors. A neighbor living with mobility issues died trying to rescue her cat. Another family was saved only after neighbors cut through the bars of a window. Water crept up to their necks, while officials shoveled mud and debris in a recurring, somber image.
The 13 deaths tied to Seoul’s heaviest rainfall in memory brought the banjiha issue back into sharp focus. Banjiha, literally half-buried dwellings, symbolize social inequality in one of Asia’s most vibrant cities. These semi-basement homes are damp, unhealthy, and moldy, with dangerous drainage and erratic phone coverage. They endure heat waves as well as floods, illustrating how environmental risks collide with housing vulnerability.
South Korea counts about 330,000 banjiha, with roughly 200,000 in Seoul, amounting to nearly 5 percent of the housing stock. They linger from a past of rapid urbanization and a harsher national security message. In the 1970s, Seoul faced threats that prompted bunkers to be constructed in basements as a precautionary measure for emergencies. As the city urbanized, these spaces persisted, absorbing waves of migrants from rural provinces while remaining a stark symbol of housing hardship.
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Seoul has committed to ending banjihas in coming years. The policy recognizes that flooding and severe weather do not strike everyone equally, striking hardest at those in semi-basements who are low-income or disabled. The plan aims to convert these spaces into usable storage, provide economic support to residents, and improve official protections for housing. The proposed grace period of ten to twenty years highlights the challenge of eradicating a housing option that many citizens can barely afford. Similar promises were made after a deadly flood a decade ago, and thousands of new banjihas have appeared since then.
Yet the core issue is not merely the banjihas themselves but the broader housing market. In Seoul, housing costs run high even when wages are taken into account, and prices approach levels seen in major global cities. The average home price sits near a million euros, having risen substantially in a short period. For young people earning typical salaries, buying a home remains out of reach, and rents often require large deposits. A modest monthly payment for a banjiha might be the only feasible path, pushing many toward illegal real estate dealings as a last resort.
Experts emphasize that social support cannot substitute for better housing policy. Social benefits have grown in recent years but still fall short for the lowest-income households. Eliminating banjihas without offering real alternatives would be unwise, according to urban planners. When interviewed, a practicing architect noted that many students from rural areas historically resided in these homes, highlighting their role in the city’s social fabric. The debate continues over how to balance architectural interventions with the lived realities of residents.
In traditional Korean society, the height of a dwelling often signals its occupant’s status. Banjiha residents, seated a few meters below ground, confront stigma alongside the damp odor that can cling to fabrics and bedding. In recent years, some young YouTubers have sought to reframe the narrative, showcasing modern décor and clever use of limited space. Still, the harsh truth remains: when floods strike, the comforts disappear quickly, and survival relies on the desperation born from necessity rather than choice.