South Korea banned dog meat. So what happens to the dogs?
When he isn't preaching the word of God, Reverend Joo Yeong-bong is raising dogs for slaughter.Business is not going well though. In fact, it's on the brink of becoming illegal. "Since last summer we've been trying to sell our dogs, but the traders just keep hesitating," Mr Joo, 60, tells the BBC. "Not a single one has shown up."In 2024, the South Korean government implemented a nationwide ban on the sale of dog meat for consumption. The landmark legislation, which was passed last January, gives farmers like Mr Joo until February 2027 to shutter their operations and sell off their remaining animals.But many say that isn't enough time to phase out an industry which has propped up livelihoods for generations – and that authorities still haven't come up with adequate safeguards for farmers or the estimated half a million dogs in captivity. Even those who support the ban, including experts and animal rights advocates, have flagged issues around its enforcement – including the difficulty of rehoming dogs that, having been saved from the kill floor, now face the increasingly likely threat of euthanasia.
Midway through the grace period, dog farmers are finding themselves with hundreds of virtually unsellable animals, farms that can't be closed, and little means of putting food on the table."People are suffering," says Mr Joo, who is also president of the Korean Association of Edible Dogs, a group representing the industry. "We're drowning in debt, can't pay it off, and some can't even... find new work. "It's a hopeless situation."
A storm of obstacles
Chan-woo has 18 months to get rid of 600 dogs.After that, the 33-year-old meat farmer – who we agreed to anonymise for fear of backlash – faces a penalty of up to two years in prison."Realistically, even just on my farm, I can't process the number of dogs I have in that time," he says. "At this point I've invested all of my assets [into the farm] - and yet they are not even taking the dogs."By "they", Chan-woo doesn't just mean the traders and butchers who, prior to the ban, would buy an average of half a dozen dogs per week. He's also referring to the animal rights activists and authorities who in his view, having fought so hard to outlaw the dog meat trade, have no clear plan for what to do with the leftover animals – of which there are close to 500,000, according to government estimates."They [the authorities] passed the law without any real plan, and now they're saying they can't even take the dogs."
Lee Sangkyung, a campaign manager at Humane World for Animals Korea (Hwak), echoes these concerns."Although the dog meat ban has passed, both the government and civic groups are still grappling with how to rescue the remaining dogs," he says. "One area that still feels lacking is the discussion around the dogs that have been left behind."A spokesperson from the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs (Mafra) told the BBC that if farm owners gave up their dogs, local governments would assume ownership and manage them in shelters.Rehoming them, however, has proven challenging.Since weight equals profit in the dog meat industry, farms tend to favour larger breeds. But in South Korea's highly urbanised society, where many people live in apartment complexes, aspiring pet owners often want the opposite.There is also a social stigma associated with dogs that come from meat farms, Mr Lee explains, due to concerns of disease and trauma. The issue is further complicated by the fact that many are either pure or mixed tosa-inu, a breed that is classified as "dangerous" in South Korea and requires government approval to keep as a pet.Meanwhile, rescue shelters are already overcrowded.This perfect storm of obstacles points to a perverse irony: that countless so-called rescue dogs, with nowhere else to go, now face the prospect of being euthanised.
"It's just unbelievable," says Chan-woo. "Since the law was made according to the demands of these groups, I assumed they had also worked out a solution for the dogs - like they would take responsibility for them. But now I hear that even the animal rights groups say euthanasia is the only option."Cho Hee-kyung, head of the Korean Animal Welfare Association, conceded in September 2024 that while rights groups would try to rescue as many animals as possible, there would "be dogs left over"."If remaining dogs become 'lost and abandoned animals' then it's heartbreaking but they will be euthanised," she said.The government sought to temper these concerns weeks later, saying that euthanising animals was "certainly" not part of their plan. More recently, Mafra told the BBC it was investing about 6bn Korean won ($4.3m; £3.2m) annually to expand animal shelters and support private facilities, and would offer up to 600,000 Korean won per dog ($450; £324) to farmers who shut their businesses early.
But Chun Myung-Sun, director of the Office of Veterinary Medical Education at Seoul National University, agrees that the government's broader plan for leftover dogs is largely lacking."There needs to be a concrete discussion about how to 'dispose' of the dogs," she says."Both adoption and euthanasia should be on the table. [But] if we've gone to the effort of rescuing dogs from cruel slaughter only to euthanise them, it's understandable that people would feel heartbroken and angry."
A livelihood unravels
Some have looked for solutions further afield, sending the animals overseas to more willing adopters in countries like Canada, United Kingdom and the United States.In 2023, a team from Hwak rescued some 200 dogs from a farm in Asan city – all of which have since been sent to Canada and the US.The former owner of that farm, 74-year-old Yang Jong-tae, told the BBC that as he watched the rescuers loading his dogs into their trucks, he was astonished by the level of compassion they showed."When I saw how they handled the animals - like they were handling people, so gently and lovingly - it really moved me," he said."We don't treat them like that. For us, raising dogs was just a way to make a living. But those people from the animal group treated the dogs like they were individuals with dignity, and that really touched my heart."
Mr Yang hastened to add, however, that he disapproves of the ban on dog meat farming."If dog meat is banned because dogs are animals, then why is it okay to eat other animals like cows, pigs or chicken?" he said. "It's the same thing. These things exist in nature for people to live on."Eating dog is not the same as eating other meats, according to Ms Chun. She points out that dog meat carries more risk from a food safety and hygiene perspective - especially in South Korea, where it has not been integrated into the formal, regulated meat production system.And while consumption rates have fluctuated throughout Korea's history, it has become increasingly taboo in recent years.A government poll from 2024 found only 8% of respondents said they had tried dog meat in the previous 12 months – down from 27% in 2015. About 7% said they would keep eating it up until February 2027, and about 3.3% said they would continue after the ban came into full effect.Meanwhile, as of June 2025, 623 of South Korea's 1,537 dog farms had closed."As society and culture have evolved, South Korean society has now made the decision to stop producing dog meat," Ms Chun says.
And yet for many it remains the cornerstone of an industry on which they've built their lives.Every member of the dog meat trade the BBC spoke to expressed uncertainty about how they would support themselves now that their longtime livelihood has been deemed illegal.Some say they have resigned themselves to lives of poverty, noting that they were born during the Korean War and knew how to live hungry. Others suggested that the trade could go underground.Many agree, however, that for younger farmers the crackdown is particularly worrying."Young people in this industry are really facing a bleak reality," Mr Joo says. "Since they can't sell the dogs, they can't shut down quickly either. They're stuck, with no way forward or back."Chan-woo recalls that when he started working in the industry a decade ago, at 23, "The perception of dog meat wasn't that negative"."Still," he adds, "There were some comments from people around me, so even back then I was aware that it wasn't something I could do for the rest of my life."The ban came quicker than he expected – and since its announcement, he says, "Making a living has become incredibly uncertain"."All we're hoping for now is that the grace period can be extended so that the process [of dealing with the remaining dogs] can happen more gradually."Many others are hoping for the same. But as the dog meat industry is pulled out from under the feet of those who've come to depend upon it, Mr Joo can't help but speculate on a grim thought: that some farmers may not be able to endure the uncertainty for much longer."Right now, people are still holding on, hoping something might change – maybe the grace period will be extended," he says. "But by 2027, I truly believe something terrible will happen."There are so many people whose lives have completely unravelled."
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
The Independent
3 hours ago
- The Independent
POWs, abductees, defectors and separated families are the legacy of the Korean War
Prisoners of war held for decades after the fighting stopped. Civilian abductees. Defectors. Separated families. They are Koreans who symbolize the decades of division and bitter animosities between North and South Korea, which have been split by a heavily fortified border since the the 1950-53 Korean War. Koreans aren't allowed to exchange visits, phone calls or letters with their loved ones on the other side. Wednesday is the 75th anniversary of the war's beginning. The Associated Press spoke with Koreans whose pain and sorrow likely won't be healed anytime soon as diplomacy between the Koreas remains dormant. South Korean prisoner of war isolated after his return home Lee Seon-wu, who was a South Korean soldier, lost three fingers and was captured by Chinese troops during a fierce battle in the eastern Gangwon province in the final days of the war. Like tens of thousands of other South Korean prisoners, Lee was held by North Korea even after a peace treaty ended the fighting. He was forced to resettle as a miner in the country's remote northeast. In North Korea, Lee said he belonged to the lowest social class and married a poor woman. He also lived under constant state surveillance. In 2006, he fled to South Korea via China, only to learn that his parents and two of his three siblings had already died. Lee said he was shunned by his nephew, who likely worried Lee would demand the return of land that was originally bought with compensation money that authorities gave to his family after they wrongly concluded that Lee had died in the war. Now 94, he doesn't stay in touch with any relatives in South Korea and misses family members in North Korea. Lee said his three daughters in North Korea rejected his offer to flee to South Korea because they feared punishment if caught. Lee said he also has a grandson whose parents — Lee's son and daughter-in-law — died in an accident. 'I'm happy because I've returned to my homeland but I shed tears when I think about them in North Korea,' Lee said during an interview at his home in Gimpo, a city near Seoul. A total of 80 South Korean POWs have fled to South Korea since 1994, but only seven of them including Lee are still alive. In 2016, the South Korean government estimated about 500 South Korean POWs were still alive in North Korea. North Korean daughter fights for her late South Korean POW dad Son Myong Hwa, 63, is the North Korea-born daughter of a South Korean POW held in the North. She said her father sang and played the harmonica well but often drank alone at home and wept. Son's father, who also worked as a miner in North Korea, died of lung cancer in 1984. Son said he left a will asking her to move his ashes to his South Korean hometown when the Koreas are unified. Son escaped to South Korea in 2005 and brought her father's remains to South Korea with the help of her brother and sister in North Korea in 2013. Her father's remains were eventually buried at the national cemetery. But Son said her demand for the government to give her father's compensation to her has gone unanswered because South Korean law only grants financial assistance to returning POWs, not their bereaved families. Son has been fighting legal battles to get what she thinks she deserves. She said she can't back down now because she has lost too many things. She said she learned that her brother and sister involved in the smuggling of their father's remains were later arrested by North Korean authorities and sent to a prison camp. The trouble has left Son estranged from her two other sisters who also resettled in South Korea. 'Why am I struggling like this? I harbor ill feeling against the South Korean government because I think they've abandoned POWs left in North Korea,' Son said. 'I think deceased POWs also have honors to be respected so their compensation must be provided posthumously.' South Korean son flies balloons for his father abducted to North In 1967, when Choi Sung-Yong was 15, his father was abducted by North Korean agents, whose armed vessels encircled his fishing boat near the Koreas' disputed western sea boundary. Choi said that South Korean officials and a North Korean defector told him that his father was executed in the early 1970s after North Korean interrogators uncovered his wartime service for a U.S. intelligence military unit. Choi said his family still doesn't hold an annual traditional memorial service for his father because they don't know exactly when he died. He said before his mother died in 2005, she asked him to bring his father's remains and bury them alongside hers in the future. Now, as head of a civic group representing families of people kidnapped by North Korea, Choi flies balloons across the border to drop leaflets demanding that North Korea confirm the fates of his father and others. 'I want to hear directly from North Korea about my father,' Choi said. The South Korean government estimates more than 500 South Korean kidnap victims, mostly fishermen, are still held in North Korea. Choi faces police investigations after the new liberal South Korean government cracked down on civilian leafleting campaigns to ease tensions with North Korea. Choi said Tuesday that senior South Korean officials told him they would strive to resolve the abduction issue as they asked him to halt balloon activities that it views as a major provocation. 'Our government has failed to fulfill their duties to find the fate of my father. So I've sent leaflets. But why do South Korean authorities try to punish me?' Choi said. 'Criminals are in North Korea.' South Korean hoping to meet his North Korean half-siblings When Kang Min-do's family gathered for major traditional holidays, he said his North Korea-born father often wept quietly when he honored the two other children he lost during the chaos of the Korean War. Kang, who was born to a woman his father remarried in South Korea, said his father told him bombings, likely from U.S. warplanes, scattered his family somewhere near Pyongyang in January 1951 as they were fleeing to South Korea. 'My father said he tried to search for them after the bombing ended, but bodies were piled so high and he just couldn't find anyone,' Kang, 67, said. Before he died in 1992, Kang's father hoped that his son would find his half-siblings one day to tell them how much their father missed them. In a video message posted on a South Korean government website, Kang expressed hopes of visiting his father's grave with his half-brother and half-sister when the Koreas are united. 'I need to tell them how much our father struggled after coming to the South and how deeply he missed his older son and daughter," Kang said.
BBC News
5 hours ago
- BBC News
World Economic Forum: Relief at ceasefire but trade wars still weigh on growth
Oil prices have hit their lowest in two weeks after Israel agreed to US President Donald Trump's proposal for a ceasefire with business leaders at a key economic meeting in the northern Chinese port city of Tianjin find themselves troubled by the state of the global economy, and the prospect for meaningful rapid escalation of the conflict between Iran and Israel - which has now pulled in the United States - temporarily replaced trade, tariffs and inflation at the top of a long list of concerns with far-reaching consequences."It is the most complex geopolitical and geo-economic backdrop we've seen in decades," Borge Brende, president and chief executive of the World Economic Forum (WEF), said ahead of the summit, dubbed the "Summer Davos"."If we are not able to revive growth again, we can unfortunately see a decade of lower growth."WEF has long been a symbol of the merits of free trade and a globalised world - but Trump's tariff wars have upended supply chains and the ability of businesses to plan for the future. "We live in an environment of radical uncertainty," says Jeffry Frieden, professor of international and public affairs and political science at Columbia University."Businesses have to figure out what has happened over the past several years as we come to the end of an era, in my view, of international economic and political affairs and move into a new era." Geopolitical risks have significant implications for the global oil prices can push up the operational costs of energy for goods producers - and at some point, those additional costs may be passed onto the may in turn hold back on spending, as increased prices dampen demand. If inflation remains high, central banks will be reluctant to bring down interest tensions can also lead to losses as the result of other factors, such as the rerouting of flights and disruption to tourism can get rattled by uncertainty, leading to sell-offs on the market and a rush for safe haven assets like gold and the US dollar. Iran's threat to close the Strait of Hormuz – one of the world's most critical transit routes, through which roughly a quarter of the world's global oil supply passes – would leave China especially vulnerable. It is estimated that Beijing imports 90% of the oil Iran Torrens, head of China at advisory and advocacy firm APCO, points out that some of the country's bigger machinery sectors, including the new high technology industries that Beijing is trying to support, still rely on oil."So anything that disrupts that oil supply is going to be a worry to Beijing," he says. The WEF event comes at a critical moment for China's economy, which has for years struggled from a protracted property crisis, high unemployment and sluggish domestic has unveiled a string of measures to try to stimulate the now, China is still achieving its official growth target of around 5%, and economists say the country could account for almost 30% of global growth this Torrens says Chinese officials detect an opportunity, and suggests that in a sense the country is opening its doors through the WEF event."I think the US is giving China a massive PR opportunity to portray itself as a champion of globalisation," he says. "To say that China is a bastion of free trade is still a work in progress, because there are still market access issues. But China is certainly keen to play its part and step up as a regional and a global player."With Trump's trade war now threatening exports from the manufacturing powerhouse, Beijing is looking to emerging technologies like Artificial Intelligence (AI) as potential sources of growth."Trade has been an important engine of growth for the last decade or two, but it's clear that certain technologies have a huge potential to help us with new sources of growth and competitiveness," said Mirek Dusek, managing director at firm PwC says AI could boost global growth by 15% by the WEF event, though, tariffs are never far from the minds of business leaders, as they try to make alliances and navigate an uncertain economic the coming weeks, Trump's pauses on his hefty reciprocal levies are due to expire. And there's little certainty as to how the global business landscape might look after that."It's very difficult for businesses to make long term plans," Mr Frieden explains. "If you don't know what the level of goods on your tariffs are, you can 't figure out if it makes sense to relocate in the US or keep your activities overseas – whether you're an American corporation, or a non-American corporation."
BBC News
7 hours ago
- BBC News
South Korea banned dog meat. So what happens to the dogs?
When he isn't preaching the word of God, Reverend Joo Yeong-bong is raising dogs for is not going well though. In fact, it's on the brink of becoming illegal. "Since last summer we've been trying to sell our dogs, but the traders just keep hesitating," Mr Joo, 60, tells the BBC. "Not a single one has shown up."In 2024, the South Korean government implemented a nationwide ban on the sale of dog meat for consumption. The landmark legislation, which was passed last January, gives farmers like Mr Joo until February 2027 to shutter their operations and sell off their remaining many say that isn't enough time to phase out an industry which has propped up livelihoods for generations – and that authorities still haven't come up with adequate safeguards for farmers or the estimated half a million dogs in captivity. Even those who support the ban, including experts and animal rights advocates, have flagged issues around its enforcement – including the difficulty of rehoming dogs that, having been saved from the kill floor, now face the increasingly likely threat of euthanasia. Midway through the grace period, dog farmers are finding themselves with hundreds of virtually unsellable animals, farms that can't be closed, and little means of putting food on the table."People are suffering," says Mr Joo, who is also president of the Korean Association of Edible Dogs, a group representing the industry. "We're drowning in debt, can't pay it off, and some can't even... find new work. "It's a hopeless situation." A storm of obstacles Chan-woo has 18 months to get rid of 600 that, the 33-year-old meat farmer – who we agreed to anonymise for fear of backlash – faces a penalty of up to two years in prison."Realistically, even just on my farm, I can't process the number of dogs I have in that time," he says. "At this point I've invested all of my assets [into the farm] - and yet they are not even taking the dogs."By "they", Chan-woo doesn't just mean the traders and butchers who, prior to the ban, would buy an average of half a dozen dogs per week. He's also referring to the animal rights activists and authorities who in his view, having fought so hard to outlaw the dog meat trade, have no clear plan for what to do with the leftover animals – of which there are close to 500,000, according to government estimates."They [the authorities] passed the law without any real plan, and now they're saying they can't even take the dogs." Lee Sangkyung, a campaign manager at Humane World for Animals Korea (Hwak), echoes these concerns."Although the dog meat ban has passed, both the government and civic groups are still grappling with how to rescue the remaining dogs," he says. "One area that still feels lacking is the discussion around the dogs that have been left behind."A spokesperson from the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs (Mafra) told the BBC that if farm owners gave up their dogs, local governments would assume ownership and manage them in them, however, has proven weight equals profit in the dog meat industry, farms tend to favour larger breeds. But in South Korea's highly urbanised society, where many people live in apartment complexes, aspiring pet owners often want the is also a social stigma associated with dogs that come from meat farms, Mr Lee explains, due to concerns of disease and trauma. The issue is further complicated by the fact that many are either pure or mixed tosa-inu, a breed that is classified as "dangerous" in South Korea and requires government approval to keep as a rescue shelters are already perfect storm of obstacles points to a perverse irony: that countless so-called rescue dogs, with nowhere else to go, now face the prospect of being euthanised. "It's just unbelievable," says Chan-woo. "Since the law was made according to the demands of these groups, I assumed they had also worked out a solution for the dogs - like they would take responsibility for them. But now I hear that even the animal rights groups say euthanasia is the only option."Cho Hee-kyung, head of the Korean Animal Welfare Association, conceded in September 2024 that while rights groups would try to rescue as many animals as possible, there would "be dogs left over"."If remaining dogs become 'lost and abandoned animals' then it's heartbreaking but they will be euthanised," she government sought to temper these concerns weeks later, saying that euthanising animals was "certainly" not part of their plan. More recently, Mafra told the BBC it was investing about 6bn Korean won ($4.3m; £3.2m) annually to expand animal shelters and support private facilities, and would offer up to 600,000 Korean won per dog ($450; £324) to farmers who shut their businesses early. But Chun Myung-Sun, director of the Office of Veterinary Medical Education at Seoul National University, agrees that the government's broader plan for leftover dogs is largely lacking."There needs to be a concrete discussion about how to 'dispose' of the dogs," she says."Both adoption and euthanasia should be on the table. [But] if we've gone to the effort of rescuing dogs from cruel slaughter only to euthanise them, it's understandable that people would feel heartbroken and angry." A livelihood unravels Some have looked for solutions further afield, sending the animals overseas to more willing adopters in countries like Canada, United Kingdom and the United 2023, a team from Hwak rescued some 200 dogs from a farm in Asan city – all of which have since been sent to Canada and the former owner of that farm, 74-year-old Yang Jong-tae, told the BBC that as he watched the rescuers loading his dogs into their trucks, he was astonished by the level of compassion they showed."When I saw how they handled the animals - like they were handling people, so gently and lovingly - it really moved me," he said."We don't treat them like that. For us, raising dogs was just a way to make a living. But those people from the animal group treated the dogs like they were individuals with dignity, and that really touched my heart." Mr Yang hastened to add, however, that he disapproves of the ban on dog meat farming."If dog meat is banned because dogs are animals, then why is it okay to eat other animals like cows, pigs or chicken?" he said. "It's the same thing. These things exist in nature for people to live on."Eating dog is not the same as eating other meats, according to Ms Chun. She points out that dog meat carries more risk from a food safety and hygiene perspective - especially in South Korea, where it has not been integrated into the formal, regulated meat production while consumption rates have fluctuated throughout Korea's history, it has become increasingly taboo in recent years.A government poll from 2024 found only 8% of respondents said they had tried dog meat in the previous 12 months – down from 27% in 2015. About 7% said they would keep eating it up until February 2027, and about 3.3% said they would continue after the ban came into full as of June 2025, 623 of South Korea's 1,537 dog farms had closed."As society and culture have evolved, South Korean society has now made the decision to stop producing dog meat," Ms Chun says. And yet for many it remains the cornerstone of an industry on which they've built their member of the dog meat trade the BBC spoke to expressed uncertainty about how they would support themselves now that their longtime livelihood has been deemed say they have resigned themselves to lives of poverty, noting that they were born during the Korean War and knew how to live hungry. Others suggested that the trade could go agree, however, that for younger farmers the crackdown is particularly worrying."Young people in this industry are really facing a bleak reality," Mr Joo says. "Since they can't sell the dogs, they can't shut down quickly either. They're stuck, with no way forward or back."Chan-woo recalls that when he started working in the industry a decade ago, at 23, "The perception of dog meat wasn't that negative"."Still," he adds, "There were some comments from people around me, so even back then I was aware that it wasn't something I could do for the rest of my life."The ban came quicker than he expected – and since its announcement, he says, "Making a living has become incredibly uncertain"."All we're hoping for now is that the grace period can be extended so that the process [of dealing with the remaining dogs] can happen more gradually."Many others are hoping for the same. But as the dog meat industry is pulled out from under the feet of those who've come to depend upon it, Mr Joo can't help but speculate on a grim thought: that some farmers may not be able to endure the uncertainty for much longer."Right now, people are still holding on, hoping something might change – maybe the grace period will be extended," he says. "But by 2027, I truly believe something terrible will happen."There are so many people whose lives have completely unravelled."
