By Esther Kim
On the evening of Dec. 3, President Yoon Suk Yeol declared emergency martial law to the nation's shock. “Are we reliving the '80s again?” asked some. “How could this possibly happen in 2024? It’s an embarrassment to the world.”
South Korea last fell under martial law 45 years ago. Under Chun Doo-hwan, remembered as “The Butcher,” universities closed, political activities were banned, members of the opposition were arrested and freedom of the press was severely curtailed. The military would control daily life for eight years.
Gwangju, a working-class city in the southwest, protested. My mother’s birthplace. Tens of thousands demonstrated against martial law, which led to a bloody confrontation remembered now as the democratic uprising. On May 15, 1980, police and paratroopers allegedly massacred thousands, officially in the hundreds, and were met with civilian militias.
Yoon's naked power grab on Dec. 3 triggered terrifying memories of this period. For one, his claims to root out “anti-state” and “pro-North Korean forces” echoed the same rhetoric Chun used. For another, Yoon decreed that all political activity and any assembly, such as protests and strikes were prohibited. It is no wonder, that on that Tuesday night a coalition of nine Gwangju-based organizations reminded Seoul that the democratic republic of Korea was "built and protected through bloodshed."
That story is mourned in “Human Acts” by Nobel laureate Han Kang, a Gwangju native. Told by many victims and witnesses of the time, the novel flits between minds: a ghost, a boy, watches his body putrefy in a stack; his friend’s older sister, searches for her younger brother among the bodies lined up in front of a government office; an editor struggles to forget seven slaps to her face for the location of a translator run afoul of censors. “Skulls crushed and cratered” goes the English translation. Quiet and graphic, with stomach-turning studies of the body and grief, the novel gave me nightmares for a week.
Hundreds of works of art depict the Gwangju massacre, but they largely spoke to a domestic audience. Choe Yun’s grim novel "There a Petal Silently Falls" was adapted into the 1996 South Korean film “A Petal,” directed by Jang Sun-woo. In 2017, the cheery “A Taxi Driver” did well in South Korea but less so abroad.
“Human Acts” makes Gwangju more internationally well-known. Acts of protest against authoritarian gambits do, too. In China, it is this Han Kang novel that is banned due to the obvious parallels with the Tiananmen massacre.
The Internet, thankfully, was not cut last Tuesday evening. This made all the difference. In 1980, by contrast, there was a total media blackout. Amid the news blackout and blocked roads, the country was unaware of what was happening in Gwangju. Unlike former chief prosecutor Yoon, Chun came from an extensive military background versed in psychological warfare. With the full backing of the military, Chun’s elite paratroopers executed his orders. In Gwangju, soldiers beat and bayoneted demonstrators in broad daylight. They killed with frightening bloodlust. For nearly two decades, the truth was buried under government propaganda and heavy censorship until the late nineties.
To this day, ultraconservatives continue to claim nonsensically that North Korean communists committed the atrocities. But last Tuesday night, the Internet, smartphones and social media streamed Seoul’s reality around the world. This, in part, thwarted Yoon.
Because Koreans live with the scars of martial law, legislators ran to the National Assembly, a few climbing over locked gates, and worked through midnight to repeal the president’s act quickly. At 1:01 a.m., 190 legislators unanimously voted to block Yoon’s coup. South Korean civic groups, legislative aides and hundreds of civilians rushed to gather at Seoul’s National Assembly. With fire extinguishers, furniture and their bare hands, they blocked armored military vehicles and prevented soldiers from entering the main hall. Nearly 300 troops stormed the National Assembly, yet videos of soldiers bowing to civilians in apology during the 4 a.m. retreat reinforce that this was a half-hearted coup.
At the time of writing, why Yoon declared martial law last Tuesday remains unclear. He faced already low approval ratings. Even before his failed decree, an expanding coalition of the opposition party, farmers, union workers and Catholic priests cried out for impeachment. Now, he’s succeeded in infuriating and unifying tens of millions against him.
How embarrassing, South Koreans keep saying. As an American-born Korean, I find it interesting they repeat this sentiment: "창피하다." In a now viral video, TV anchor turned legislator Ahn Gwi-ryeong shouts this at a martial law soldier, “Let go! Aren’t you ashamed? You should be,” while attempting to wrestle away his rifle with her bare hands. It’s what an outraged mother says to berate a child, if that child were a fully grown man pointing a rifle at her.
Yoon must be held responsible. I see the people's swift and synchronized response to fight for democracy — despite military helicopters flying overhead — as admirable, even awe-inspiring. “Thanks for the playbook South Korea,” quipped an American in the progressive Facebook group Pantsuit Nation. The inevitable outpouring of American analysis ensued. What lessons can we learn from the South Koreans when our twice-impeached, convicted felon reenters office on Jan. 20th? How does this bode for South Korea-U.S. relations?
While the ceasefire, the division and the war are the sorrows of the Koreas, I know it taught Koreans their instincts for swift mobilization, too. Many had been in the Army, so they knew what they were doing. I’m amazed that citizens, legislators, legal aides and journalists showed up en masse to overturn Yoon’s decree when most would head to bed.
Martial law is not an option. Seoul lives with Gwangju’s ghosts. We insist even on bitterly cold December nights that a peaceful change is going to come: Yoon must go.
Esther Kim is a writer from New York living in Taiwan. She is working on her first book.
English (United States) ·