This personal reflection is part of a series called The Big Ideas, in which writers respond to a single question: What is history? You can read more by visiting The Big Ideas series page.
Modernity is born from the struggle between remembering and forgetting, and South Koreans on all sides of the political spectrum have learned from our shared history.
That history includes the Gwangju uprising, a 10-day mass protest that occurred shortly after the 1979 assassination of President Park Chung-hee, who ruled South Korea for 18 years as a military dictator.
Taking advantage of the power vacuum, Chun Doo-hwan, an army general, staged a coup and quickly began laying the groundwork for a new dictatorship. In May 1980, he declared martial law, and the citizens of Gwangju rose up in opposition to this continuation of military rule.
The military responded with lethal force, indiscriminately killing citizens regardless of their involvement in the protest. Despite this, Gwangju became a watershed moment in the fight for Korean democracy.
“We know that we cannot defeat such a powerful army. But to end the resistance now would render meaningless all the blood shed by our fellow citizens. We must defend the provincial office to our deaths. That’s the only way for us to be remembered by future generations and for the resistance to be complete.”
This was the civilian militia’s answer to a government official when asked if pro-democracy protesters were ready to surrender during the Gwangju uprising.
Over the next 44 years, Korea worked to overcome the vestiges of dictatorship and transform into a modern, democratic nation. But on Dec. 3, 2024, the country was rocked by President Yoon Suk Yeol’s declaration of martial law. Koreans immediately felt the shock of historical regression and the reopening of forgotten wounds.
Mr. Yoon’s martial law order came in the dead of night, when most citizens were assumed to be asleep and oblivious. An opposition party leader relayed the news live on social media via his cellphone while hurrying to the main building of the National Assembly, where legislators were gathering in force. Thousands of civilians heard the legislators’ pleas to take action and rushed to join them. Meanwhile, police and special forces surrounded the building and smashed windows to force their way in. Braving arrest, National Assembly members scrambled over fences to get inside for a quorum, and protesters blocked armored vehicles with only their bodies to fend off soldiers’ rifles.
After the resolution to lift martial law passed, Mr. Yoon was eventually left with no choice but to admit failure and declare martial law over. Although he and his supporters wielded — and continue to wield — considerable power, they discovered too late that the majority of Koreans, whether civilians or not, understand democracy and are paying attention.
Mr. Yoon “justified” martial law as a way of eliminating North Korean threats and eradicating pro-North “anti-state forces” — by which he meant opposition party members who were elected in the recent general election. Instead of admitting that people were fed up with his party because of its incompetence and corruption, he trotted out anti-Communist rhetoric and threatened to use military force against citizens, much like the dictators of South Korea’s past.
Indeed, Mr. Yoon’s attempt at martial law was so strikingly similar to the start of the Gwangju uprising that it almost feels like a facsimile of the past. But how could something so reminiscent of Gwangju occur decades later? And why is Korean democracy always so precarious?
The Korean term for “democratization” is typically accompanied by the phrase “civilian government,” a country led by civilians — not soldiers. We believe that the military belongs under the control of a democratic government elected by the people. Mr. Yoon’s administration, however, sought to re-unleash the beast in his dictatorial pursuit.
Mr. Yoon has since been impeached, but democratic and anti-democratic forces remain locked in a tug of war. It will be up to new leadership to extinguish the embers of insurrection.
Nonetheless, Gwangju’s pro-democracy uprising has left a powerful imprint on Korea’s collective memory. In its ruling to impeach Mr. Yoon, the Constitutional Court of Korea wrote that the National Assembly’s ability to quickly overturn martial law was “thanks to citizens’ active resistance and the military and police’s passive approach to following orders.” Strikingly, the court made a point of acknowledging both the bravery of civilian protesters and the hesitation and foot-dragging of soldiers present. The police blockade of the National Assembly appeared halfhearted, and though the lower-ranking officers and soldiers were armed, they refrained from using force against the protesters.
Just as they did in 1980, Koreans today are protesting attacks on their freedom. But this time, history is on our side, and we do not have the option to forget. Unlike the media blackout of Gwangju, Mr. Yoon’s imposition of martial law was no secret; rather, it was broadcast live nationwide and overseas via YouTubers and countless individual social media accounts. Most importantly, Koreans, including the military and police, have learned from our dark past and know firsthand how it feels to live in a free, democratic society. As a result, it is difficult to view Mr. Yoon’s actions as anything other than anachronistic to our current era.
During both the lifting of martial law and Mr. Yoon’s impeachment, crowds across the country freely occupied public squares by the tens of thousands, chanting for democracy and the impeachment of the president. Men and women of all ages filled the streets, but the most passionate were the younger generation of women in their 20s and 30s. They sang, danced and waved light sticks normally used for cheering at K-pop concerts. These peaceful gatherings, marked by joy and optimism, stand in stark contrast to Gwangju.
While the specter of gloomy, hopeless fascism threatened to smother the world, the young raised their lights to repel the darkness. They stood shoulder to shoulder in public squares with their glowing cheer sticks held high as they sang “Into the New World” by Girls’ Generation:
Stop waiting for miracles
A rough road stands before us
An unknowable future, a wall
Don’t change
Don’t give up
We’re in this together forever
A world where we will meet again
Perhaps the political and cultural strength needed to keep our society from returning to the dark tunnel of our past has finally taken root.
This gives me hope.
Hwang Sok-Yong is a South Korean author. His works include the International Booker finalist “Mater 2-10,” “The Prisoner” and “At Dusk.” He is also a co-author of “Gwangju Uprising: The Rebellion for Democracy in South Korea.”
This essay was translated from Korean by Sora Kim-Russell, who also co-translated “Mater 2-10” and translated “At Dusk.”
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