BUSAN, South Korea — On December 14, I was sitting by the curb of a six-lane expressway in the busy Seomyeon district, looking out at a vast expanse of protesters, when the sit-in’s emcee made a surprising announcement: The national legislature had passed its motion to impeach the conservative President Yoon Suk Yeol.
Twelve days earlier, he had abruptly placed South Korea under an emergency martial law decree to defend against alleged “anti-state forces,” suggesting in an accompanying speech that the opposing political party had been infiltrated by North Korean spies. To secure the power grab, the president sent troops to bar legislators from entering the National Assembly building in Seoul. But thanks to quick-acting activists—who materialized in front of the legislative compound to confront soldiers, block tanks and buses, and hoist legislators over the gates—parliament overturned the decree in a matter of hours. Since then, however, efforts to hold Yoon accountable had been dragging on.
Despite broad public support for Yoon’s impeachment and his cratering approval ratings, nearly all the legislators from his party boycotted the first impeachment vote on December 7, causing it to fail due to a lack of quorum. I attended the protests in Seoul that day and watched as the crowd’s demands morphed from the forceful “Impeach Yoon Suk Yeol!” to a much simpler plea: “Vote!” It had seemed possible that it would take weeks more for the legislature to pass the motion, as it had in 2016 during the Candlelight Revolution that led to former President Park Geun-hye’s ouster. I’d wondered if protesters would again spend Christmas and New Year’s in the streets.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movement have its demands met so quickly, or seen a sit-in transform into a celebration. As protesters cheered and scrambled to their feet, waving their protest signs wildly, I locked eyes with a woman in a long green coat, 39-year-old Kang Mi-suk, who was jumping from side to side in time with the chants. I asked her for an interview, expecting an optimistic sound bite. That’s not at all what I got.
“For a week, I’ve been struggling, unable to sleep and waiting for this moment,” she told me in a sober voice, her sentences trailing off uncertainly. “But unfortunately, there were so many votes that didn’t approve of the impeachment.”
Dancing one moment and chagrined the next, Kang’s duality was far from the gloating, exultant image I’d had in mind of a protester who’s had her demands met. I have a tendency—shared by many news writers—to narrativize protests as dramatic confrontations of good versus evil that either end in cathartic triumph or dismal failure. Emotionally, I expect the highest highs or the lowest lows. Moralistically, I expect to discover a new hope in humanity or to be alarmed by its worst impulses. I see protests, and especially a mobilization on this scale, as fundamentally disruptive, zero-sum moments of reckoning. Many articles about Yoon’s martial law decree did indeed follow this emotional arc, presenting the story as clear-cut proof of South Korea’s democratic strength.
But what I’ve seen on the ground has been far more ambiguous. Protesters take pride and strength from the solidarity they’ve found in the streets, but also share many concerns and frustrations—with Yoon’s People Power Party, the president and those who voted for him. Even after the impeachment motion passed the legislature, South Koreans have emphasized not relief or pride, but annoyance and embarrassment over Yoon’s behavior and the ensuing political crisis.
Some of that is cautious pessimism, coming from an awareness that the National Assembly’s vote was just one step in a longer process. The next step, a trial at the Constitutional Court, has already faced significant hurdles, with Yoon first ignoring court summons and then resisting arrest, and a legislative fracas over filling the court’s three vacant seats.
But in more meaningful ways, the grim resignation of anti-Yoon protesters is a reaction to fundamental issues in the political system. More than anything, they seemed frustrated that they needed to take such a stand in the first place—that, to paraphrase a protester in Busan, their hard-won democracy could be so vulnerable to the actions of one man.
The past few weeks have revealed the weaknesses of South Korean democracy while also explaining its resilience. This is not a black-and-white, pass-fail situation. The fascinating contrast between my ideas of protest—shaped by a lifetime in the United States—and how South Koreans approach it has ultimately taught me a lot about the unique relationship that exists here between citizens and the state.
To begin with, South Koreans have a surprisingly casual attitude toward protest.
After attending demonstrations in the United States and watching global movements unfold from abroad, I’ve come to see protests and militant crackdowns by police as coming hand-in-hand. When I was buzzing around my friend’s apartment in Seoul, getting ready for the first weekend of protests after Yoon’s failed decree, I was by default preparing for a worst-case scenario: sending out emergency contact information; packing my passport and resident card; changing into athletic clothes and sneakers in case I needed to run.
At one point, I reminded my friends to consider safety first while preparing for the day. I didn’t think I was overreacting. After all, the military had been mobilized to the same location just days before; videos had gone viral of police pointing guns at civilians and breaking the legislative building’s glass windows. But my comments won me a weird look from my friends. They politely ignored me and calmly packed their own go-to tools: foldable foam mats for seating, a professionally printed flag and flagpole, and an iPad that was apparently in no danger of being smashed.
“[Going to a protest] is not scary or frightening. It’s just something you have to do,” Jeong-hyeon, a 35-year-old artist, told me before we set out. “Everyone is going, so I don’t think it’s anything special.”
South Korea has a uniquely vibrant protest culture, especially Seoul, which every week hosts mass mobilizations from across the political spectrum. This fall, for instance, saw a huge climate change rally, a Christian anti-LGBT demonstration and two front-page feminist mobilizations against sexually abusive deep-fake videos and plans to admit men into a women’s college. Sidewalks outside Seoul City Hall and the National Assembly feature permanent installations about the alleged dangers of COVID-19 vaccines, and it’s commonplace to pass speakers preaching from roadside stages about one issue or another. As The New York Times put it, rallies are basically a “national pastime.”
When I got to the National Assembly building that day in Seoul’s business district, Yeouido, I found a whole new appreciation for the impact of that pastime: South Korean protesters really know what they’re doing. The level of professionalism I witnessed was closer to my image of a presidential inauguration than a days-old grassroots uprising.
Modeled after the 2016 protests that toppled Park Geun-hye, the rallies in Busan and Seoul were technically candlelight vigils. Legions of protesters covered entire city blocks, sitting in neat lines in the middle of the street. Instead of the candles used in the past, this wave of protesters brought along colorful K-pop light sticks, toy lightsabers, battery-run candles and even animal-shaped table lamps. After the first round of protests, entrepreneurial vendors started selling star-shaped light sticks specially designed for Yoon’s impeachment.
All the protests were oriented toward main stages where organizers had booked a nonstop lineup of speeches and musical acts, with K-pop sing-alongs and even stretching breaks to keep energy levels high. Massive screens broadcast live footage, with speakers positioned at regular intervals down the street so everyone could follow along.
On the sidewalks, smiling neon-vested protest staff—not police—directed the crowds. In Seoul, I was shocked to find I could walk from the back of the protest all the way to the gates of the National Assembly, half a mile away, with no trouble. Attendees with flags to display stood by the curbs, so the entire protest was flanked by the logos of civil society groups, as well as banners bearing memes and jokes. Individual protesters supported each other, too, by handing out food and hand warmers or sponsoring free drinks at coffee shops near the sit-ins. There was a warm, community atmosphere and a sense of calm very much at odds with the angry or fearful scenes that usually accompany protest reporting.
Most of the time, mass protests are an absolute last resort for people who can find no other way of being heard by their governments. It’s the smoke signal of a systemic breakdown, a sign that large groups of people have concerns that either can’t be shared through official channels or are being ignored. It’s a sign of an essential disconnect between the government and its people—one that is not easily mended.
But in South Korea, mass protest has become a routine part of political life, like jury duty in the United States. What’s more, unlike last-ditch mobilizations elsewhere in the world, South Korean protesters have a sense that their governments will ultimately be responsive to their efforts.
“There are definitely some legislators starting to crack under the pressure,” a 58-year-old protester named Seo Young-hwan told me during Seoul’s December 7 protests. “I know that for sure. How? Because we have experienced this before. It’s a battle of who gets tired first, and we will never leave.” The first impeachment vote had just failed, and many around us were packing up to head home or meander closer to the National Assembly’s main gates.
“There’s no other method,” he added. “We, as South Korean citizens, with earnest hearts, coming out to this cold place… there’s nothing else.”
So many protesters share such casual confidence that it’s only a matter of time before the government heeds their demands—that the result they want is guaranteed as long as they keep showing up.
In large part, that is a product of history. Multiple generations of South Koreans have experienced firsthand how grassroots protest can transform their government. When asked why they decided to join the protests, many referenced the 1987 Gwangju Uprising, a student protest against then-President Chun Doo-hwan that has become a symbol of the people’s struggle for freedom not only in South Korea but around the world. Crucially, Gwangju also reminds South Koreans of the dangers that come from letting power run amok: The Gwangju protesters were brutally slaughtered by the military.
People power is thus a central part of the national historical narrative, so much so that Seoul even has several prominent monuments to protesters who used violent tactics. More recent social movements, too, have shown protesters that authorities are likely to be responsive to demonstrations. For instance, a massive feminist movement against spycams in 2018 actually resulted in new legal protections for women, and reports of spycam abuse have since dropped dramatically. Experiences like that, and of course the Park Geun-hye protests, have emboldened a new generation of protesters.
That politicians are responsive to protests is a good thing but the fact that consistent protests are required at all is indicative of systemic problems. As Drananda Rohimone and Grant Wyeth explain in a 2019 article for The Diplomat, South Korea’s protest culture is “a form of quasi-empowerment, giving people a sense of power yet without sophisticated participation in the activities of the state.” In other countries, interest groups have more official channels to engage in policymaking. Not so in South Korea.
Rohimone and Wyeth caution readers not to write off frequent public protest as “a sign of political dysfunction” since it does signal a high level of public engagement in politics. However, the past few weeks have shed light on aspects of political life that do seem problematic. For one thing, as Rohimone and Wyeth explain, the institutional weaknesses behind the protest culture also make for unstable political parties fraught with rivalries and light on policy content. The parties are highly polarized and National Assembly members struggle to build consensus on basically any issue—a problem that directly inspired Yoon’s power grab.
Polarization has also fostered a chaotic political environment that camouflaged Yoon’s actions. For many, the December 3 martial law decree seemingly came out of nowhere. In the weeks before the announcement, several news stories suggested criticism of Yoon was growing. Thousands of Christian priests and university professors signed critical petitions while trade unions and political parties staged massive protests in Seoul. But whenever I asked people about those developments, they brushed off my concerns. Protests against Yoon had been roiling for more than a year, and anyway, South Korean politics are always plagued with scandal, criminal accusations and hyperbolic rhetoric. Yoon’s troubles blended in. It was hard to anticipate he’d go to such extremes.
The country’s fractured information environment also made it difficult to interpret Yoon’s actions in the aftermath of the decree. Unlike English language media, in which news outlets run the gamut from far-left to far-right with a significant number falling around the center, South Korea’s moderate range is unusually sparse. That is in large part because successive government administrations have meddled with staffing and coverage at major broadcasters, deteriorating the public’s trust in mass media. The Yoon administration’s particular meddling—among other ills—has led the country to plummet in watchdog rankings like the World Press Freedom Index and Varieties for Democracy.
As a result, the hours and days after Yoon issued the martial law declaration were a black hole of alarmed confusion. An endless stream of breaking news alerts exposed the extent of Yoon’s plans but traditional news outlets still lacked a satisfying explanation for his motives. People quickly turned to niche news outlets and social media sites for often-suspect analysis. Fringe speculations and conspiracy theories proliferated. Indeed, it now appears Yoon himself was influenced by far-right conspiracies.
It seems impossible that any kind of consensus would emerge from such a messy, fractious information environment. But once again, South Korean democracy seems to have overcome the challenge through the strength of citizens’ “democratic consciousness,” as Seo, the protester in Seoul, called it.
It has been incredible to see how a country as politically polarized as South Korea has come together to hold Yoon accountable. According to Gallup Korea, within days of the martial law decree, 80 percent of the population disapproved of Yoon’s presidential performance, a number that’s been rising steadily since summer. By the following week, the Democratic Party, which has led impeachment efforts, achieved its highest support rating in years (40 percent), while the People Power Party reached a new low (24 percent). Just a month earlier, the two parties were neck-and-neck.
On the ground, too, people from all walks of life, no matter their party, age or gender, joined the protests. That was especially visible in Busan. Gyeongsang, the southeast province where the city is located, has historically been a conservative stronghold, and when Yoon was elected in 2022, he captured two-thirds of the city’s vote. Likewise, in April’s legislative election, while the Democratic Party swept the vote nationally, Busan chose conservative People Power Party members for 17 of 18 seats. On the day of the second impeachment vote, however, so many people turned out that it was impossible to discern where the protest ended.
“Honestly, I’ve gone to a lot of protests in Busan but I haven’t seen so many people gathered here. They must be really, strongly outraged,” Kim Hong-ju told me, calling Yoon a “미친 놈 (michin nom)” or “crazy punk.” The 23-year-old university student was handing out picket signs on the sit-in’s sidelines on December 6. “We’ve handed out a ton of signs,” he said. “We actually had to print more before we ran out of stock.”
During the first days of protesting in Busan, most were waving posters calling for Yoon’s resignation, impeachment or arrest. By December 12, after the first vote failed, new ones joined in to demand that the People Power Party be disbanded.
Still, many protesters insisted to me that Yoon’s impeachment should not come down to party affiliation. That is consistent with survey results, which show that respondents in Busan, Ulsan and Gyeongnam—neighboring jurisdictions that are grouped together in Gallup’s surveys—have soured on Yoon but maintained the same level of support for the People Power Party.
“Obviously, anyone who is a citizen has to support impeachment,” said Ha San-keum, a 66-year-old Busan native I spoke to on December 12. Bundled up near the front of the sit-in, she expressed herself with a cutting certainty, frustration obvious in her voice. “Declaring martial law is an act of civil war, and this president who would use it so recklessly is clearly less than human… He should step down as a matter of principle.”
Despite protesters’ initial clarity and collective strength, the road to his ouster looks rocky. The country is now on its second acting president, Finance Minister Choi Sang-mok, who stepped in after the National Assembly impeached Yoon’s first replacement, Prime Minister Han Duck-soo, in late December. At the same time, the People Power Party has been working hard to win back voters, in particular by invoking conservative hatred of Democratic Party Chairman Lee Jae-myung, who would likely run for president if Yoon were impeached. In Busan, the party’s paid for new banners on major roads that read, “Even so! Not Lee Jae-myung!”
Through it all, Yoon’s critics have dutifully attended protests, including on Christmas and New Year’s. Thousands of Yoon’s supporters, too, have turned out for their own massive demonstrations in Seoul. In other countries, protests usually die down as winter sets in—but South Koreans are used to this.
Still, one positive outcome is already set in stone. I saw it most clearly while talking to Sung Minjoo, a 19-year-old student at Sogang University, over free coffee on the sidelines of Seoul’s protests. She said she had never attended a protest before that week partly because living abroad had given her the idea that they were a scary experience.
“Once I came out here with everyone, I could see that rallies aren’t something to be afraid of, that it’s a place where I can speak up, be myself, and most importantly, share my point of view,” she said quickly in a clear voice. As angry as she was at the People Power Party, which she insisted should disband, she was also heartened to know she wasn’t alone in that feeling.
“As always, whenever it’s needed, we will come out again into the streets and raise our voices to call for an impeachment,” Sung added. “I feel a sense of relief, pride and joy, knowing that.”
No matter what happens next, this crisis has enabled another wave of young South Koreans to experience people power. They’ll be there to keep the country on track.
Top photo: Anti-Yoon protesters in front of the National Assembly gates on December 7
