To Save A Country: South Korea and the 2024 Martial Law Crisis
This is the fifth and final part in a collaborative series between CHL and student Oskah Dunnin, who undertook a Masters of Asian and Pacific Studies. You can read more about him here. This month, we present interviews conducted by Oskah in South Korea during the 2024 martial law crisis. All images in this feature are Oskah Dunnin's photography.
For six hours, South Korea stood on the brink of collapse.
When President Yoon Suk Yeol declared emergency martial law, he told his citizenry that the government must “defend the free Republic of Korea from the threat of North Korean communist forces.”
On that late December night nearly one year ago, President Yoon ordered the military to shut down the National Assembly. National and local law enforcement agencies were instructed to arrest political rivals and lawmakers. The free press was subsumed by Martial Law Command, and protests were banned.
Over 1,500 soldiers had mobilised to the National Assembly building, equipped with tactical vehicles, American-made Black Hawk helicopters and at least 9,000 bullets to fire.
While soldiers blockaded the National Assembly, protesters gathered outside in their thousands, and journalists grabbed at army rifles. By the time lawmakers climbed the perimeter wall and snuck into their offices, protesters had flooded the building armed only with office chairs and fire extinguishers.
In six hours, lawmakers had overturned President Yoon’s martial law declaration. Democracy survived, just.
To this day, the sequence of decisions remains contested but what unfolded in those hours left little room for ambiguity about the direction of power.
Interview One
“What are we meant to do?”
I arrived in Seoul one week later. The streets were hit hard by winter. Just a few days prior, South Korea had its most substantial November snowfall in 52 years. Six people froze to death. Unsurprisingly, my Seoul hostel was quiet. Most guests had cancelled their bookings.
There were signs of discontent. In Dongjak Station, across the road from the Seoul National Cemetery where Korean War veterans are buried in the tens of thousands, volunteers took signatures at a small fold-up table calling for government reform. And, in Myeongdong, pockets of protesters called for President Yoon’s impeachment as they marched towards Gwanghwamun Gate.
Often referred to as the centre of Korean democracy, Gwanghwamun is historic for protests. During the dynastic period, it was where scholars would protest the king.
Today, it’s known for weekend protests where the average person can voice their dissent.
On my first morning in Seoul, I wandered the city with my camera. By chance, I walked straight into a small protest. They stood with posters raised, voices sharp, and police trailing behind.
It didn’t take long to realise the anger ran deeper than President Yoon’s failed power grab.
“The country is absolutely screwed. Can anybody even tell you what’s going on anymore? My friends say they’re going to convert their won to gold. The economy keeps crashing, and now they’ve gone and put us under martial law. What are we meant to do? How are we meant to live a good life when everything is already too much? Can’t make this stuff up man.”
Interview Two
“Democracy is strong!”
As the protest marched towards Gwanghwamun, their small cohort melded into the thousands.
Volunteers handed out flags, directed traffic, and even cleaned up protest litter.
In between the citizen throngs, vans equipped with megaphones relayed chants and slogans for the masses. By the time speeches at Gwanghwamun ended, the marchers had already passed City Hall.
Shortly after they reached the historic red-brick Seoul Station, however, they stopped.
Major police fortifications shuttered the road ahead. Law enforcement stood above on hanging walkways, their fluorescent winter vests reflected in storefront windows, and squad lights peaked through riot barriers. The barriers were stained in dried-off liquid and scraped stickers in remembrance of protests not long ago.
Standing between the protesters and this fortress was President Yoon. His visage was caged, shackled by iron and rope tied round his neck. Zip-tied to his cage a sign quoted Korean criminal law.
“Crimes of Treason – Criminal Act, Chapter 2, Section 1. Article 87 (Insurrection)
If a person, for the purpose of usurping national power or overthrowing the constitutional order of the Republic of Korea in all or part of its territory, engages in violence or threats, they shall be punished according to the following categories:
1. Ringleaders – Death penalty, life imprisonments, or imprisonment for not less than 5 years; 2. Participants who take part in or assist the insurrection, or who perform important duties in support of it – Imprisonment for not less than 5 years; 3. Those who destroy, burn, or damage state institutions or military installations in connection with the insurrection – Treated in the same manner as above; 4. Those in lower-level roles or who participate only in minor acts of violence – Imprisonment for not more than 5 years or a fine.”
Photographers lined up to take their turn at capturing the imprisoned President Yoon. As the crowd kept their chants alive, I spoke with a protester who affirmed his cause.
“Democracy is strong! And like strong things it can not easily be killed. Not by politicians or even the president himself. Democracy is strong in South Korea because us citizens have joined in to save our country from itself, and we have showed up in great numbers to remind every one of this simple fact.”
Interview Three
“This is not about history.”
In Seoul, there is always a protest.
Throughout Gwanghwamun, you will find marquees challenging the government’s COVID-19 response, challenging the safety of government vaccine mandates, decrying the loosening of banking regulations, and advocating for expanded disability rights. And most strikingly, foreign flags.
At pro-Yoon rallies, his supporters are no stranger to the American stars and stripes. In Gwanghwamun, protesters wear the American flag as a costume, and chant slogans like ‘Stop the steal!’
Even President Yoon wears a bright red ‘Make Korea Great Again’ baseball cap.
The Americanisation of parts of Korea’s right-wing politics is not accidental. It reflects deeper anxieties about identity, ideology, and who gets to define the nation’s future.
South Korea’s democracy is young, and it is fragile.
The country has survived four attempts at violent overthrow, including the 1960 April Revolution led by the masses, the 1961 military coup under Park Chung-hee, and the successive internal coups of 1979 and 1980. Before President Yoon’s failed martial law declaration, three presidents had already faced impeachment, and over half of Korea’s living presidents have been jailed after leaving office.
What emerges is a generational divide between the uncles and aunties who grew old under military rule, and their children whose formative years were shaped by democratic rule and peaceful transition.
One night in Gwanghwamun, I met a man on a street corner talking to whoever would listen.
“They have terrorised our country socially, culturally and judicially. Look at how they’re trying to weaponise the courts against our president. Yoon wants to save us from the absolute chaos they have put us in. This is not about history. What happened 40 years ago happened 40 years ago.
This is about martial law today, martial law to save us all from them."
Interview Four
“But here I am today.”
Although the National Assembly overturned the martial law declaration, President Yoon remained in power for nearly two weeks. In that time, Korea faced the real conundrum of giving executive authority to the same individual who had directly sought to overthrow the civilian government.
Restrictions on presidential authority were swift. The Ministry of Justice imposed a presidential travel ban, while the ruling People Power Party removed the president from major state affairs and diplomacy.
The cracks widened.
While the People Power Party initially opposed impeachment, new information about President Yoon’s martial law directives swayed them. President Yoon not only sought to arrest the opposition leader, but his own party leader on ‘anti-state’ charges.
According to the Director of the National Intelligence Service, President Yoon intended to “arrest them and wipe them out.”
People Power Party chief Han Dong-hoon similarly referred to President Yoon as a “great danger” to Korean democracy and freedom.
Despite their first failure, the Democratic Party of Korea promised to table a new vote every weekend. And, most importantly, President Yoon’s own party would be participating in the new vote.
The next weekend, 300 votes were counted and tallied.
That day, a rural doctor in her forties had something to say. She had only recently returned to Seoul from the countryside to visit family.
“I’m conservative. I voted for Yoon, and I definitely don’t like the Democratic Party, but here I am today.
I’m not entirely sure how I feel about being here because I’m also a doctor, and I don’t think the democrats actually care about helping doctors outside of how we impact their election chances.
This country has a massive problem with politics. We’ve become like the US with only two options that matter and neither of them really represent the people anywhere. The whole system needs to be reset. If we aren’t given actual options to choose from I’m scared to think what’ll happen to us all.”
Interview Five
“I’m lucky to be Korean.”
As lawmakers cast their votes, outside the National Assembly a surreal scene unfolded.
Construction cranes hoisted stadium speakers above the crowd while giant LED screens broadcast the impeachment vote live. Costumed funeral bearers marched down the protester aisle carrying plywood coffins above their heads. Families sat on the frozen asphalt passing hand warmers between themselves.
Young Koreans waved K-Pop light sticks in the air, and even the elderly giggled as Rosé’s global hit APT echoed through the crowd like an anthem of the moment.
Others queued around the block for free coffees prepaid by supporters watching from afar.
It was surreal for everything it was, and everything it wasn’t.
Just two weeks earlier, protesters had thrown themselves at soldiers with loaded rifles, scaled boundary walls and smashed windows. But now, as lawmakers prepared to decide the fate of their country, the crowd was joyful above all else. They sang. They laughed. They held the cold at bay together. And they waited.
By the time the votes had been cast and tallied, the sun had begun to set. When confirmation arrived that President Yoon had finally been impeached, the people celebrated.
Strangers hugged one another, and in between the selfies, tears mixed in relief and revelation.
When I finally returned to my hostel, I met a Korean-American who had come home in between university classes. Growing up, she’d travelled the world with expat parents, but only now had she returned.
“I was born in Korea, but I’ve lived abroad my whole life. This is the first time in a very long time that I’ve returned home. It brings me hope to see how furious people are. Not every democracy is like this, and most times I think people feel too crushed to say anything against their government.
I’m lucky to be Korean.”
No one knows how many people gathered outside the National Assembly that day.
Organisers claim one million attended. News outlets suggest at least 200,000. Police say it was closer to 38,000. Whatever the number, the crowd was colossal.
The crowd shuffled back not as people but as sardines crammed shoulder to shoulder. Every nearby subway station was either shuttered by police, or had hour-long queues before the first escalator down. Approaching midnight, a steady crowd walked across the Han River bridge.
While the cold eventually passed, the crowds thinned and the sirens stopped, the questions didn’t.
South Korea had survived its closest brush with authoritarian power since the 1980s, not because its institutions held firm, but because its people refused to move. Democracy was upheld by votes, but it was defended in the streets by teenagers with light sticks and pensioners with posters, the very same people who already knew how quickly a country can slide backward.
Democracy survived because Koreans demanded it to.
And like every person who crossed the Han River that night – whether by subway, bus, or foot – the same truth hung in the air. This time, the soldiers didn’t open fire.
There is no guarantee they never will.