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Quickly ruled an “insurrection,” the rogue invocation of martial law in South Korea on December 3^rd was a self-coup by President Yoon Suk Yeol to maintain his grip on power. During his two-and-a-half-year presidency up to that point, Yoon had vetoed 25 National Assembly resolutions, including five that sought to appoint special prosecutors to investigate him and his wife over allegations of illicit financial dealings and undue influence in nominating candidates for public office. In the months leading up to the insurrection, calls for Yoon’s impeachment were spreading rapidly across diverse sectors of society. Minority parties, scholars, filmmakers, and countless individuals voiced their dissent, many sharing personal statements on social media. When martial law was declared, the public shock extended beyond the decree itself to Yoon’s unconvincing and lackluster delivery. His dull tone and puppet-like recitation of what appeared to be someone else’s will failed to convey the urgency of a national emergency allegedly posed by the threats from “anti-state forces” (pan-kukka seryŏk). After all, the notion of a genuine threat from North Korea has long ceased to resonate seriously in South Korea. Recent incidents, such as drones from the North carrying trivial cargo, were little more than fleeting distractions in the bustle of daily life. News of the martial law declaration quickly set social media, YouTube, and podcasts ablaze with laughter and cynicism. Many dismissed it as a rash, impulsive decision—perhaps fueled by Yoon’s rumored habitual drinking—or as a political misstep amounting to self-sabotage. Others saw it as a desperate attempt to sever ties with the pervasive influence of his wife, widely perceived as the true power behind his presidency.

Despite lasting only about six hours, the botched martial law declaration, still, transported South Korean society back to 1980, evoking memories of the military-declared martial law that led to the massacre of civilians in Kwangju. The trauma of state violence, deeply etched in individual and family memories, inspired Han Kang’s Human Acts—a novel that gained renewed attention as Han received the 2024 Nobel Prize in Literature. However, the differences between 1980 and today are stark. The earlier martial law was imposed under military rule; this time, it was declared under liberal democracy. Yet the language of the latest decree is even more chilling. It explicitly called for the “arrest, detainment, and elimination of anti-state forces” which referred to his political rivals, whereas the 1980 decree banned political activities only, with arrests and killings carried out unofficially. Concurrently, another historical echo is now playing out in the realm of popular politics. The candlelight impeachment protests have resumed once again in the freezing winter, this time demanding the removal of President Yoon, recalling the 2016–2017 protests that led to the impeachment of Park Geun-hye. The anticipated sequence of events—impeachment, a new presidential election, and the transfer of power to the centrist Democratic Party—feels like a rerun of the past. 

Despite the celebratory framing of mass protests as bold defenses of democracy, I find Marx’s dictum—“history repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce”—a more fitting description of this cyclical pattern. Still, I think the direction of the South Korean future is not yet determined. That’s why we need to talk about the tripartite crises of liberal democracy, capitalism, and leftist politics (with a promissory note), in which the candlelight protest has become a new normal. Assessing these crises and asking where and how this repeated cycle of politics can be broken is key to charting a new path forward.

Immediately after the botched insurrection, the National Assembly’s defense and judiciary committees convened emergency meetings, summoning several cabinet members and military chiefs suspected of collaborating with President Yoon to testify. The inquiry painstakingly reconstructed the insurrection, interrogating suspects and collaborators on critical details: the exact wording exchanged during the cabinet meeting that approved the martial law declaration, who attended, who voiced apprehension or outright opposition, the frequency of phone calls from Yoon, the legal and illegal chains of command, and the deployment of special forces and their numbers and movements throughout the six-hour martial law period. A major feat of the investigation at the National Assembly is the identification of Yoon as the chief architect of the insurrection, as his conservative party and the prosecutor’s office, still under his influence, are likely to contest this charge.

In detail, in a mere span of one week, the investigation unearthed startling revelations so far: the coup to secure power indefinitely had been planned step-by-step since early 2024, and its failure stemmed from a fractured military command. In the months preceding the insurrection, Yoon had strategically appointed his high school alumni to key strategic posts, including the defense minister and chiefs of crucial military divisions. Under their command, the military began recruiting soldiers into special units, ostensibly to prepare for potential terrorist threats from North Korea following a series of drone provocations. These special forces underwent months of training and were placed on high alert on the day martial law was declared. Immediately following the declaration, the special teams were deployed to two key locations: the National Election Commission, under the guise of securing evidence of alleged irregularities in the June 2024 general election in which the minority Democratic Party had won a landslide victory; and the National Assembly, to prevent legislators from convening and voting to repeal martial law. Simultaneously, others were tasked with arresting opposition leaders with plans to detain them in a secret bunker. Further investigations filled in the gaps. The troops were instructed to seize the main server of the National Election Commission to plant fabricated evidence of fraud in the June election and then call for a new election with a pre-determined outcome. The detention of a prominent journalist and a political strategist, both aligned with the Democratic Party, was intended to coerce them into legitimizing the fabricated election results. Plans for Day 2 of the martial law also included deploying additional special forces throughout Seoul, suggesting an escalation of authoritarian control. A special force was prepared to provoke skirmishes with North Korea or cause violence in the society by posing as North Korean agents. These revelations have not only intensified public outrage but also highlighted the calculated planning and perilous ambitions underlying the failed coup. This effort likely began at the beginning of Yoon’s presidency when he relocated the presidential office to the Ministry of National Defense.

It turns out that this orchestrated plan quickly unraveled on that day due to a combination of poor coordination, bad timing, and critical acts of defiance. The Vice Defense Minister, mid-level military commanders, and rank-and-file soldiers refused to execute key orders. Additionally, declarations of conscience from military chiefs, along with anonymous tips—some of which had been sent for months to the Democratic Party but were previously ignored—enabled minority parties to expose the collaborators’ lies during live televised investigations. As continuous breaking news unfolded over the past week, citizens, glued to TV screens and social media, occasionally breathed sighs of relief when signs of democracy holding firm emerged. Soldiers from the MZ (Millennial and Gen Z) generation, who were dispatched to arrest politicians and others, instead spent their time eating ramen and snacks at convenience stores. Those sent to the National Election Commission left after merely photographing server cables. One particularly notable revelation came from the Chief of the 707th Special Mission Force, who made a conscience statement after the Ministry of National Defense canceled his testimony before the National Assembly. According to him, he had misunderstood his mission at the National Assembly, believing he was there to counter terrorist attacks. Unfamiliar with the National Assembly Complex, he relied on Kakao Map (a local equivalent of Google Maps) to navigate the premises, only to discover that the area was far too large for his initial team of 96 team members to secure effectively. The troops also faced unexpected resistance from party staff and citizens who had quickly arrived at the scene. In their confusion, while moving between the front and rear gates of the complex, the unit fell into disarray and lost communication. When about 20 soldiers managed to enter a building after breaking windows, they were immediately met with the discharge of activated fire extinguishers, further disrupting their efforts. Facing an increasingly untenable situation, the chief ordered a retreat, ultimately abandoning the directive to “drag out legislators.” 

Citizens at the National Assembly Complex commended the troops for avoiding violent confrontations with civilians during the chaotic operation. They helped a fallen soldier back to his feet and expressed appreciation for a young special forces member who bowed repeatedly, saying, “I am sorry.” Under the neoliberal mantra of self-survival, acts of conscience and refusal of soldiers to execute what they deemed “bullshit” or “absurd” orders can be interpreted as a manifestation of “every man for himself,” especially given that two former presidents who orchestrated the 1980 coup d’état were sentenced to death. Nevertheless, they seemed to provide a powerful affirmation that democracy still held a firm grip. These missteps, combined with individual acts of conscience and resistance, seemed to affirm the fragile yet ultimately formidable nature of South Korean democracy. The post-insurrection investigation has revealed an unexpected competence among minority party legislators and leaders, who had previously been criticized as ineffective. For many, this moment symbolizes a broader narrative of progress in South Korean history, showcasing the resilience of democratic values and the potential for growth even amid crises.

However, this swift and methodical investigation conducted by the minority parties at the National Assembly exemplifies a liberal democracy that puts procedures above all else. Buried in the procedures is the very crisis of liberal democracy in South Korea, which caused Yoon’s coup d’etat in the first place. In my view, Yoon’s declaration of martial law was not an aberration but an extension of liberal democracy itself. Though chilling and unprecedented, the use of the term “execute” (chŏdan) in the martial law decree to “arrest, detain, . . . and execute” anti-state forces reflects a deeper continuity that has characterized the South Korean liberal democratic politics. It extends the axiom of “eliminating accumulated evil” (chŏkp’ye chŏngsan), which has been a defining feature of South Korean party politics since at least the 2010s. Both major parties have accused each other of embodying accumulated evil, rallying their supporters to eradicate this abstract enemy. In this framework, “accumulated evil” lacks any concrete definition or historical specificity, functioning instead as a meta-identity. This dynamic aligns with the elementary mechanism of identity politics, where the drive to eliminate the Other serves to consolidate one’s own identity. Within this construct, colonial history is reduced to a symbolic contest between pro- and anti-Japanese stances, stripped of any historicity. Such abstract identity politics plays a critical role in maintaining the appearance of liberal democracy and political pluralism, especially when the two contending parties share an underlying commitment to liberal capitalism. Despite their ideological clashes over colonial history, these parties hold largely similar positions on chaebol monopoly capital, economic and political deregulation, and the perpetuation of precarious employment.

Amidst the backdrop of the parties’ identity politics, President Yoon has repeatedly vetoed resolutions passed by the National Assembly. Concurrently, the minority Democratic Party has increasingly relied on impeachment as a strategy to challenge the ruling majority, filing 15 motions to impeach Yoon’s appointees during his administration. When Yoon declared martial law, he specifically cited the opposition’s frequent recourse to impeachment as a critical obstacle to the proper functioning of the liberal democratic system, framing his action as a necessary measure to rescue democracy from paralysis. 

Pace Carl Schmitt, who theorized that the absolutist sovereign arises from the crises of liberal democracy to save it. It is, however, essential to interrogate the dynamics of popular politics, questioning whether and how they align with absolutist power. Theodor Adorno viewed fascism as a phenomenon rooted in mass culture, where individuals, alienated by the drudgery of work, find a temporary escape by identifying with an authoritarian and charismatic leader. Sociologist Dylan Riley argued that fascism emerged in societies with vibrant civil society movements. In South Korea, the masses have been consistently and highly mobilized both within and on the margins of liberal democracy. If the procedural investigation of the recent insurrection offers liberal democracy borrowed time, it is not simply because people are swayed by tearful testimonies, spectacles, or lies. Rather, it is because of deeper contradictions of the people themselves—contradictions that have been exposed by the recurring mass candlelight protests since the 2000s.

Candlelight protests have evolved into a distinctive form of mass politics since their emergence in 2002, rejecting both the class struggle paradigm of the 1980s democracy movement and the social and civil society movements that followed democratization in the 1990s. The candlelight protests embody a neo-anarchist ethos akin to movements like Occupy Wall Street and the Arab Spring. They emphasize decentralized organization, eschew established institutional frameworks and hierarchical leadership, and advocate for horizontal relationships and grassroots initiatives—often facilitated by social media platforms. This modality of politics underscores both the potential and the fragility of mass mobilizations in navigating the crises of liberal democracy, raising critical questions about their future trajectory and alignment. During the 2016-2017 impeachment protest, protesters of all ages, from teenagers to middle-aged adults, vocally rejected attempts by politicians and activists to lead the demonstrations, even though major organizations like the Korean Confederation of Trade Unions (KCTU) provided key logistical support, including stages, giant monitors, high-powered speakers, and electric cables. Instead, the protesters emphasized spontaneity and festive communal activities. They shared food and casual conversations on the streets, fostering a sense of solidarity. They crafted their own banners, blurring the lines between politics and everyday life. In continuity, the protests to impeach Yoon have shown banners, “The National Coalition to Stay Lying Down at Home,” “The Group That Doesn’t Want to Do Anything,” and “The Research Group on the Smell of Dog’s Paws.” Parodies of established organizations also emerged, like “Minju Myoch’ong” (Those Who Want to Democratize Cats) and “Mandu Noch’ong and Saewu Noch’ong” (Dumpling and Shrimp Associations), mocking the KCTU (Minju Noch’ong). After a week after the botched insurrection, previous signs of organized protest logistics are notably absent. The festive and communal energy is even more palpable. K-pop songs and cheerleading light balls used in pop idol concerts fill the streets. Social media platforms are buzzing with celebratory photos and practical advice and tips for participants, such as turtleneck sweaters over scarves, bread over cookies as snacks, and tying back long hair so as not to bother others on windy days. Heartwarming stories have emerged of older generations and the MZ generation bridging their differences by singing together and cheering as KCTU members pushed back police lines and garnered extra space for protesters.

South Korean scholarship remains divided over the interpretation of the candlelight protests. On one hand, some scholars dubbed them as a “candlelight revolution,” emphasizing a new grammar of mass politics driven by the synergy of social-media mobilization, youth participation, and festive protest repertoires. On the other hand, critics dismiss the movement as a liberal petty-bourgeois tendency that adheres strictly to the rule of law. In my view, this polarized debate fails to fully grasp the contradictions and political possibilities inherent in the candlelight protests. While many protesters appeared to accept impeachment and a subsequent presidential election as sufficient outcomes, their demands extended far beyond the confines of liberal democratic politics. As I have argued elsewhere, earlier candlelight protests in 2002 and 2008 began with specific grievances—the deaths of two schoolgirls caused by a U.S. military vehicle in 2002 and opposition to U.S. beef imports and South Korea–U.S. Free Trade Agreement in 2008. However, these protests quickly expanded to address broader issues: unequal military and economic relations between South Korea and the U.S., and opposition to the privatization of public goods such as education, river development, water, electricity, and media. Similarly, the 2016–2017 candlelight protests started with demands to impeach President Park Geun-hye but soon grew into a broader call to eradicate long-standing accumulated evil (chŏkp’ye). In contrast to the reified use of the term by the competing political parties, their reference to accumulated evil denoted issues such as precarious employment, the importation of rice, tax policies favoring the wealthy, privatized media, and abuses of state power, including the banning of radical opposition parties and engaging in wasteful diplomatic ventures. The protests also condemned the corruption of the chaebols, demanding the arrest of Samsung’s then de facto leader, Lee Jae-yong, who had bribed former President Park to secure his succession. 

This trajectory demonstrates that the candlelight protests were not merely limited to liberal reforms but carried the potential to challenge entrenched inequalities and systemic corruption in South Korea.

As I write this observation one week after the failed insurrection in 2024, it remains uncertain how the ongoing protests demanding the impeachment of President Yoon will address the deepening socioeconomic concerns amid new crises of capitalism in South Korea, how industrial and financial capital will respond, and what intraclass alignment of capital will develop, all of which will shape the direction of politics. Inequalities, unemployment, and hopelessness have worsened under the uneven industrial and financial capitalism. Last month, reports revealed that the number of bankruptcies among small businesses reached a record high of one million this year. Technology-intensive industries, while expanding, have long failed to provide sufficient job opportunities for college graduates. Government support for ventures, including those led by young people in sustainability and creative markets, proved fleeting. Civil service jobs, once highly sought after by college graduates for their stability, have become less appealing due to low wages, heavy workloads, and workplace harassment. The housing and construction sector, a cornerstone of South Korea’s construction and financial industries since the 2000s, is now facing a severe crisis reminiscent of the 2008 financial downturn. High interest rates and rising construction costs have exacerbated the situation. With stable employment and adequate income increasingly out of reach, many young and middle-aged South Koreans have turned to speculative investments, particularly in the cryptocurrency market. Tensions boiled over last week when the declaration of martial law caused a sharp decline in South Korea’s bitcoin market. Enraged investors expressed their anger, reflecting the volatile intersection of political and economic discontent.

The tension between socioeconomics and politics is a driving force that renews the cycle of candlelight protests. Everyday life concerns stemming from capitalist crises exceed the conventional framework of liberal democratic politics, which remains tethered to state and party politics. However, these socioeconomic concerns never truly disappear; instead, they repeatedly compel people to return to the streets. This historical cycle of protests, however, will reach its limits. Public dissent will likely escalate into new, transformative actions if substantive responses to capitalist crises and growing inequalities are not made. The political direction of such actions—whether they lead to emancipatory politics or devolve into fascism—will largely depend on how the left navigates this moment. 

The progressive forces—including KCTU, PSPD, and the left that adopted liberal democracy as a hegemonic strategy to enlist the moderate bourgeoisie—have experienced what has been noted as “leftist melancholia” over the failed revolution. Since the political liberalization in 1987, they have struggled to disavow their previous elitism and connect with the broader populace and their social realities under the crises of capitalism.  One of their key principles is tangsajajuŭi, which grants tangsaja—those directly affected, such as women, disaster victims, or striking workers—the exclusive right to determine their course of action. This approach relegates activists to the role of mere supporters or the secondary position, no matter how important their support and solidarity are. Tangsajajuŭi underscores the unresolved challenge of engaging in a dialectical relationship between intellectuals and ordinary people. During the revolutionary struggles of the 1980s, student activists worked covertly alongside workers, sharing their daily realities. Under this collaboration, the shopfloor was called hyŏnjang (literally, “now-space”), where intellectuals and workers learned from one another to transcend their immediate social and political positions. The failure of shopfloor organizing since the mid-1990s has conventionally been attributed to the dominance of economic unionism and internal conflicts within the labor movement. Similarly, the failure of leftist party politics is often blamed on bureaucratization and a disconnect with workers and the broader populace. 

Offering a new perspective on the current crisis of leftist politics, Baek Seung-wook, a Marxist sociologist and former student activist, recently revealed that the hyŏnjang movement came to an abrupt halt in 1991. This shift occurred when the left’s top leadership hastily abandoned grassroots organizing to participate in liberal democratic politics, marked by the formation of leftist political parties.^[1]> Whether this turn to liberal democracy was a hegemonic strategy or not, it ultimately proved to be a failure. For example, in the June 2014 election, six progressive parties collectively secured only five seats in the 300-member National Assembly. For Baek., the pivotal moment in the recent history of South Korean democracy was not the end of the military dictatorship in 1987, as argued by the “1987 System Thesis,” but rather the liberal turn in 1991, which I term the “1991 System Thesis.” I find Baek’s reframing of South Korean history a compelling lens through which to rethink the historical present.

In the aftermath of the botched insurrection, the 1987 and 1991 System Theses present contrasting prescriptions. Proponents of the 1987 System Thesis, as they have during past crises, are once again advocating for constitutional reform to replace the presidential system with a parliamentary system—either in the style of the UK or France—to prevent the concentration of power and secure power-sharing across political parties. For example, a faction of leftists rooted in the 1980s, known as the Constitutional Assembly Faction (CA), characterizes the aftermath of the 12.3 Insurrection as a “revolutionary moment” to fulfill the unrealized aspirations of 1987. However, I think that revisiting 1991 and the broader institutionalization of liberal democracy in the 1990s offers a more long-term and substantive approach to addressing South Korea’s challenges. Such reflection is essential for the left to reformulate the hyŏnjang movement and develop new ideas and organizations that mediate between material conditions and political actions.

Hyun Ok Park is Professor of Sociology at York University

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^[1] Baek Seung-wook (2022) 1991 nyn ichin t’oejo ŭi ch’ulbaljŏm (1991, the starting point of the forgotten retreat), Seoul: Bukk’omma.