At 9 a.m. in Bloomington, 14 hours behind Seoul, I received a message that martial law had been declared late at night and soldiers were entering the National Assembly. The news was so frightening that it felt unreal. At first, I assumed it was misinformation, much like the previous heart-wrenching disasters had initially seemed to be.
But it was real. Most Korean people spent the day and night nervously checking the latest news. Fortunately, martial law—a seemingly ridiculous failure—was lifted after six hours. However, as more facts emerged, it became clear that the martial law declaration was a calculated plan to unleash horrific violence. If people had not rushed to stop the armed soldiers with their bodies, if the staff members had not resisted with all their might, if the lawmakers and tech workers had not climbed over the fence in the middle of the night to protect the voting, martial law would have gone ahead as planned. Some soldiers hesitated or courageously refused orders that would harm civilians, while others avoided action altogether, choosing to eat ramen at convenience stores instead of occupying constitutional institutions. This prevented the dissolution of the National Assembly and an irreversible spiral of violence and repression.
Watching from afar, I was struck by a lingering question: how could those people, upon hearing that soldiers were heading for the National Assembly, stand in front of guns without hesitation? This courage seemed to me so extraordinary, that it belonged to some special people, and I felt deeply indebted to them. Yet, even from my safe, distant environment, I hesitated to speak up. I wasn’t facing imminent physical danger, but I found myself making excuses—my end-of-semester workload, my fear of saying the wrong thing or embarrassing others. To me, speaking out always seemed to carry a risk I wasn’t prepared to take.
Meanwhile, my colleagues and fellow Korean students abroad acted swiftly, preparing statements as if speaking out was second nature. Their undaunted responses stirred something in me, reminding me that courage isn’t always a monumental act—it can be as simple as stating the obvious. As I scrolled through news updates, consumed by hyper-anxiety and lethargy, I began to realize that hesitation was only natural, but it didn’t have to be permanent.
Even as I struggled with my own hesitation, I watched my friends and fellow citizens in Korea heading to the squares on cold days, fighting their own fears of a second martial law attempt and violent repression lingering in the back of their minds. Yet they showed up, driven by the belief that the more that people gathered, the less those in power could harm them. Witnessing their courage awakened something in me—it was a reminder that courage grows through speaking and acting together.
People took early morning trains and express buses to get to the protest sites. They walked for miles and stood for many hours with their hands and feet freezing in the cold weather. My friends even avoided drinking water to compensate with the lack of restroom access. They waved light sticks and sang K-Pop together, but they were not there because the rallies are fun. Rather, those light sticks and K-pop songs helped dispel fear and affirm that we are allies for each other. “Into the New World,” the major anthem of solidarity at protests, became popular as a rally song after Ewha Womans University students sang the song to combat fear facing the crackdown during their historical protests in 2016. The colorful lights in their hands, their songs, and their passionate shouts demonstrated to me that courage is not an innate trait but rather something that emerges during the process of speaking out and taking action together with fellow citizens.
The protestors in Seoul, alongside those abroad, stood in solidarity. On December 21, police blocked the farmers’ tractors traveling to Seoul to participate in a demonstration calling for impeachment at Namtaeryeong, a pass on the border of the city, for unclear reasons. A similar situation occurred in 2016, when farmers faced police roadblocks and brutality, forcing them to return home disheartened. This time, however, when the police repression was about to begin, citizens rushed onto the road and stood against the police barricades. While those abroad could not physically join, they spread the word through traffic cameras, YouTube live streams, and real-time social media updates, monitoring the misuse of police power. Supporters sent hot meals, power banks, and other supplies to Namtaeryeong, ensuring protesters could endure the cold night. I, along with other international students, anxiously watched events unfold online and shared updates. As the number of protesters on the ground and supporters online grew, the police eventually lifted the roadblocks. The people online and offline cheered and marched together. That day, the hundreds of thousands who gathered, physically and remotely, learned that individual resistance becomes powerful when united, and that we can stop violent repression by standing together in solidarity with those who are unjustly oppressed.
Those who seek to prevent gatherings and silence voices stifle the very courage that collective action fosters. South Korean supporters of democracy were saying things that were so basic, but the authorities were so frightened that they had to use violence to stop us. Those who dare to interfere with our courage to gather and speak with one voice are those who fear our courage the most. They will thwart our courage by keeping us apart, but some of us will still step up to the podium, and hold the barrel of the gun that is pointed at us. Thinking of those who blocked soldiers, I wanted to speak out against this injustice. Together, we draw courage from each other’s presence, transforming individual cries into a collective power that can stand against violence and oppression.
Naewon Lee is a Ph.D. student in Political Science at Indiana University Bloomington. Her academic focus is on democratic legitimacy in the time of ecological crisis, covering political theory including democracy theory, political ecology, and ecological critical theory.
The Courage That Grows Together