Eagerness.
That was one characteristic I collectively saw in each of the 150-plus citizens protesting for justice on the freezing streets of South Korea. Not just their voices or signs, but the energy that seemed to ripple through the streets, an energy that even I, as an observer, could feel.
During my trip from mid-December to early January, this energy extended throughout every household. Each night, I noticed my grandmother glued to the TV, visibly angry at the news before her eyes. She explained to me the root of her frustration: in early December 2024, South Korean President Yoon Suk Yeol briefly declared martial law, leaving citizens feeling betrayed.
It all began as my family searched for parking near the Jeonju shopping mall. Even with my noise-canceling AirPods in and my attention fixed on my daily dose of TikTok, I still couldn’t miss the sound of loud chants entering through the car window, cutting through the music playing in my ears.
I remember looking outside the car window and seeing a mob of South Koreans sitting on the ground and protesting. We drove away from the busy street to continue our search for parking, but the five-second encounter left me curious.
Later, as I wandered the lively streets of Jeonju, I found myself drawn to a large crowd of people protesting for the South Korean president to come out of hiding. I’d only ever seen protests in photos and videos, which couldn’t convey the full depth of emotion. Witnessing it firsthand was a moving experience that almost made me feel anger alongside them.
People of all ages participated — elders and teens — sitting on the concrete floor in front of the Jeonju shopping street chanting and holding banners that translated, “Coup accomplice, People Power Party, Disband!”
VIDEO CUTLINE: South Korean citizens sing while sitting down on the streets of Jeonju to protest against President Yoon Suk Yeol on Friday, Dec. 27. (Video taken by Emily Kim)
The people braved the freezing temperature, their breath visible in the zero-degrees Celsius weather, sitting on the streets to demand the president’s impeachment. Protest leaders even provided free street food to keep everyone nourished. The chants, songs and collective voices of the protestors remain something I will never forget.
However, one moment in particular stuck with me. A bubbly, middle-aged advocate approached me, smiling as he handed me a poster — the same one held by dozens of other protestors. He offered an invitation, a chance to stand alongside them.
I hesitated. Although I felt the pull to join and stand for what I believed in, my family looked rushed and barely acknowledged the scene around them. And in that hesitation, I let the moment slip away, following them instead of my instincts.
At that time, I didn’t realize why that regret weighed so heavily on me. But now, I do.
For years, I had been searching for a way to reconnect with my culture, identity and roots.
Born in South Korea, I left as a baby when my family immigrated to the U.S. for better opportunities. My sister, mom and I never had the chance to return, as we faced issues due to not having American citizenship. Over time, the distance from my homeland grew — not just physically but emotionally.
Because of this, I began feeling a growing distance from my culture and roots — slowly starting with losing the ability to speak Korean fluently. What once felt familiar, like speaking to my mom in her native tongue or hearing stories of our homeland, started to feel like a distant memory as I found myself stumbling over words that used to come so naturally, relying more on English to communicate even with my own family.
I would hear my mom share stories about her childhood in Korea: vibrant markets, traditional street vendors on every corner and the food that “was not comparable in the U.S.” and felt lost since I had no memory of my time in the country.
“I still remember the taste of the Korean banana milk from the convenience store and how beautiful the countryside looks when it snows,” my mother said.
“There’s no way the food can taste that different … After all, food is food,” I said. “I can’t wait to finally see snow again, but I bet it’s not anything too special.”
She always spoke about it as if it were a place untouched by time, a place I could return to and instantly feel at home.
But the South Korea I saw had differences.
At home, my grandmother’s frustration made it clear — her anger grew with every update.
The streets of Jeonju were still lively, the night markets still filled with food carts selling tteokbokki and hotteok and performers still drawing crowds with their music. But something deeper stayed happening beneath the surface — a tension I could feel but had never personally experienced before.
The South Korea my mom described wasn’t gone, but it was evolving.
And in that moment, standing among the protestors, I realized my connection to this country wasn’t about nostalgia or childhood memories I never had. It was about the people — their resilience and their unwavering fight for justice.
I regret not taking that poster and not standing with them when I had the chance. But that regret taught me something, too. I had come to Korea searching for a part of myself I felt I had lost. And while I may not have joined the protest physically, witnessing it and feeling that energy firsthand played a role in reminding me of who I am.
As I walked away from the protest that afternoon, I didn’t just carry a memory. I carried a renewed sense of identity, an obligation to honor my roots — not just by remembering them, but by standing for the same values the people of my birth country were fighting for: democracy, freedom and justice.
