That Time I Crashed the President’s Funeral

I stepped out of the Seoul City Hall subway station entrance and into the cool October morning air. My goal was to take pictures of the City Hall building, and possibly go inside. Instead, I was greeted by an elaborate political display.

The entire front of City Hall had transformed into a somber memorial. A large, solemn photo of a politician was prominently displayed, surrounded by a sea of white bouquets. A long banner in a mix of Korean and Chinese characters hung above the memorial. I wasn’t sure what it said, but the only things written in a mix of hangul and hanja these days are government documents and important government announcements. It’s the Korean equivalent of legalese. I looked at it again – and then recognized the word for president (대통령). So that was the reason for the fancy display.

Out of curiosity, I walked closer. As I stood there, trying to make sense of the situation, an attendant standing next to a white tent approached me.

“Are you here for the memorial?” he asked.

I hesitated for a second.

“It’s right over this way,” he added helpfully, because obviously I was unsure because I didn’t know where to go, and not because I had no idea who this man was.

Not wanting to show my ignorance, I decided to follow him through the entrance.

The staff guided me through a brief security screening and a quick Covid temperature check (this was 2021, and restrictions were still in full effect). I was handed a single white flower. With the flower in hand, I approached the funerary display. Another attendee moved quietly, taking a moment to place his flower in front of the photo and bowing solemnly. I mirrored his actions, gently placing my flower in front of the large photo. Unsure of the appropriate etiquette, I gave a small, respectful bow – after all, I still wasn’t sure who this guy was. I felt a sense of unease; many people might think Korean dictators are found north of the DMZ, but the truth is that in terms of political leadership, post-war South Korea didn’t fare much better. Was I here honoring a democratic leader, or a fascist dictator?

Turns out the answer is both. The man in the picture frame is Roh Tae-woo, who served as South Korea’s first democratically elected president. Despite his background as a key figure in the authoritarian regimes of Korea’s previous military dictatorships, Roh’s presidency was marked by significant democratic reforms, like the institution of free and fair elections. He hosted the 1988 Seoul Olympics, which served as Korea’s entrance onto the international stage, and oversaw the construction of Incheon Airport and Korea’s national high-speed rail system.

However, he was also a key military figure involved in the suppression of the Gwangju Uprising, when citizens of the southeastern city of Gwangju protested against military rule and demanded democratic reforms. The military responded with brutal force, resulting in a violent crackdown that led to the deaths of hundreds of civilians. The events in Gwangju left a lasting stain on his legacy, and his involvement was a significant factor in the eventual convictions for treason and corruption he faced in the 1990s, after his presidency.

Public reactions to his death were heavily divided. Some people respected his contributions to the country, particularly his role in the peaceful transition to democracy and international engagement. Others, especially victims and families of the Gwangju Uprising, viewed his legacy with bitterness and resentment. The residents of Gwangju refused to hold a memorial, or fly flags at half-staff. Turnout at memorial services like these was pretty low – I noticed I was one of only a couple people in the queue.

As I turned to leave, another attendant gestured towards a book placed on a small table nearby. The pages were filled with elegant vertical Korean cursive. realized my chicken-scratch Korean handwriting would probably stand out like a sore thumb – did I even remember how to sign my name in Korean? Slowly, I tried to mimic the style, hoping no one would notice.

Stepping away from the book, I legitimately wondered if I’d face any karmic repercussions for crashing someone’s funeral like this. Would the former president’s spirit haunt me for the rest of my trip? Did I need to see a fortune teller or a shaman to get him off my back? I was so busy pondering the question that I failed to notice the one brick in the sidewalk that was just a tad higher than the others. I hit my shoe on it and momentarily lost my balance. Embarrassed, I wobbled back onto my feet.

“Yup, that was him,”  I thought.

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