During the 2002 World Cup, I was lucky enough to live near Gwanghwamun, so on the days the Korean national team played, I would casually put on my Red Devils T-shirt and head out to cheer in the streets. But I vividly remember being so overwhelmed by the enormous red wave blanketing the main road of Gwanghwamun that the moment I tried to join, I realized there was no way out — and I had no choice but to "retreat."
The broad avenue stretching from Gwanghwamun to the Sejongno intersection has symbolized the authority of the state ever since the Joseon Dynasty designated Hanyang as its capital and built Gyeongbokgung Palace as the primary royal residence. The road, 60 meters wide, also served as a courtyard for various national events. It was the center of Hanyang, used for royal processions, receptions of foreign envoys, and civil service examinations. This space, once the axis of Joseon's power, has transformed since the modern era into a ground where civic assembly, resistance, and festival overlap. In other words, Gwanghwamun's main road has been the most concentrated stage showing how Korean society understands and transforms itself.
During the candlelight vigils, the everyday order was temporarily dismantled here, and citizens recognized one another not as strangers but as a community. Along with the simple symbol of candles, a new political order was generated within the space. Gwanghwamun at that time was a plaza in a literally "open state." Anyone could speak, anyone could participate, and meaning was never fixed — it was continuously reconstituted.
During the martial law crisis, fan club light sticks appeared in place of candles, and K-pop music rang out instead of protest anthems. This was an event demonstrating the possibility that a political symbol system could be converted into a cultural one. The participatory culture of K-pop fandoms introduced an emotional structure to the plaza different from conventional protest formats. Participation became easier and the atmosphere became brighter. The plaza became an even more accessible space for everyone.
Yet at the same time, an important shift is underway. If the liminality created by the candlelight vigils was an "open state of transformation," the recent Gwanghwamun is gradually moving toward a "synchronized state." Light sticks, music, and rhythm bind people together, but that solidarity has a structure easily calibrated toward specific purposes and methods rather than spontaneous generation. People increasingly gather within predetermined formats, and in the case of certain religious assemblies, this tendency is further reinforced.
Recently, when a major entertainment agency and a global corporation organized a large-scale concert that was streamed on an over-the-top (OTT) platform, Gwanghwamun Plaza reached yet another turning point. With the support of the government and the Seoul Metropolitan Government citing safety concerns, citizens were, in an unusual move, denied their rights of free participation and passage. Recalling that a presidential inauguration also took place in this very space, the excessive level of security controls showed that Gwanghwamun could be transformed from a free plaza or a page of history into an ordinary event platform.
The expansiveness of K-culture, which has grown on a global scale, crosses boundaries between different voices and rhythms. It is unfixed, resembling the spatial character of the road in front of Gwanghwamun — at once inside and outside, a road, a courtyard, and a plaza. The "experience of changing together" that citizens have shared in the plaza must not be surreptitiously forced into an "experience of being coordinated together." It is time to leave Gwanghwamun's main road alone — no matter who becomes mayor.