The Story of A Colonial Subject Who Remembers Through the Body

Cho Hae-joang is a cultural anthropologist, feminist, and Professor Emeritus at Yonsei

University. Across her many decades of work, Cho has traced how gender roles, youth

subjectivities, and constructions of national identity have shifted as Korean society underwent

colonization, compressed modernity, and neoliberal economic restructuring. For Issue 02, we

sat down with Professor Cho to talk about Hallyu’s sociocultural origins and explore the

political possibilities that it holds in our contemporary moment.

 

 

 

Professor Cho, you have been studying the Korean Wave since its early development in

the 1990s. I’d love to hear about what this means to you personally, so let’s begin with

your story. Could you introduce yourself to MENT’s readers?

Sure. I have lived on this planet for 76 years, so an introduction seems necessary. I am a 76-

year-old anthropologist born in 1948 in Busan, South Korea. This was three years after

Korea’s liberation from Japanese occupation. After the Japanese occupation, the peninsula

was divided into North and South under the so-called protective occupation of the US and the

Soviet Union.

I was only two when the Korean War broke out, but living in Busan spared me from

witnessing its horrors firsthand. Instead, I spent my childhood surrounded by displaced

intellectuals and artists, who were eager to educate their children into citizens of a “modern”

nation. I was one of the children blessed by their enthusiasm. Growing up, I read Western

children’s books, took ballet classes, learned the piano, and even joined the children’s choir at

a broadcasting station. When I moved to Seoul for middle school, I was ready to become a

“modern” youth and enjoy the city’s affluent cultural life.

Growing up in a patriotic family, I always believed that I should dedicate my life to the

betterment of Korea. I decided to become a historian so I can understand the injustices of our

world and use that knowledge to help create a better one. In 1971, I went to the US to study

cultural anthropology. My doctoral research focused on Jeju haenyeo, the female freedivers

who made their living by harvesting seafood and seaweed from the ocean.

After graduation, I returned to Korea and taught at Yonsei University for 35 years. I have

since retired and now live in Jeju’s Seonheul Village. The village is known for our geurim

halmang (“grandmothers who paint”)—grandmothers who retired from physical labor and

now paint, having converting their farm sheds into mini art galleries. Recently, the

grandmothers drew attention for their paintings inspired by scenes from the K-drama When

Life Gives You Tangerines (2025), which is largely set in Jeju and depicts Korea’s tumultuous

path to modernization through the perspectives of ordinary people.

Today, we no longer live in a “modern” world. Instead, we live in a perilously postmodern

and posthuman era. So I came to Seonheul Village thinking of it as my Noah’s Ark. Even

here, I continue to observe people and participate in community activities as a “native

anthropologist” who is eager to help create, if possible, a less destructive world.

Korea: From Cultural Colony to Cultural Exporter

Could you describe the media environment of the 1950s and 1960s? Growing up, what

were the forms of popular culture available to you?

 

The American military presence in South Korea began after Korea’s liberation from Japan,

and this led to an influx of American cultural products. In the 1950s, yeoseong gukgeuk

(editor’s note: a genre of reinvented traditional Korean opera featuring an all-female cast, and

the subject of the 2024 tvN K-drama Jeongnyeon: The Star Is Born) had been popular in

Busan, but that soon faded. After the Korean War, the film industry took over the

entertainment world, and people who were struggling in their everyday lives looked for

solace in the cinemas.

 

I remember watching A Farewell to Arms (1932), Gone with the Wind (1939), Waterloo

Bridge (1940), High Noon (1952), and other Westerns starring John Wayne. Korean

filmmakers who had been trained in the Japanese film industry during the colonial period also

became active after liberation, producing a wave of high-quality films. I remember watching

Shin Sang-ok’s The Houseguest and My Mother (1961) and Kang Dae-jin’s The Coachman

(1961) with my grandfather, who always shed tears during the sad scenes.

When black-and-white TV came out, I was in high school. There were no Korean dramas yet.

Instead, I was deeply engrossed in the American soap opera Peyton Place (1964). I still

remember Mia Farrow’s enigmatic presence in that show, as she walked in the dark streets

with a pile of books in her arms. The drama depicted a shadowy town full of illicit

relationships, which I found unfamiliar and uncomfortable. The cultural gap was vast, but I

admired Western culture and interpreted it on my own terms.

Through radio, I fell in love with Sue Thompson’s “Sad Movies” (1961), and I remember

writing down the lyrics in Korean and singing along until I memorized them. I also

passionately sang Patti Page’s “I Went to Your Wedding” (1952). In my third year of middle

school, I went with friends to a music café in Myeongdong just to listen to The Beatles’

“Yesterday” (1965).

Many Korean pop singers listened to American music over the American Forces Korea

Network (AFKN) and got their own start performing in US military camp shows and clubs.

As radio and television became more widely accessible in the 1960s, these performers also

gained mainstream recognition. Musicians like the Kim Sisters, the Pearl Sisters, Patti Kim,

 

and Shin Joong-hyun’s rock band Add Four developed strong fan bases and became some of

the most popular musicians of the time.

 

By the 1970s, youth culture was thriving in Seoul’s Myeongdong district. Lee Byung-bok, a

stage artist who had just returned to Korea after her studies at the University of Sorbonne in

Paris, opened Korea’s first small theater “Café Theatre.” I became a regular there. New bars,

cafés, and beer halls played Western pop music, and local folk singers with acoustic

guitars—artists such as Song Chang-sik of Twin Folio, Kim Min-ki, Yang Hee-eun, and Hahn

Dae-soo, all now considered the pioneers of K-pop—also performed there.

As a university student, I spent a lot of time in these places. Just as today’s youth are growing

up amidst the wave of Hallyu, I grew up amidst an American cultural wave, though those

influences were already sowing the seeds for an emerging Korean pop culture. In 1971, I

graduated from university and went to the US to study. When I returned to Korea in 1979, I

found an explosive local music scene. The folk musicians were flourishing, and rock bands

like Shin Jung Hyun & Yup Juns, Sanulrim, and Songgolmae were also active during this

time.

Most of all, college song clubs were gaining in popularity—and they were all singing in

Korean! Having mostly sung English-language songs before, I found Korean-language

ballads and rock music both unfamiliar and deeply moving.

Korea’s Spirit of Resistance

 

That was the 1980s, right? Now, nearly half a century later, the Korean Wave has

positioned itself at the heart of global pop culture. What do you think facilitated

Korea’s transformation from a cultural colony to a nation that produces and exports

culture?

South Korea’s rapid economic and technological development played a key role in the

emergence of cultural industries in the mid-1990s. The digital revolution also facilitated the

rapid dissemination of cultural content.

But aside from these necessary conditions, which have been amply documented, I think a key

sociocultural factor lies in Korea’s historical struggles. Korea has historically been a small

nation within the vast Sinocentric world order. The country had to make extraordinary efforts

to maintain a degree of independence and autonomy, never having experienced a prolonged

era as a dominant power. Its struggle to escape poverty was exacerbated by the turmoil of the

late Joseon Dynasty and the colonial period under Japanese rule, ultimately reaching its peak

with the devastation of the Korean War. Such historical struggles nurtured a spirit of

resistance that I believe serves as fuel for the global spread of the Korean Wave.

 

How have you seen this spirit of resistance manifest?

As is well known, South Korea was ruled by successive military dictatorships after the

Korean War—first under Park Chung-hee, who came to power in a 1961 military coup, and

then under Chun Doo-hwan, who seized power in 1979 after Park’s assassination. In 1980,

the Chun Doo-hwan regime violently suppressed Gwangju citizens’ protests against martial

law, an incident dramatized in Han Kang’s Human Acts.  

As news of the Gwangju Massacre spread, anti-dictatorship struggles broke out among

ordinary citizens. Many university students participated in this political resistance. In 1979, I

returned to Korea from the US and took a university faculty position. I found that students

were not attending regular classes but holding their own seminars and participating in street

demonstrations, chanting the words “Overthrow the dictatorship!” The student

demonstrations developed into a nationwide civic movement and finally ended the military

dictatorship in the spring of 1987. The democratic citizens of Korea experienced a great

victory.

Meanwhile, starting in the mid-1980s, women began to protest institutionalized gender

discrimination such as the hoju system, which only allowed men to be heads of family, and

the “marriage retirement” system, which required that women resign from their jobs upon

marriage. Women published their own magazines and organized events such as the Anti-Miss

Korea and Menstruation Festival. Around that time, I formed a group called Another Culture

alongside fellow professors, students, writers, and office workers and we held feminist

seminars and published magazines and books that became popular, selling over 10,000 copies

each time.

I believe that these struggles of the 1980s and 1990s, where citizens joined forces against

injustice and sought to write a new history, laid the foundation for a solid civic

consciousness.

 

How did these political struggles pave the way for Hallyu’s emergence?

Just as youths were participating in political struggle, the Soviet Union dissolved and the

Socialist Bloc collapsed. Student activists who had been inspired by Marxism lost their

direction, and youths began to engage in social movements centered on freedom, self-

expression, and self-realization. This “New Generation” of youths drew on creative tactics to

resist the authoritarian educational system. They skipped school and formed indie bands,

roaming the streets and dancing in clubs with their baggy pants, dyed hair, and body

piercings.

In 1992, the music group Seo Taiji and Boys burst onto the music scene with songs that

encouraged youths to fight the establishment and create their own world. This marked the

beginning of K-pop as we know it. Film and theater also thrived under the freer political

climate of the democratic republic. Bong Joon-ho and Park Chan-wook both made their first

films during this time. In television, dramas like What Is Love (1991) and Jealousy (1992)

depicted a world no longer solely centered around the patriarchal family, while Son and

Daughter (1992) confronted the issue of Korean gender inequality head on. Sandglass

(1995), which provided an intimate look at the ordinary lives tragically upended by military

dictatorship, captivated the entire nation.

Women and young people who wanted to become free individuals appeared on the stage of

history. They set out to create their own lives as creative subjects, breaking away from the era

of authoritarianism. It was the beginning of a movement to recover what Habermas described

as the “lifeworld,” the sphere of everyday life that had been colonized by repressive systemic

mechanisms.

Haja Center: An Autonomous Zone for Youth

In 1999, you founded the Seoul Youth Factory for Alternative Culture, also known as

the Haja Center, to provide a space for youths to pursue their own ideas and interests.

Can you tell us a little about the genesis of Haja Center and the role it played in this

recovery of South Korea’s lifeworld?

During this period of historical transition, I realized that we must urgently focus on not only

the women’s movement but also the youth movement. Suicide rates among teenagers were

increasing due to the stress of exam-oriented education. Large number of students began to

express their discontent by disrupting the classroom in a movement called “school

collapsing.” I organized a research group on school dropouts and participated in the

presidential government committee for education reform. My sense was that while

institutional reform was necessary, alternative models should be created. The Seoul

Metropolitan Government agreed and entrusted me with the task of establishing a new youth

center in collaboration with Yonsei University. Hence, the Haja Center was born. In Korean,

“Haja” means “Let’s do it!”

Teenagers who wanted to do something other than struggle for college examinations crowded

into the Haja Center. Supported by professional staff and furnished with co-working studios,

 

Haja provided youngsters interested in creative writing, pop music, web design, and

filmmaking with an autonomous space for cultural experimentation. These youth were not

confined to the studio spaces within the Center. Instead, they frequently collaborated with

activists and artists from Hongdae’s underground indie scenes, forming close relationships

and growing through shared projects and experiences. In many ways, the Haja Center was a

radical experiment in creating new models of youth engagement—an experiment that might

have never emerged if not for the shock of the 1997 IMF Financial Crisis.

 

One of Haja Center’s notable alumni is Moon Ji-won, the screenwriter of the acclaimed 2022

K-drama Extraordinary Attorney Woo. Haja graduates have gone on to make their mark

across different sectors of the cultural industry, including in hip-hop, theater, film, television,

and design. Renowned rapper The Quiett is a former member of Haja’s hip-hop studio, and a

few years ago, his fans visited and donated to the Center in celebration of his birthday.

Today, the experimental atmosphere that once defined Haja may be harder to find, but many

of the Center’s former students remain active in fields connected to the Korean Wave.

From Cultural Revolution To the Neoliberal Wave

 

You mentioned the 1997 IMF Financial Crisis. What role did it play in this cultural

revolution of the 1990s?

Many of the era’s cultural experiments, including Haja, were made possible by a kind of

national consensus to overcome the crisis that the IMF bailout brought on. For about a decade

after the IMF crisis, before the full force of neoliberalism swept in, South Korea underwent a

unique period of grassroots transformation. The country recovered from the Financial Crisis

through collective effort, and the outstanding performance of the national football team

during the 2002 World Cup inspired tremendous confidence. During this time, youth and

women led alternative educational movements, cultural projects, ecological activism, and a

wide range of indie and underground initiatives.

Key figures of the Korean Wave—such as the director Bong Joon-ho, screenwriters Kim

Eun-sook and Kim Eun-hee, and the founders of the “Big 3” K-pop entertainment

agencies—came of age during this era. They developed their organizational skills through the

democratization movement of the 1980s and honed their expressive capacities in the cultural

ferment of the 1990s.

But things have changed dramatically. As neoliberalism becomes more dominant, the

sociologist Hong-Jung Kim has argued that modern Korean society is driven by what he calls

“survivalism”—a collective mentality and an affective regime that prioritizes survival above

all else. This mindset, Kim contends, is what enabled Korea to navigate not only war, but also

dictatorship, democratization, and rapid economic growth. Today, the entertainment industry

is shaped by a survivalist logic of “win or perish.” The intense discipline and relentless self-

training exhibited by contemporary idols and actors stems from this entanglement of

neoliberalism and survivalism.

The Korean Wave has become a massive industry. Of the roughly one million aspiring idols,

only around 300 achieve stardom. Watching K-pop audition programs is like watching Squid

Game—a brutal competition where contestants pour their entire beings into the performance,

and the last one standing emerges as a lonely hero. Behind the glamorous global stars lies the

creation of a vast underclass. This is the reality of Korea’s so-called “Sampo generation,” a

term describing youth who have given up on dating, marriage, and childbirth. Economic

precarity and existential anxiety have fueled gender conflict, giving rise to increased

misogyny and gender-based violence.

Is today’s Korean Wave the ultimate triumph of neoliberalism, then? Back in 2005, you

raised concerns about the commodification of Hallyu.

Yes, 20 years ago, I asked if Hallyu should be understood as culture or as commodity. In

truth, it is both. Some of the early K-pop music videos featuring girl groups bordered on the

pornographic. Many dramas were also extreme in their sensationalism. These were made

purely to sell, and I wasn’t sure they had staying power.

But it’s complicated. Today, the “K” in K-wave has become more than just an abbreviation

for Korea—it’s a genre and a brand in itself, functioning as a shared language that connects

people around the world. Whether this phenomenon is a gift or a destructive force is hard to

say, especially as the world enters an era marked by escalating conflict and imminent

collapse.

 

That said, I do believe that Korean pop culture still holds potential for challenging neoliberal

survivalism. At the very least, it offers comfort and solidarity to people on the peripheries of

the world system. Many K-dramas revisit themes of anti-colonial resistance and democratic

struggle. Perhaps those who have experienced imperial violence or authoritarian rule in their

own regions find something familiar and inspiring in these stories. They point toward

something beyond mere survival—toward resilience, hope, and transformation. And we see

these everyday forms of resistance not only on screen, but also in real life.

When Life Gives You Tangerines: Mutual Care in a Time of Precarity

 

In my own work, I’ve been particularly interested in K-dramas that explore how

everyday life lived alongside others becomes a site of resistance against broader

structures of oppression. I’m thinking of shows like Misaeng (2014), Dear My Friends

 

(2016), My Mister (2018), When the Camellia Blooms (2019), Our Blues (2022), My

Liberation Notes (2022), and the recently concluded When Life Gives You Tangerines.

Speaking of When Life Gives You Tangerines, I saw that the Netflix production team

recently visited Seonheul Village to film the grandmothers as they watch the drama. The

grandmothers’ joy feels like a real-life example of the kind of healing and resistance

that becomes possible when people come together to do what they love—just like what

the Haja Center did for the youth. Can you tell us more about Netflix’s visit to Seonheul

Village?

The Netflix promotional team learned about these grandmothers and, as part of their

campaign, proposed filming the grandmothers watching the first two episodes of the show.

Since they didn’t have access to Netflix at home, the grandmothers gathered at my house to

watch the episodes together. Their reactions—laughter, tears, and quiet nods of

recognition—were deeply heartfelt. The promotional video went viral, resonating with

audiences far beyond the village.

Soon after, the production team invited the grandmothers to paint scenes inspired by the

drama and to exhibit their works at the “When Life Gives You Tangerines Geumeundong

Village Festival,” an event in Seoul that Netflix organized to celebrate the drama’s successful

run. Eight grandmothers made the journey to Seoul, joined on their trip by an art teacher, a

few friends, and 30 young villagers. Three of the grandmothers needed wheelchairs. IU, who

attended the event, was visibly moved by the exhibition, and she warmly embraced each of

the grandmothers.

While in Seoul, the group stayed at a hotel right next to the Haja Center, and Haja students

who had once visited Seonheul to paint with the grandmothers remembered the bond. The

students prepared a breakfast full of care: rolled omelets, soybean paste soup, octopus jeotgal

(salty preserved seafood), and rice cakes. There was even a charming little mishap—the rice

did not cook in time because someone forgot to start the rice cookier!

Since then, the grandmothers have become unofficial ambassadors for the drama. The

popular Jeju YouTube channel Mworaeng hamaen (which translates into “what are you

talking about?”) visited the grandmothers to watch the drama together, and many videos

featuring the grandmothers now circulate widely on YouTube and Instagram. We’re now

preparing for another exhibition this May.

In a serendipitous twist, Pisa, a Haja alum who currently works in cultural planning in Dubai,

happened to visit Seoul when the grandmothers were exhibiting their work. Inspired by what

she saw, Pisa proposed organizing an exhibition in Dubai to celebrate the 45th anniversary of

the establishment of diplomatic relations between South Korea and United Arab Emirates.

All of this reminds me of how long connections can last and how intimately the local and the

global are now intertwined.

It’s moving to see how popular culture can create new ties between people. This reminds

me also of the young women collectively waving K-pop light sticks at the recent

impeachment rallies against Yoon Suk Yeol. What do you make of this phenomenon?

What’s unfolding there feels like the civic expression of a sensibility long cultivated through

fan culture. I was moved by the story about how those who could not attend the rallies in

person sent warm coffee and kimbap to protestors—a gesture rooted in fan community

 

practices. Though the generation now in their 20s and 30s has been shaped by neoliberal

individualism, fan culture has nurtured its own ecology of care. One fan’s words stayed with

me: “I came out to the streets because I couldn’t let my beloved singer live in a country like

this.” That kind of loyalty transcends entertainment and takes on a political significance. In

turn, celebrities like IU, Girls’ Generation, and NewJeans prepared food, drinks, and hot

packs for fans who attended the protests, where Girls’ Generation’s debut song “Into the New

World” was sung as a protest anthem.

In the world of fandom, there’s a longstanding tradition of fans offering extravagant gifts to

idols (jogong, meaning “tribute”) and idols responding with their own gestures of gratitude

(yeokjogong, meaning “reverse tribute”). What’s striking is how this ethos of mutual care has

expanded into the civic space, becoming a new form of protest culture. It’s no longer just

about personal survival. Fans and stars alike are building a world of devotional care. The verb

“추앙하다,” which Yeon Mi-jeong in My Liberation Notes uses when she asks Mr. Gu to

“revere” her, comes to mind—the Sino-Korean word suggests an intense admiration and

unconditional support. In a time of apathy and disconnection, I believe such devotion and

admiration carries profound meaning. I want to explore the civilizational depth of admiration

itself. I am also curious about why the majority of fans are women.

Are there books you would recommend for those who want to learn more about Hallyu?

I want to recommend Kang Jun-man’s History of Korean Wave: From the Kim Sisters to BTS

| Why Are People Crazy About BTS and Parasite? (2020) and Hong Seok-kyung’s BTS On

the Road (2023).

Any last thoughts you’d like to share with us?

This year marks the 25th anniversary of the Haja Center, and we’re planning a kind of

homecoming—a gathering of old friends, collaborators, and dreamers. Haja alumni are now

scattered across many fields, riding the momentum of the Hallyu wave. Some are living fast-

paced, successful lives, while others are still searching or perhaps rebuilding after early

achievements. But regardless of where they are, the spirit of Haja remains the same. Haja was

never about building a utopian movement; it is fiercely independent in spirit. We want people

to learn how to reclaim and reenchant their own lives.

Over the past 25 years, the youths who come to the Haja Center have changed. The wave of

neoliberalism in the 2010s led to a survival generation. Teenagers with tendencies very

different from the previous generation came to the Center—instead of wanting to do new

things, they came because they rejected a society in which they had to survive by harming

others. As we entered the 2020s, even those friends decreased. Instead of teenagers, it is the

university students who come, saying that they are here not to search for answers but because Haja

felt like a safe space. These students have launched the third stage of the Haja Center, one focused on

growth and care. At a time when individual survival has become paramount, these students want to

stay in this safe place for a while, sharing information and resting with people who will not harm

them. We are in an era where spaces like the Adventure’s Guild are needed so that people can meet

others and gather equipment before they embark on their adventures.

Watching the evolution of the Haja Center, I hope that the Hallyu fan communities can also

create adventure’s guilds where fans who care for and dedicate themselves to each other can

gather and start activities to save the world.