David Tizzard is a professor at Seoul Women’s University, holds a PhD in Korean Studies, and hosts the Korea Deconstructed podcast. He has lived and worked in Seoul for more than two decades. Reach him at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.
Korea in Ten Words: (7) Minsim
Pedestrians walk the street in Seoul in this undated photo. Courtesy of Wal17
By David A. Tizzard
In Korea, the people’s opinion is often described as the voice of heaven: the heart of the nation. Even under the rigid hierarchy of the Joseon Dynasty, "minsim," the collective will or sentiment of the people, was seen as a vital element of governance. Though the monarchy was absolute in theory, kings were still advised by Confucian scholars and civil officials who cited minsim to sway royal decisions. If the hearts of the people turned cold, it was believed that the ruler had lost the Mandate of Heaven (cheonmyeong). Effective Korean politics can therefore only be achieved by properly understanding what the people think and acknowledging what they hold in their hearts. It was this understanding that brought the Confucian philosopher Yulgok to say that minsim is the will of heaven. In Confucian tradition, rulers were expected to rule with virtue.
We see early traces of this in the Donghak Peasant Movement of 1894, which arose from deep dissatisfaction with corrupt officials and growing foreign intrusion. That rebellion, while ultimately suppressed, has since been interpreted as a raw expression of minsim: the people’s moral outrage transforming into organized defiance. Fast-forward nearly a century, and the 1980 Gwangju Uprising stands as a more recent and tragic embodiment of that same sentiment. The state sought to crush it, but over time, the narrative has shifted: what was once labeled sedition is now seen as a heroic stand against authoritarianism, righteous and necessary.
Today, if you scroll through Korean news articles or watch political coverage, you’ll encounter the word minsim regularly, sometimes 10 or 15 times in a single piece! Of course, every democracy acknowledges the importance of public sentiment. But Korea’s relationship with it is more intense, more performative, and at times, more volatile.
Minsim in Korea is not a static ideal. It is emotional. It shifts quickly, often unpredictably. And leaders are not judged solely on policy or outcome, but on how visibly and humbly they respond to crises. They bow deeply, cry publicly, and deliver scripted apologies, not simply as political theater, but as ritual gestures designed to appease an often unforgiving public conscience.
Modern minsim
It would be a mistake to equate minsim with public opinion. The latter is a modern construct, rooted in the social sciences. It refers to the measurable aggregation of individual views within a population on a specific issue. Polling companies collect data, statisticians run regressions, and news broadcasters tell us with scientific precision what percentage of the public supports a given policy. Emotions are quantified. Thoughts are reduced to percentages. A nation’s heartbeat translated into charts and graphs.
Minsim, by contrast, resists such simplification. It is not always spoken aloud. Often, it lies dormant; hidden in the folds of culture and memory. Silent. Sleeping. But when it awakens, it carries a power that can shake institutions and unseat leaders. The 19th-century British traveler Isabella Bird Bishop once described it as the “gusts of popular feeling.” That phrase still resonates. Minsim is not simply what people think; it’s what they feel, deeply and collectively. It is moral. It is emotional. And it can be devastating.
This undercurrent remains central to how politicians are judged in South Korea. To succeed here, a political party must do more than set a platform, it must reduce the gap between its official stance and the minsim of the people. Those who thrive in Korean politics are those who understand this dance. Those who align their message, not just with logic or ideology, but with the moral and emotional undercurrents of the nation.
Shortly after losing to then-President Park Geun-hye, Moon Jae-in reflected on this very lesson. In his book “1219: The End is the Beginning,” he wrote, “What is the point of party sentiment that is disconnected from the minsim?” In doing so, he echoed the approach of his mentor and friend, President Roh Moo-hyun. After a stinging loss in the 2006 local elections, Roh declared, “I humbly accept the minsim. I will listen to the voice of the people in the future.” Nobel Peace Prize laureate Kim Dae-jung was even more direct: “Politics that ignores minsim can never succeed.”
This tradition continues. On visits to the Honam region, new President Lee Jae-myung often likened minsim to a “rod of discipline” — a traditional tool once used by teachers to correct unruly students. In this analogy, the people are not just voters, they are moral overseers. And politicians, if they wish to remain legitimate, must accept correction.
Lee’s actions since taking office have demonstrated his deep sensitivity to this sentiment. When Oh Kwang-soo was removed from his post as chief presidential secretary for civil affairs just five days into the job, it was not due to any confirmed wrongdoing. It was because of minsim. Public sentiment demanded it. Oh accepted his fate without protest, stating that he wished to preserve momentum for the new administration. Guilt and innocence, legality or due process … these were secondary. What mattered most was alignment with the people's will.
It is this same minsim that swept Yoon Suk Yeol into power, and just as swiftly turned against him, particularly after his reckless flirtation with martial law. The minsim that ushered in Lee Jae-myung now seems to desire something different: unity, dialogue, and a greater sense of inclusion. Lee has responded by recalibrating his party’s positions. Gone are the polarizing debates over gender; in their place, a more centrist focus on economic growth and pragmatic governance. Even the smallest gestures matter: multi-colored ties worn during debates, symbolic nods to pluralism and balance. These details may seem superficial, but in a political culture guided by feeling as much as reason, such gestures carry weight. And yet, this is the ideological trick! The leader who bows before minsim appears humble, but he is staging power, reinforcing the illusion that the people are in control.
And herein lies a paradox of liberal democracy. On the one hand, governance must reflect public sentiment. On the other, the modern state is tasked with pushing society forward, towards justice, inclusion and long-term goals. These two imperatives often collide.
Media, Manipulation and Minsim
In the 21st century, minsim has migrated from newspapers and neighborhood chatter to the frictionless circuits of the internet. This digitization has transformed how political outrage and social support manifest. A single scandal can ignite into national reckoning overnight, with online fury evolving into ritualized calls for justice. We saw this in the aftermath of the 2014 Sewol Ferry disaster. What began as grief and disbelief soon hardened into mass mobilisation: the historic candlelight protests. Minsim was no longer silent. It was visible, illuminated by yellow flames.
Today, influencers, streamers, and digital activists are political actors. They shape public narratives through memes, emotion and moral storytelling, often with more power than policy wonks or news anchors. Minsim no longer merely a reflection of collective feeling but instead a tool or a weapon. A fever.
Political leaders frequently invoke this minsim to justify their actions, presenting decisions as expressions of the people’s will. But this raises a deeper question: are they governing by principle, or simply surfing the waves of popularity? When minsim dominates unchecked, minority voices risk being drowned out. New or uncomfortable ideas are dismissed with cries of “sigisangjo” … it’s too early. The tyranny of the majority is cloaked in the language of national feeling.
Complicating things further is the question of measurement. Minsim is elusive. Unlike polling data, it doesn’t come with confidence intervals or sample sizes. People often generalize from the views of those around them. But because each of us belongs to a different social network, our perceptions of public sentiment are inherently distorted. Regionalism and class will show you that there is no singular minsim in Korean.
My Korean politics professor once described minsim like this:
“You see, the people are the water. And the ruler is the boat. The boat sits atop the water, high, above them. It is the people who elevate the ruler. But at the same time, it is the water that can capsize the boat. Just as the people can overthrow their ruler.”
Minsim can lift. Minsim can drown. And wise leaders would do well to remember which one they’re riding.
Moralizing
The reverence for minsim in Korean political discourse betrays less a respect for democratic principles than a lingering loyalty to neo-Confucian romanticism. The notion that the “people’s heart” speaks with divine authority conveniently bypasses the need for liberal values such as individual rights, constitutionalism, or objective legal standards. That a presidential secretary can be dismissed not for guilt or error, but for offending minsim, should alarm anyone who claims to value rule of law. Yet such incidents are not anomalies, they are the logical consequence of elevating sentiment over principle.
We might recall that Cicero, watching the Roman Republic collapse around him, warned that popular sentiment is easily bribed and easily deceived. Today, Korean politicians cry, bow and resign not in the name of law, but of minsim. Is this democracy, or is it something more medieval dressed in modern garb? If justice is to mean anything, it must sometimes resist the crowd, not always placate it. Korea’s challenge, like any maturing democracy, is to recognize that the voice of the people may be sacred, but it is not always sane.