Why (Some) Koreans Want to Kill People

Light shines through the clouds over the city of Seoul. Photo courtesy of Gije Cho

I’ve always believed that the strength of a society is measured not by how it treats the best of us, but how it treats the worst. In the Europe where I was raised, a dominant idea was that people, even the most broken, damaged, or dangerous, can be rehabilitated. That we are all products of our environments, and that punishment should serve a greater societal goal: something along the lines of reform, reintegration and responsibility.

So when I first heard my young, educated Korean friends, liberal in politics, worldly in tastes, and progressive in many areas, casually suggesting that certain criminals should be executed, I was somewhat surprised. Not shocked, exactly. Just … confused.

But why is the death penalty still socially and emotionally acceptable in South Korea? Why does a country that has built its modern reputation on technological advancement, cultural export, and progressive education still lean so readily on the logic of elimination? The answer isn’t simple.

History of terror

In the latter half of the 20th century, South Korea found itself under the rule of authoritarian leaders, figures who wielded both political and military power with an iron grip. This era of strongman governance helped propel the country toward rapid economic development, but it came at a cost: the law was often wielded as an instrument of control. The death penalty became less about punishing crime and more about silencing dissent.

One of the most infamous examples of this was the Inhyeokdang (People’s Revolutionary Party) incident in 1975. Eight pro-democracy activists were accused of conspiring with North Korea. They were tried, convicted, and executed all within the space of 24 hours. Decades later, in 2002, an official commission concluded the entire case had been fabricated by the Park Chung-hee regime to crush political opposition.

Events like these catalyzed a growing movement to end capital punishment in the country. Legal scholars, religious leaders from Buddhist monks to Catholic priests and Protestant pastors, and human rights advocates began to speak out. The death penalty was incompatible with both democratic values and basic human dignity, they said. President Kim Dae-jung, himself once sentenced to death under a military regime in 1980 before being exiled and ultimately exonerated, became one of the most powerful voices in this movement.

Though no executions have been carried out since 1997, capital punishment still exists on the books. It’s a moratorium, not an abolition. And public opinion remains complicated. In 2006, the National Human Rights Commission found that roughly 70% of South Koreans supported the death penalty. A 2017 study by Eunsuhk Choi put that figure even higher, around 83%. Most cited deterrence and retribution as their main justifications. Gender didn’t seem to affect attitudes, and perhaps most strikingly, the historical misuse of the death penalty has not substantially shaken public support.

The paradox of progressive punishment

What fascinates me most is the apparent contradiction: many of the Koreans who support the death penalty are also those fighting for gender equality, LGBT rights, and an end to various social discriminations. They are the ones rallying for inclusion and tolerance.

But perhaps it’s not a contradiction at all. Perhaps it's a deeper reflection of a moral framework rooted in emotional clarity. For many young Koreans, justice is about drawing clear boundaries: the good deserve protection; the evil deserve removal.

This binary worldview may be intensified by an overexposure to high-profile crimes and a perceived failure of the justice system to deliver meaningful consequences. When trauma and injustice are highly visible, the desire for punitive responses becomes a coping mechanism. It’s not necessarily driven by cruelty but by a desperate demand for safety and moral affirmation. It’s a failing of the law or trust in the judicial system.

But what gets lost in this emotional and moral clarity is nuance. The idea that people are shaped by their circumstances. That mental illness, trauma, poverty, and lack of support can all contribute to criminal behavior. That change, though slow and uncertain, is sometimes possible.

This isn’t to say that every offender should be forgiven or that justice doesn’t require consequences. But it does raise a question: what kind of society do we want to build? One that defines itself by who it excludes? Or one that defines itself by how it heals?

Fear, spectacle and Confucianism

Every day, Korean news reports are filled with horrific crimes: sexual assaults, child abuse, murders, and kidnapping. Such cases dominate headlines. Perpetrators are portrayed not as citizens who failed, but as monsters who forfeited their right to live. The details are graphic. The coverage relentless.

This sensationalized media fuels fear and outrage. In this context, the call for capital punishment isn’t merely about justice. It becomes something more like an emotional purge. A public act of vengeance masquerading as order. Reinforcing the idea that some people are fundamentally beyond saving. Unworthy of empathy.

This moral absolutism is emotionally satisfying. It doesn’t require systemic reflection or patience. It offers immediate clarity: this person is bad, therefore they must die. The ritual of elimination becomes a way of affirming collective values, especially in moments of societal insecurity.

Even in its modern, secular form, Korean society remains deeply shaped by Confucian values, particularly the emphasis on harmony, hierarchy, and group cohesion. In this cultural framework, criminal acts aren’t just seen as personal failings; they are betrayals of the social order.

I’m generalizing here, but where Western liberal thought often emphasizes the individual’s rights and circumstances, Confucian-influenced societies tend to prioritize stability and the well-being of the group. A person who disturbs that harmony, especially through acts of violence, is viewed not only as a threat but as an impurity. Something to be cleansed.

This way of thinking doesn’t easily accommodate rehabilitation. Forgiveness is difficult when the act itself is seen as a stain on the fabric of the community. The easiest way to restore harmony? Remove the disruptive element entirely.

The mirror and the blade

Choosing not to kill isn’t just a legal position. It’s a moral one. A belief in the complexity of the human condition. A willingness to live with uncertainty. A commitment to collective responsibility.

The desire to execute criminals is not unique to Korea. Perhaps we need to look no further than its erstwhile sponsor: Washington. Nevertheless, the ease with which it is expressed here, even among the educated and progressive, is telling. It speaks to a society still navigating the tension between tradition and modernity. Between emotion and reason, fear and hope.

I don’t think Koreans are wrong. But I do think they are different. And that difference invites reflection: on values, on histories, and the kind of justice we really believe in.

In the end, how we treat the worst among us says everything about who we are. Not just as individuals, but as a society. Because wanting to kill someone may be human. But choosing not to might just be what makes us humane.