Selective morality of plagiarism: Korea’s cancel culture masquerading as justice

This image shows a human skull sculpture. Courtesy of Huy Loc

Let us begin with a simple truth: plagiarism is wrong. It undermines the academic process, devalues genuine achievement, and betrays the idea of scholarship as a search for knowledge rather than a hunt for status. We should call it out. We should stop it. And we should absolutely not tolerate it in our universities, our government, or our culture.

But the truth doesn't end there.

What’s increasingly clear in Korea is that the battle against academic dishonesty isn’t always fought in good faith. Instead, plagiarism has become a cudgel. It’s wielded not to uphold integrity but to punish selected individuals after they've fallen from grace. It’s not an ethical standard. It’s a political strategy. Less about righting wrongs and more about ritual purification through public shaming. Like a society tossing virgins into volcanoes, sacrificing one to cleanse the sins of the many. And as expected, the vultures circle.

Take the case of Kim Keon Hee, wife of the now-impeached former president Yoon Suk Yeol. With his calamitous attempt at martial law and subsequent fall from power, Kim has become persona non grata. Or at least even more so than she was before. The public conversation has shifted from misogynistic rumors about her jobs to her time in school. Her master’s and doctoral work is now under renewed scrutiny. Selective members of the public, with torches and petitions, demand that her diplomas be revoked. But are they really doing this because they care about academic standards? Or is this just another episode of cancel culture, dressed up as righteous indignation?

Let’s not be naive. If Kim Keon Hee’s degrees were fraudulent, they should be revoked. But if we’re going to do that, then let’s also investigate the professors who passed her. Let’s review the institutions that allowed it to happen. Let’s tear down the scaffolding of an entire system that for decades looked the other way. Anything less is scapegoating. Public bloodletting to distract us from deeper rot. It’s vengeance masquerading as virtue.

The Republic of Plagiarism

This is a society, remember, in which it was not long ago considered polite, expected even, for PhD candidates to slip thick envelopes of cash to their advisory committee as a thank-you gift. Some traditions die hard, and others, like academic corruption, simply go underground and get better at hiding.

Korea has been dubbed the “Republic of Plagiarism.” In 2013, the U.S. canceled SAT testing in the country over widespread cheating; a sequel to a similar scandal in 2007. Dozens of professors were indicted for wholesale plagiarism: copying entire academic books and selling them under their own names. Presidents of prestigious universities. Award-winning scientists. If I listed all the names, you’d fall asleep halfway through. That’s how common this is.

And yet we act surprised when a politician or public figure gets caught.

The problem isn't one plagiarist here or there. The problem is structural, historical, and cultural. From 2008 to 2012, according to the Ministry of Education, 83 professors were penalized for copying other people’s work. But only 20 of them were dismissed. Most got verbal warnings, slaps on the wrist, and invitations to continue collecting their pensions.

At the root of this is a cultural obsession with credentials. Academic degrees in Korea function less as evidence of intellectual inquiry and more as ornamental medals in the societal rat race. Many of the nation's elite regard education not as enlightenment but as embellishment. A PhD isn’t something you earn; it’s something you acquire. Like a new car, a tailored suit, or, dare I say it, a handbag.

This is why so many high-profile people have plagiarized: they were never pursuing knowledge. They were pursuing prestige. Politicians and businessmen with no time to write dissertations outsource the work, or copy others, because it’s simply the price of admission to the upper class. Degrees open expensive car doors and chambers to the National Assembly. What’s written inside them hardly matters.

And then we sit in judgment when the inevitable happens. When a public figure is caught, we pounce. Not to reform the system. Not to ensure better policies. But to shame, humiliate, and erase. It’s a ritual sacrifice meant to appease the gods of morality and social media. And it feels good, doesn’t it? To stand on a pedestal and denounce someone else's sins, all while forgetting the collective rot that made those sins possible in the first place.

Political bloodsport

Let me be clear: this isn’t a defense of plagiarism. It’s a call for consistency. Either academic integrity matters or it doesn’t. Either we punish all cheaters, or we admit we’re just playing political games. You don’t get to weaponize ethics when it suits you and ignore them the rest of the time.

If Korean universities want to stop this cycle, they must stop issuing empty warnings and start dismantling the norms that enable dishonesty. If some members of the country want to claim the moral high ground, it must address its past, its complicity, and its structural failures. Not just point fingers at others when it's politically convenient.

We are tearing down individuals while leaving the structures that enabled them perfectly intact. This isn’t how mature societies deal with failure. It’s how insecure ones cope with it: by pointing outward rather than looking inward.

If Korea truly wants to evolve, academically, ethically, politically, it must stop treating disgrace as entertainment and reform as an afterthought. Because as long as this hypocrisy persists, no degree, no dissertation, no public apology will ever be enough. Until then, don’t pretend this is justice. It’s not. Far from it. It’s just bloodsport.

And the next time someone is dragged to the altar of public opinion, don’t ask whether they deserve it. Ask who benefits from their fall.