Namyeong-dong: Where Korea’s democracy was beaten, not broken

Part of a letter written by Lee Kyung-eun, an activist who miscarried after being beaten by the police, to her unborn child in May 1984. Courtesy of the Korea Democracy Foundation. Written by Lee Kyung-eun and Seo Won-gi and donated by Park Nam-sik, Park Sung-ja, and Lee Jong-ok

In May 1984, Lee Kyung-eun, who had lost her unborn child after being beaten by the police while attending a memorial rally for victims of the 1980 pro-democracy movement in Gwangju, wrote a letter to her baby.

“I wonder if there’s an angel in heaven to hold you. Mommy wants to be by your side right now…,” she wrote. “Your older brother cries ‘Mommy, Mommy’ whenever I’m out of sight, but I’ve never even heard you cry.”

In the letter, Lee recounted how she had lost her child. “On May 19, your father and I attended a memorial rally while you were still in my womb. On the way home, we were followed by the cold stares of countless plainclothes police officers. We had believed their promise that participants could return home safely, but before long our path was blocked by unknown young men and riot police. Struck by shields and batons, we fell to the ground and were trampled on mercilessly.”

Her story is one of many featured at the National Museum of Korean Democracy, which opened last Tuesday in the former Anti-Communist Interrogation Office building in Namyeong-dong, central Seoul. This building was once notorious for the torture, deaths and fabricated charges of pro-democracy activists during the military dictatorships of the 1970s and 1980s.

The National Museum of Korean Democracy, which opened on June 10 in the former Anti-Communist Interrogation Office in Namyeong-dong, central Seoul / Courtesy of the Korea Democracy Foundation

Built in 1976 under orders from what is now the National Police Agency, the facility was constructed under the pretext of interrogating suspected spies. In 1983, two floors were added, forming the current seven-story structure. Disguised as a “Marine Research Center,” it became a covert site where students, journalists and labor activists were tortured for resisting the military regime.

Though the exact number remains unknown, the Korea Democracy Foundation has confirmed that there were at least 400 victims. The building was transferred from the police to the foundation in 2018, after which it was opened to the public. After undergoing renovations and structural reinforcements, it reopened last week as a memorial museum.

Of the many people detained or killed here while campaigning for democracy, Park Jong-chul is one of the best-known. He was a 22-year-old linguistics student at Seoul National University who died after being waterboarded.

Nuns walk toward Myeongdong Cathedral in central Seoul, Feb. 7, 1987, where a memorial Mass was being held for Park Jong-chul, a student who died under police torture during a democracy movement investigation. Police blocked access to the site. Korea Times file

The former military regime of Chun Doo-hwan attempted to conceal the circumstances surrounding his death, claiming that he had died after “taking a deep breath” when an investigator hit a desk. However, public outrage over the death of the young student helped ignite the 1987 June Democratic Struggle, which resulted in direct presidential elections and the establishment of a modern democratic Korea.

Jo Jong-seop was a 34-year-old history teacher in Dangjin, South Chungcheong Province, who had just begun his career when the incident occurred. Now aged 72, he still remembers the tense political climate at the time.

“When news broke that Park had died, there was a noticeable shift in the public mood. People were angry,” Jo told The Korea Times. “Namyeong-dong was literally a place where life or death could be decided back then.”

Jo said that it wasn’t an environment in which people could openly criticize the president.

“People would talk freely about politics at bars and private gatherings," he said. "But there were plainclothes officers everywhere, even on university campuses. If you were unlucky, things could end badly. So, yes, people were cautious.”

An unidentified man runs during a pro-democracy protest in Busan, June 26, 1987. Korea Times photo by Go Myung-jin

When asked if he knew that people were being tortured in the very building he was now touring, Jo said, “We knew people were being taken in. But the government called them communists, and that’s how most people saw it.”

The museum is divided into two sections: M1, which is open to the public without the need for a reservation, and M2, which requires advance booking and is housed in the former interrogation facility.

Due to its graphic content and immersive sound design depicting scenes of torture, access to M2 is restricted to visitors aged 6 and older. Those aged under 12 must be accompanied by a guardian. Children under 12 are not permitted in the special investigation room on the third floor, which features detailed descriptions of torture methods.

The spiral staircase at the former Anti-Communist Interrogation Office in Namyeong-dong, central Seoul, is seen in this June 10, 2020 file photo. It was once used to bring torture victims to upper floors. Korea Times file

The exhibition hall features faithfully recreated interrogation rooms and torture devices that were once used at the facility. One of the victims was Noh Hyang-gi, a journalist who was tortured in connection with the 1980 Journalists Association Bulletin case.

“They stuffed red pepper powder and water into socks that I had been wearing for days and forced them up my nose,” Noh later testified. “I passed out several times… One day, while I was tied up and hanging limp, Lee Geun-an (an officer infamous for torturing pro-democracy activists under Korea’s military regimes) came over, poked my stomach with his finger, and said, ‘No intestinal rupture. We can pour more water.’”

The rooms were designed specifically for interrogation purposes. Desks and chairs were bolted to the floor to prevent resistance during lengthy sessions, while narrow windows minimized the risk of suicide. Wooden soundproof panels prevented screams from escaping, and the maze-like layout kept detainees disoriented.

The room on the third floor where interrogations and torture took place / Korea Times photo by Park Ung

“The guide said that nobody ever left this third-floor investigation room alive, so there are no firsthand accounts — only rumors,” said Kim Kyung-deok, a 25-year-old student. “Seeing it in person was chilling. I kept thinking about the people who were tortured here for being pro-democracy. Would I have had the courage to do the same?”

Inside the exhibition hall, visitors can find artifacts donated by people who took part in the democratization of Korea. The most moving items are the handwritten letters.

One such note, written by Yoon Young-gyu, who was imprisoned in May 1980 for his involvement in the pro-democracy movement, contains some practical instructions for his wife. “Please contact Uncle and ask him to repay the 2,500 won (roughly $80 today) that we owe the tailor. Don’t worry too much. Tell the children that their father is in Seoul studying.”

On May 30, 1980, Kim Eui-ki, a student at Sogang University, took his own life after leaving behind a final letter. In it, he urged his fellow citizens to stand up for democracy.

“We now stand at a crossroads. Will we live in constant fear and anxiety, like dogs and slaves? Or will we look up at the open sky, breathe freely as free people should, and sing the song of victory?”

A final letter written by Kim Eui-ki, a Sogang University student who took his own life while participating in the pro-democracy movement, urges citizens to rise up for democracy. Courtesy of the Korea Democracy Foundation. Written by Kim Eui-ki and donated by the Christian Institute for the Study of Justice and Development

The fifth floor, which is the final level open to the public, houses the investigation rooms. These are the only preserved interrogation spaces from the military regime era.

The facility was originally designed with 18 rooms, connected by a spiral staircase and a small lift for the discreet transport of detainees from the first floor.

Remnants of red and yellow paint are still visible on the soundproofing panels between rooms 504 and 511. Some survivors later testified, “We were taken to the red or yellow room for torture. The colors alone triggered intense fear.”

Of all the rooms, only Room 509 remains in its original 1980s condition. Park Jong-chul died in this very room on Jan. 14, 1987, after being waterboarded.

Everyone who visited the museum, from those who lived through the pro-democracy movement to younger visitors who know of it only through stories, brought their own reflections with them.

Cha Sung-uk, a 46-year-old sixth grade teacher, said he was deeply moved by the pro-democracy activists’ records on display, as they reminded him of conversations he had with older people during his time at university, when he only caught the tail end of the movement.

“I vaguely remember hearing those stories back then,” Cha said. “But at the time, they didn’t feel real to us. We thought democracy had already been won.”

He explained that by the time he started university, Korea’s democratization movement had largely come to an end, and those who had taken part were regarded as figures of the past.

“Seeing these artifacts today, though, left me with a heavy heart,” he said.

Moved by the exhibition, he recalled a favorite line from a poem: “There’s a line that says, ‘Freedom smells of blood.’ Having visited this memorial today, I realize that the freedom we enjoy came at the cost of so much bloodshed.”