By Jason Lim
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I further found out that the Korean law mandated that he serve in the Korean military if he doesn't renounce his Korean citizenship by March of his 18th year, even though he might not have any connection to Korea between now and then. This became the ultimate Catch-22 when we realized that we had to register his birth through the Korean bureaucracy in order to gain the legal standing to then turn around and renounce his Korean citizenship. I guess this makes sense in a roundabout way since you can't renounce something that you don't have a record of having.
I bring this up because the recent Korean Supreme Court ruling in favor of Steve Yoo being allowed back into Korea reminded me of Korea's unique and somewhat twisted love-hate relationship with the mandatory military conscription and how it often leads to nonsensical norms and laws like the one above.
At the height of his popularity as a singer in 2002, Yoo chose to become a naturalized U.S. citizen just as he was about to get called up, thus avoiding military duty. The whole nation understandably felt betrayed by his duplicity. The way he went about lying about his true intentions while branding himself as the quintessential all-Korean boy was too much. Yoo, as an A-list celebrity who was attractive, articulate, sincere, religious and an all-round "nice" guy, had repeatedly volunteered his commitment to satisfy the mandatory military duty when it was time for him to serve, professing himself as a proud son of Korea.
Until he renounced his Korean citizenship and became an American, that is.
Yoo had every legal right to do so; after all, he grew up in Los Angeles and was a U.S. permanent resident. In bowing to the public outrage, however, the Ministry of Justice, barred Yoo's entry to Korea on the reasoning that rewarding Yoo by allowing him back into Korea to work as a well-known and highly-paid entertainer would undermine military morale and detract from the seriousness of mandatory military service.
It's been 17-years since the ban, and Yoo is now in his forties, far past the mandatory conscription age. The Supreme Court ruling basically said that the ban was lifted. You'd think that would be it. But someone immediately posted an online Blue House petition that asked, "As a Korean citizen, someone who has diligently served my military duty, do you think this judgment that elevates the value of a celebrity who makes a lot of money and lives well above that of the patriotism of tens of millions of conscripts?" After five days, this petition had garnered over 200,000 signatures.
If you examine the above question, two widely shared societal norms stand out. First, patriotism is equated to serving in the military. This isn't particularly unique to Koreans, but it's especially ironic since military duty is openly and universally detested and regarded as something to be avoided if at all possible. But if you actually do manage to avoid it, then you are no longer a patriot. Even worse, you are no longer a Korean citizen.
This also shows that mandatory military duty is looked at as the great equalizer ― along with death and taxes ― that everyone has to go through no matter who you are: a rite of passage to earn your right to be called a Korean and claim benefits from society. This is the dynamic that angered the Koreans so much about Yoo since he received benefits upfront but reneged when it came time for him to pay. He betrayed the underlying expectation of reciprocity.
Second, which you have to dig a bit deeper to find, is the underlying resentment that only the rich and powerful get to avoid military duty and aren't held accountable. This feeds into the larger inequality story that manifests itself as the "Hell Joseon" and other have vs. have-not narratives.
In fact, the convoluted citizenship law that I wrote about at the beginning of this column has its origins in trying to stop the birth tourism that well-to-do Korean families engaged in before 2000 ― traveling to the U.S. or Canada to give birth so that their sons could become U.S. citizens by birth and thus avoid military duty. The wealthy elite, who had benefitted the most from Korean society, now conversely had the means to avoid what was the most fundamental Korean duty of all.
Whether he knew it or not, Yoo's case intersected all of these societal landmines that blew up in his face. Which is why, even after 17 years, the anger remains fresh and relevant. Ultimately the Yoo case isn't about Steve. It's about the larger and ever-growing anger at the perceived abuse of privilege.
Jason Lim (jasonlim@msn.com) is a Washington, D.C.-based expert on innovation, leadership and organizational culture.
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