Seoul’s Protests for Freedom - Entry #2

We’ve been living in Seoul for almost two months now, and from the moment we landed from England, I knew life here would be anything but quiet. I never imagined stepping off the plane would lead me straight into the heart of a revolution.

From week one, the protests became a regular part of our new life. At first, they were an inconvenience: loud, crowded, disruptive. We couldn’t get anywhere quickly. But as I began to understand why they were happening, everything shifted. These weren’t just random demonstrations. This was a nation in turmoil after the unprecedented declaration of martial law on December 3, 2025.

That night, the President of South Korea declared martial law — a historic and deeply controversial move, reportedly in response to an alleged national security threat. Over 1,500 troops and more than 100 military vehicles were deployed across Seoul. It became a moment that will go down in Korean history — and understandably, the people wanted their voices heard. Loudly. Clearly.

I remember when the news broke — I was still in England, in the midst of emotional chaos about our upcoming move. I questioned whether Seoul was even safe at the moment. I asked my husband, “Should we still go or wait to see how this unfolds?” But no official warnings came. So we packed, left, and landed… right in the heart of it all.

We live in Insadong, just steps from Gwanghwamun Square — the centre of the protests. More than once, we found ourselves walking straight through the crowds, quite literally, just trying to see King Sejong’s statue or cross over to visit Gyeongbokgung Palace.

But nothing compared to the area around the Constitutional Court — which you pass on the way to the traditional Hanok village. That stretch was overwhelming. Police buses were lined up bumper to bumper, closing off roads and narrowing the walking paths. Officers stood shoulder to shoulder. The crowd was thick — the energy, even thicker.

Living right in the middle of it all, avoiding the protests wasn’t an option. They were happening on our doorstep — and there was no way around them.

Even my 7-year-oldf felt squashed.” And I felt it too. Not just physically — but mentally, emotionally. The noise was relentless. I just wanted to get us away from the crowds. Even though Seoul is famously safe and I didn't feel we were in danger, deep down, I felt uncertain, protective and on guard as a peaceful moment in a protest and crowds can be unpredictable. And this was no ordinary protest, it was rooted in something deep and emotionally charged. There was a sense of respect — you could feel the discipline and purpose in the way people marched, in the way police handled things - they were safe in numbers with 15,000 officers guarding the centre.

At times it was too loud and even more intense in the final days before the court ruling on impeachment.  Speakers blaring until 11pm, speeches echoing through narrow alleys The night before, I watched from my hotel window as waves of police moved in, protesters marched, and officers ran ahead of the crowds. They set up cones, blocked roads leading into Insadong’s cultural street — right where we live. Protesters had already begun camping nearby, just steps from our door. The noise kept me up at night. My husband was away on business in Denmark, and I was alone with the kids so felt the need to be extra cautious.

And on the day of the ruling, everything intensified. The city held its breath, waiting for the announcement. We received an official warning to stay clear of the area near Gwanghawmun and the court around Friday at 11am, when the decision would be announced.

And then — it ended. The court upheld the impeachment. That night? Silence.

When I opened the window the day after, I heard birds singing again. Peace and calm had returned after weeks of noise. The sun was out and for now, Seoul is quiet again. The search for a new president begins. And life — our life, in the middle of it all — moves on.

Watching all of this unfold reminded me of the Velvet Revolution in Prague, when I was a child. In 1989, after decades of Soviet control, Czechoslovakians took to the streets to demand freedom. What started as peaceful student protests grew into a nationwide movement, and music, poetry, and peaceful gatherings united people for one cause: freedom from oppression. The revolution marked the end of 41 years of Communist rule and the peaceful transition to democracy. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I remember the TV scenes — crowds in the streets, Czech songs, voices lifted in the name of freedom. Music so powerfully uniting people to fight for something so important.

The same energy pulsed through the streets of Seoul — peaceful resistance, unity, and purpose.

This may not be my country, and I may not speak the language. But somehow, I felt connected to it all. Just like back then, during the Velvet Revolution, I didn’t know every detail — but I felt the weight of the moment. I knew it mattered.