Updated English translation available on April 20

 Updated English translation available on April 20

 [Cover Story · Human Rights #2]

The Human Rights of Sexual Minorities: Where We Stand and What Lies Ahead

— After the Rainbow Sit-in and the Seongbuk-gu Incident, What Should We Do?

Simple, and Yet Difficult

I was asked by the newsletter editor-in-chief to write an article on the theme “The current state and challenges of LGBTQ+ rights as seen through the Rainbow Sit-in and the Seongbuk-gu incident.” Depending on how one looks at it, this topic is both simple and difficult. Put briefly, one could say: “Across administrative and political arenas, there are comprehensive attempts to erase the existence and human rights of sexual minorities, and sexual minorities must fight back against this.”

“The current state of LGBTQ+ rights revealed through these incidents? In institutional politics, LGBTQ+ rights are being ignored, while hate groups that enable this neglect are becoming more organized and amplifying their voices. The challenge? We need to build greater strength and fight more effectively. How? By laying the groundwork to broaden awareness of LGBTQ+ rights and responding proactively to pressing issues. And if we do that? We may gradually overcome prejudice and hatred and win our rights.”

However, statements like these have been repeated ever since the 2007 Anti-Discrimination Act controversy. As a result, it is not easy to effectively capture the terrain as it subtly shifts over time and through successive incidents. This difficulty applies to the growing capacities of LGBTQ+ communities and movements, to the increasingly fragmented and expanding forces of so-called “anti-homosexuality” groups, and also to the international environment that directly and indirectly shapes domestic conditions. It is hard to sum all of these changes up in a single sentence.

Repetition and Change: A Spiral Structure

From the perspective of both domestic and international human rights standards, sexual orientation and gender identity should clearly be specified as grounds for non-discrimination. Yet we repeatedly see that although protections related to these categories are included in initial drafts, they are ultimately deleted after protests from Protestant-centered “anti-homosexuality” groups, with (local) governments or (local) councils stepping in to carry out those deletions. Still, within this repetition, we experience change.

Sometimes it feels like failure, sometimes like success—but participation and solidarity among sexual minorities expand, and social attention grows. These situations inevitably open up spaces for rational discussion around sexual orientation and gender identity, within which the experiences, voices, and narratives of LGBTQ+ individuals become more widely known and gain strength. Sexual minorities remain desperate amid prejudice, insult, and violence, yet they are increasingly less afraid to fight. All of this unfolds within that spiral.

This interplay of repetition and change lies at the heart of understanding both the present condition and the challenges of LGBTQ+ rights. While similar patterns seem to recur whenever an institutional issue comes to the fore, the specific positions and ripple effects shift in a spiral-like structure. This tells us, on the one hand, that the present state of LGBTQ+ rights does not change easily—and on the other, that creating better change will require even greater effort.

The Keyword: “Dignity”

It is worth turning what we have discussed so far back toward our own experiences. Let us recall: last December, during the Rainbow Sit-in, why did you head to Seoul City Hall? What did you feel and think in the City Hall lobby? And how were you after the sit-in ended? Even if you could not be there, what was it like for you as you sent donations, supplies, or messages of support and concern in your heart?

And regarding the Seongbuk-gu incident involving the “Youth Rainbow Together Support Center,” how did you feel sitting in the collective meeting with the Seongbuk-gu district head? What did you think needed to be done—and what still needs to be done and can be done? Or perhaps before even articulating those thoughts, what emotions swept over you? And for those who were not present but heard the news—how did it feel then? And how does it feel now, more than two months later?

Although we may not have talked enough about these experiences, it seems clear that emotions such as anger, sadness, injustice, betrayal, humiliation, regret—and also joy, confidence, pride, awe, relief, and gratitude—intersected. Cutting through all of these emotions was the key concept of dignity. As we re-experienced mockery, disregard, and contempt on a personal level, sexual minorities sought to demonstrate—socially and collectively—that even if they were not treated with dignity, they were already inherently dignified.

Of course, human dignity is the foundation of all rights, and sexual minorities have long spoken about this. But at the end of 2014, Korean society witnessed a stark and dramatic denial of sexual minorities’ dignity. In response, many people demanded that dignity not as an abstract or dispersed notion, but as something with a tangible, visible face.

Seoul City Hall, at the closing press conference of the Rainbow Sit-in opposing discrimination against sexual minorities in relation to the enactment of the Seoul Citizens’ Human Rights Charter. 2014.12.11.

A Pathway to Protecting and Restoring Dignity

Within this cycle of repetition and change, we will inevitably encounter such moments again. Yet as always, each phase also takes on a new form. How, then, can we respond more proactively and effectively? How can we prevent the erosion and disregard of sexual minorities’ dignity, and secure rights, love, and change?

There are many ways to approach an answer. One could lay out activities aimed at reducing discrimination and violence across various domains, responses to broader backsliding in human rights, individual struggles to secure specific rights, or strategies tailored to the circumstances of particular organizations or individuals. Detailing all of these exceeds my capacity. What may be possible, however, is to reaffirm the role that Chingusai must play.

One striking aspect of the Rainbow Sit-in was the movement within the gay community. Many people gathered at the City Hall sit-in site, took the lead in fundraising, and raised their voices. It was also a moment when one could tangibly feel the growth and expanded capacity of the community. As a community-based organization, Chingusai must extend this momentum—strengthening its own capabilities while also empowering the community to confront discrimination, prejudice, insult, and violence.

Attacks based on sexual orientation or gender identity are not directed at just one individual but at the entire community. Therefore, it is not for the individual who suffers discrimination or violence to resolve alone; the community must respond together. This is the role Chingusai must fulfill. When discrimination or violence occurs because you are a LGBTQ+ or because you are living with HIV/AIDS, we must be able to fight together—and when you are placed in danger, we must stand beside you to help secure your safety.

To do so, we need to work with our members to identify how to respond when discrimination or violence against sexual minorities occurs, or when sexual minorities are placed at risk; to systematize those methods; to ensure members are familiar with them; to publicize them effectively; and to step forward together in active response. The accumulation of such experiences will give rise to responses that are increasingly mature, wise, and capable of producing real change.

In this way, Chingusai must become a conduit for protecting and restoring the dignity of sexual minorities. Of course, this should go beyond Chingusai acting as a response mechanism to discrimination and violence; it must also involve efforts to transform public institutions so that they, too, respond more appropriately.

Seongbuk District Office, at a press conference condemning the non-execution of the Youth Rainbow Together Support Center project and police violence. 2014.12.31.

Our Stories and Voices of Support, First

Chingusai has long placed importance on coming out. We have believed that by revealing one’s identity, sharing daily life and personal narratives with those around us, society can gradually be changed. Yet the impression persists that coming out is something only a very few can do. Without the ability to respond to the discrimination and violence that may follow coming out, it often feels impossible.

In such circumstances, coming out requires not only individual strength, but also a community in which Chingusai can stand as a supportive friend—working together to develop ways of responding. Only then can more people gain the confidence and a “shoulder to lean on,” move beyond “double lives,” and live openly as sexual minorities.

Alongside this role—or through it—Chingusai and each of its members must broaden shared understanding with those around them. Through our many stories, people beside us will come to fight alongside us. This becomes even more possible when we do not turn away from the realities of others’ suffering, but stand with them. This is precisely what expanding solidarity means.

Our voices directed toward society must not fall silent. Especially online, hatred overflows and attacks sexual minorities unexpectedly, even when they do not seek confrontation. At such times, Chingusai and its members must raise even more voices of support and articulate their stories more actively, systematically, and effectively. Through the stories and voices of sexual minorities who affirm their own dignity—and of those who stand with them—we can change people, and change society.

This is the task of Chingusai. It is your challenge. And it is my responsibility as well. Creating safe spaces everywhere, making the lives and stories of sexual minorities more visible, and responding collectively and proactively to discrimination, violence, and danger—preparing in advance so that we are no longer merely subjected to harm and erasure. In doing so, we transform “repetition” into “change.” We can create actions and outcomes that go beyond the experience of the Rainbow Sit-in.

There are many things we can begin now, so that we do not have to relive the despair felt in the Seoul City Hall lobby or in the basement cafeteria of the Seongbuk-gu office. Let us start here—but not alone or in exhaustion. Let us do it together. Remembering the faces that shone at the Rainbow Sit-in, let us move forward together.

Head of Legal Support Team, Chingusai / Garam (가람)

[Cover Story ‘Presidential Election’ #1]

How to Overcome Despair – The Planning and Execution of ‘GAY SUMMIT 300’

1.

On April 15, 2017, “2017 Presidential Election: GAY SUMMIT 300” was held in grand fashion at the Central Great Hall of Cheondogyo, located in front of Unhyeongung Palace near Jongno 3-ga.
 The Central Great Hall of Cheondogyo, completed in 1921 during the Japanese colonial period, is a representative example of modern Korean architecture, known for its dignified and elegant interior and exterior. Countless historic events in Korea’s modern and contemporary history have taken place there. In such a historically significant venue, an election-related event attended by sexual minorities was held.

The event ran for approximately three hours, from 3:00 p.m. to 6:20 p.m. A total of 203 people registered, and excluding dozens of staff members, 117 participants were seated at the round tables inside the venue. Every one of these 117 participants shared, at their respective tables, the hardships they have experienced living as sexual minorities and what they hope for from the next presidential candidates. The 20 facilitators assigned to each table typed participants’ remarks as faithfully as possible and delivered them to the agenda analysis team. A total of 235 individual opinions were submitted to the team. From these, the team extracted 621 keywords, which were presented in the form of a tag cloud. Based on this analysis, the team drafted a preliminary version of the “2017 Presidential Election Gay Community Demands.”

2.

Turning back the clock to January 14, 2017, at the LT meeting where Chingusai set its annual direction and plans, the steering committee made a key decision in preparation for the upcoming presidential election. Among Chingusai’s core tasks for 2017, the first priority was designated as the presidential election, and the project direction was defined as “popular and community-participatory intervention in the presidential election.” To develop concrete plans for this task, committee members held active meetings throughout February and March, during which several guiding principles were established. First, rather than framing participants around the identity of being “gay,” the event would target the gay community as a community. Second, instead of placing high expectations on existing politicians or “LGBT-friendly” policies, the goal would be to cultivate a minimal level of political desire and critical awareness within the gay community itself, including ourselves.

There was a clear reason for deliberately setting the bar “low” from the outset. On February 13, Moon Jae-in, then former leader of the Democratic Party of Korea, stated that he “does not support homosexuality” during a meeting with conservative Protestant leaders, sparking outrage among sexual minorities. On February 16, at a gender equality forum, a lesbian participant protested, asking, “I am a woman and a homosexual—can you cut my human rights in half?” The audience responded by shouting “Later,” effectively silencing her. In the lead-up to an election, sexual minorities were once again denied even minimal recognition as a policy constituency. Watching their existence be casually erased and traded away for religious votes naturally bred anger, despair, and disillusionment.

Amid these emotions, an emergency steering committee meeting of Chingusai held that very day finalized the core framework of the event: First, to gather 300 members of the gay community and conduct roundtable discussions on politics together. Second, to confirm the event once participation reached 200 people.

On March 10, the long-awaited decision by the Constitutional Court to uphold the impeachment of President Park Geun-hye was announced, officially removing her from office. Sexual minorities, who had proudly contributed to the months-long candlelight protests, shared their joy at a queer candlelight rally held in front of the statue of Admiral Yi Sun-sin. With this momentum, the April 15 date for GAY SUMMIT 300 was finalized. Had Park not been removed, the early election—and this event—would not have been possible.

Two days before the event, the Military Human Rights Center revealed at a press conference that the Army Chief of Staff had ordered the identification and criminal prosecution of gay soldiers under Article 92-6 of the Military Criminal Act. The following day, KBS aired a malicious report, and a KBS social media manager posted hateful remarks such as “Are they filming porn?” and “Gross,” igniting further outrage. On the very day this news broke—exposing how merely being gay could lead to criminal punishment—the registration count for GAY SUMMIT 300 surpassed the 200-person threshold required to hold the event.

▲ Attorney Han Garam, who served as the moderator of GAY SUMMIT 300.

▲ Keyword statistics extracted from the roundtable discussions on the day of GAY SUMMIT 300.

3.

Participants in GAY SUMMIT 300 shared deeply personal stories about the pain of living as sexual minorities. At the same time, they spoke of the comfort, happiness, and joy found within the gay community. They identified shortcomings and needs at the levels of the state, broader society, the gay community, and individuals themselves. Their demands for presidential candidates encompassed nearly all major issues surrounding the gay community: an anti-discrimination law, same-sex marriage, conservative Protestant-led hatred, human rights education, LGBTQ political representation, repeal of Article 92-6 of the Military Criminal Act, and the reduction of stigma surrounding HIV/AIDS.

Participants also actively proposed revisions to the draft “2017 Presidential Election Gay Community Demands.” Notable suggestions included:

1. Revising “gay community” to “queer community.”
2. Retaining language on the right to diverse family structures alongside same-sex marriage.
3. Adding “violence and hate crimes” to the section on LGBTQ+ oppression.
4. Explicitly stating that the government must adhere to the constitutional principle of separation of church and state in condemning conservative Protestant lobbying.
5. Adding the “military” as a specific sector requiring  human rights protections.
6. Setting a deadline by which all presidential candidates must respond to the demands.

These revisions were incorporated on the spot, and on April 15, the final “2017 Presidential Election Gay Community Demands” were completed and read aloud collectively by all participants, bringing GAY SUMMIT 300 to a close. After minor wording edits, the demands were officially sent to all presidential candidates on April 19.

4.

The first half of the year felt like a storm. A president was impeached; new presidential candidates made openly homophobic remarks; and innocent gay soldiers were interrogated and prosecuted simply for their identity. It was a time of profound exhaustion, soaked simultaneously in despair and hope.

I believe the way to overcome despair is to share it within a community—and through that community, regain the strength to live daily life and dream again. That conviction can collapse easily, and is sometimes dismissed as naïve. But on the day GAY SUMMIT 300 was held, the faces we recognized in one another, and the strength drawn from those faces, were undeniably real. At a time when voices insist that sexual minorities’ lives are trivial, illusory, and easily disposable, I hope that this genuine memory will remain with you for a long time. For the beginning of change may well start from one carefully shaped, shared memory.

2017.1.14. At the LT for the first half of 2017, Chingusai set one of its core priorities for the year as “a popular and community-participatory intervention in the presidential election.”
 2017.2.16. At an extraordinary meeting of Chingusai’s Steering Committee, a decision was made to hold a town-hall–style event related to the presidential election with 200–300 participants
  (1) to convene a gathering of 300 gay people to discuss politics /
  (2) to proceed with the event once participation reached 200.
 2017.2.24. 1st Presidential Election Planning Meeting: participation target decided as the “gay community.”
 2017.3.1. 2nd Presidential Election Planning Meeting.
 2017.3.7. 3rd Presidential Election Planning Meeting.
 2017.3.10. The Constitutional Court rules to uphold the impeachment of President Park Geun-hye, confirming an early election for the 19th presidential race.
 2017.3.11. 4th Presidential Election Planning Meeting: event title finalized as “GAY SUMMIT 300,” teaser video approved.
 2017.3.15. 5th Presidential Election Planning Meeting.
 2017.3.16. 6th Presidential Election Planning Meeting (March Steering Committee meeting).
 2017.3.17. Release of the GAY SUMMIT 300 teaser video.
 2017.3.21. GAY SUMMIT 300 application page opens; registration begins.
 2017.3.22. 7th Presidential Election Planning Meeting.
 2017.3.23. GAY SUMMIT 300 registration surpasses 100 participants.
 2017.3.25. First Jongno promotional campaign for GAY SUMMIT 300 (held alongside Chingusai’s regular meeting).
 2017.3.27. 8th Presidential Election Planning Meeting.
 2017.3.29. Release of GAY SUMMIT 300 card news.
 2017.4.1. Completion of the official GAY SUMMIT 300 poster; second Jongno promotional campaign conducted.
 2017.4.5. 9th Presidential Election Planning Meeting.
 2017.4.7. 10th Presidential Election Planning Meeting; release of the first GAY SUMMIT 300 web promotional material (Han Garam) / third Jongno promotional campaign conducted.
 2017.4.8. Release of the second personal web promotional material for GAY SUMMIT 300 (Baek Paeng).
 2017.4.9. 11th Presidential Election Planning Meeting; facilitator orientation held.
 2017.4.12. Release of the third personal web promotional material for GAY SUMMIT 300 (Cha Sebin).
 2017.4.13. First meeting of the GAY SUMMIT 300 agenda analysis team.
 2017.4.14. Second meeting of the GAY SUMMIT 300 agenda analysis team / registration surpasses 200 participants.
 2017.4.15. Main GAY SUMMIT 300 event held; the 2017 Presidential Election Gay Community Platform finalized.
 2017.4.17. Official campaign period for the 19th presidential election begins.
 2017.4.18. GAY SUMMIT 300 article published in Hankyoreh 21.
 2017.4.19. GAY SUMMIT 300 articles published by Yonhap News, OhmyNews, and BEMINOR / the 2017 Presidential Election Gay Community Platform sent to each presidential candidate (Moon Jae-in, Hong Joon-pyo, Ahn Cheol-soo, Yoo Seong-min, Sim Sang-jung, Kim Seon-dong).

Chingusai / Teoul (터울)

[Issue 98][Feature]

<Seoul For All> #8:  What kind of LGBTQ+ center can we build in Seoul?

Starting with the LGBT Center in Los Angeles in 1969, queer communities across cities around the world—New York, San Francisco, Berlin, Beijing, and beyond—have gone on to establish centers they can be truly proud of. Today, these centers not only encourage intergenerational exchange within LGBTQ+ communities and provide education for youth, but also play central roles across a wide range of movements: offering medical and legal support to address difficulties LGBTQ+ people face locally, and engaging in negotiations around local policy.

Figure 1. The LGBT Center in Los Angeles, USA, scheduled for completion in 2019

Among them, the Los Angeles LGBTQ+ Center—visited by more than 40,000 people annually—is renowned as the largest community organization in the world supporting the broadest array of programs and services. To build a better world for queer people, it designs concrete programs with more than 600 staff members, guided by four key themes: Health, Social Services & Housing, Culture & Education, and Leadership & Advocacy.

So what kinds of programs do these centers actually run? In fact, after examining LGBTQ+ centers in Los Angeles as well as New York, Berlin, and Beijing, I found that their programs were not dramatically different. In a way, this may suggest that the challenges LGBTQ+ people face—while varying somewhat by country or culture—are fundamentally similar.

Figure 2. Main page of the Beijing LGBT Center website

First, under the theme of Health, many LGBT centers provide low-cost services such as HIV/AIDS-specialized care, primary medical services, STD testing and prevention, mental health recovery programs, and addiction recovery services. They also extensively support research and clinical trials focused on improving the health and well-being of LGBTQ+ communities.

Second, under Social Services & Housing, these centers build social safety nets for queer people in need and offer shelters they can turn to when they need them most. Services include clothing provision for homeless youth, educational scholarships, college preparation programs, employment support for transgender people and youth, and sustainable affordable housing for older adults who lack strong local networks—helping to foster diversity within queer communities.

Figure 3. Introduction page of the New York LGBT Center

Finally, particularly in the U.S. and Europe where queer communities are highly visible, centers emphasize Culture & Education by hosting performances and exhibitions, offering equivalency exam programs for queer people who missed formal schooling, and providing lifelong learning opportunities. Under Leadership & Advocacy, they run programs such as legal support for local politics and civil rights advocacy, suicide prevention initiatives, technical and legal assistance for ally organizations, and strategic training to cultivate community leaders.

Meanwhile, the queer community in London—previously somewhat removed from these developments—recently succeeded in a crowdfunding campaign to establish a London LGBTQ+ Community Center. Though they speak different languages in different countries, might it be that what ultimately drives these efforts is a shared passion to bring together the complex, hard-to-define identity of “LGBTQ+” into a common community within local society?

Figure 4. The London LGBTQ+ community, which recently succeeded in crowdfunding for a center

Of course, gathering LGBTQ+ people into a single physical space within a community will not be without challenges. Still, by bringing together this profoundly queer group—marked by diverse identities and social classes—we may gain a “community where it is safe to take root,” one fundamentally different from the communities in Korea that are currently formed around shared educational backgrounds, ages, or hobbies such as reading or sports.

If we aim to build such a community, however, there are issues we must confront head-on. In my view, the most pressing among them is homelessness and isolation among LGBTQ+ youth and elders. Studies conducted in Canada, Australia, and the United States indicate that 25–40% of homeless youth identify as LGBT. In some cities like Los Angeles, 68% of LGBT residents aged 64 and older live alone. Furthermore, research by the National Alliance to End Homelessness estimates that between 240,000 and 400,000 LGBT people in the U.S. experience homelessness at least once in their lives.

Figure 5. 2017 Youth Report published by the City of New York

The hardships they face go far beyond “housing instability.” They include indiscriminate drug use, survival sex (sexual activity undertaken to meet basic needs such as food and shelter), widespread HIV transmission, mental illness, and even suicide. Trauma experienced during homelessness, as well as discrimination and violence in shelters, further compound their suffering.

Research suggests that family rejection is the single largest factor leading to homelessness. Some argue that as same-sex marriage becomes institutionalized and LGBT visibility rapidly increases, a backlash within conservative families has led to a surge in homeless LGBTQ+ youth forced out of their homes (1, 2, 3).

So how aware are we of this problem?

Figure 6. Cover of the report “Surviving on the Streets of New York: LGBTQ+ Youth Experiencing Survival Sex”

Recently, The Outside Project, a London-based organization supporting homeless LGBTQ+ people, conducted an experiment. At a queer parade in London, they showed participants a “Coming Out Kit”—a bag containing items supposedly needed for coming out—and asked what they thought was inside. Unfortunately, most participants could not guess correctly.

How about you?
Could you guess?
 What items would you need when you come out?

The items in The Outside Project’s “Coming Out Kit” turned out to be everyday necessities: socks, a hat, a toothbrush. Numerous reports show that LGBTQ+ people face domestic and external harassment such as family violence and the breakdown of personal relationships. Even after leaving those spaces, they encounter financial hardship in maintaining housing, and discrimination from brokers and landlords when seeking accommodation. In this reality, how can the lives of LGBTQ+ people—who have stepped outside the traditional shelter of the family—unfold within a city like Seoul?

Figure 7. Video still from The Outside Project’s “Coming Out Kit” project

From this perspective, I want to reconsider the area of Jongno 3-ga. In Jongno 3-ga, a wide range of groups coexist—sometimes overlapping, sometimes not—from the elderly in Tapgol Park, including the much-discussed “Bacchus grandmothers,” to male sexual minorities, commercial ghettos, human rights organizations, and even homeless residents with some income living in the Donui-dong jjokbang (single-room occupancy) area.

Everything is related to everything else, but near things are more related than distant things.
 —Waldo Tobler, First Law of Geography

Looking ahead, the areas in which Chingusai operates within local communities will continue to expand. The banner Chingusai hung in Jongno 3-ga during the recent Seoul Queer Parade may be just the beginning of this movement. So how should Chingusai relate to the homeless residents of Donui-dong, the shop owners of Ikseon-dong, and the elderly of Tapgol Park, including the Bacchus grandmothers? And what kind of Chingusai should we strive to build in the future?

Figure 8. Chingusai in Jongno 3-ga and its surrounding area

Chingusai / Jenny (제니)

[Activity Report #2]

Is the Square Powerless?

Is the square powerless?

1.

It is devastating. Ever since December began, I have been muttering that to myself all day long. A Jeju Air (Aekyung Group) passenger plane, Flight 7C2216, exploded and 179 people died. In the face of the bereaved families’ enormous grief, I feel almost ashamed to voice my own sorrow, but I cannot hide this hopelessness. May the deceased rest in peace. It feels as if my life and the lives of my neighbors have been thrown into a gigantic dice game: if you’re lucky, if you’re not. If you’re not.

A state of martial law—something I had only ever read about in history books—was declared, and soldiers pointed their guns at civilians. Citizens who ran to the National Assembly in the middle of the night with nothing but their bodies, and Assembly workers who locked arms in a scrum and faced down the soldiers, managed to prevent the occupation of the legislature. That night, inside and outside the National Assembly, there were lesbians, gays, trans people, and bi friends whom I love. When the motion to lift martial law passed, I ran toward the Assembly with a worried heart.

As an activist, it was hard to judge what to do. Martial law had been declared, and the military and police were moving. I recognized immediately that this was a self-coup and an insurrectionary crime, but more than anything, I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t sure whether I should call for immediate civic resistance, or whether I should prioritize the safety of LGBTQ+ community members—people who could be overwhelmed by fear, isolated, and made even more vulnerable under martial law. Because the partner beside me was visibly panicked and tense, I decided first to run with them to the Chingusai office and send messages to members of the organization who were likely feeling the same way.

To be honest, I got angry when people around me said, “Don’t get shaken—let’s watch how things unfold.” From the proclamation banning political activity, it was already possible to infer that the purpose was to arrest lawmakers, and it was pretty clear this was a situation where every second mattered. But I also couldn’t irresponsibly tell people, “Risk your life and go resist right now.” That could end up stoking fear. Still—was waiting quietly until the National Assembly voted to lift martial law really all I could do? I couldn’t believe my own helplessness in the face of martial law either.

By the time I arrived at the National Assembly, the soldiers were already leaving. The main gate was still blocked by police, and I saw queer friends who had arrived earlier. They didn’t look injured—just cold. Only after receiving a message from my gay friend, an aide who had been inside the Assembly, saying he was safe, did my tension finally release. When I met him a few days later, he said that while they were locking arms and blocking the soldiers from entering, he actually felt good because the male aide next to him was handsome. It was a miserable joke, with a miserable face—something you can only say because you survived. After putting him in a taxi and sending him home once he’d collapsed from drinking, I cried for a long time at the bottom of the bar’s stairs.

When I ran to the National Assembly, I don’t know why, but I grabbed the Chingusai flag. There’s a flag covered with congratulatory messages people wrote at Chingusai’s 30th anniversary ceremony in August. Thinking back, I guess I wanted to stay connected to people—even if only like that. I needed courage, and that piece of cloth comforted me.

2.

Thirty minutes after martial law was declared, my dad called. His voice shook like someone gripped by trauma. It was the first time in my life I’d heard my father’s voice trembling with fear—and the only thing he said was: don’t leave the house. My dad used to be a communist—someone who believed in revolution. Now, I think he holds a small local post within the Democratic Party of Korea. He was elected twice as an independent city council member, and now he runs a beekeeping business and is very interested in local ecological politics. My dad never tried to step down from the role of “the intellectual,” and because of that, I never once felt we were communicating emotionally. But this time, even though it was only a phone call, I could tell so clearly—so vividly—that his hands must have been shaking too.

I was grateful he called, but that night I wished my dad had said, “Let’s go to the National Assembly together.” In fact, my partner’s mother told them to be ready in case they needed to run to the Assembly depending on how things unfolded. Maybe, in truth, I also wanted my colleagues to be the first to say, “Let’s go together.” That night I wasn’t scared—but I felt helpless enough to die. Helpless. An insurrection nearly crushed constitutional order and everyone’s rights in one stroke, and even the impeachment motion barely passed. We can’t even be sure the Constitutional Court can deliver an impeachment ruling. For an entire month, they failed to arrest the ringleader of the insurrection. Even now, the perpetrators still hold power and exercise authority as if nothing happened. As the insurrection drags on, the helplessness keeps me from sleeping.

This helplessness taught me something: it’s not that democracy fell into crisis because of martial law—we have been living all along in a democracy of permanent emergency. We think we haven’t lost face as sovereign citizens because we have the right to vote, but in reality, those who decide our “representatives” are the people who hold nomination power in major parties. In the last local elections, 494 candidates were elected uncontested. Citizens have almost no means of checking politicians who tightly control party power within the two dominant parties. And we were living in an absurdly authoritarian society where one president can veto, without limit, matters decided by 192 lawmakers.

There’s no real disagreement that bringing another authoritarian figure of a different temperament—Lee Jae-myung—to power would help address the immediate crisis. But the core background that produced this crisis remains: the threat that politics of hatred—politics that targets and tramples human rights—will grow powerful again. Disbanding the People Power Party for insurrection is important, but if, under that pretext, they once again antagonize and erase minorities the way they did under Moon Jae-in, then democracy will still be powerless. The lawyer for Kim Yong-hyun, former defense minister and a key figure in the insurrection, argued that while “sexual minorities are protected,” harming the honor of the insurrection forces is “character assassination.” Even just watching those who, in their last struggle, stoke anti-LGBTQ+ hatred makes it quite clear that hateful politics sits at the heart of this situation—yet the political establishment refuses to address it.

Since the illegal declaration of martial law, the streets and squares have opened almost every day—and one more thing keeps provoking my helplessness: the worldview expressed by a not-insignificant number of men in their 20s and 30s. They support the president’s impeachment and oppose illegal martial law, yet they don’t come out to the square. When I listen to the men around me in that age group, what they mostly say is, “It doesn’t feel like my issue.” Someone told me that on the day martial law was declared, he laughed while watching Bitcoin or stock fluctuations, or that he barely cared, thinking it would somehow work out. I once read a paper suggesting that among men, those who believe their socioeconomic status has fallen relative to their parents’ generation are more likely to be hostile toward women. It seems fairly certain that, for many of them, socioeconomic comparison weighs far more heavily in their worldview than any sense of political efficacy.

It’s widely said that young men tend to be more hostile and aggressive toward minorities, but in my view, men’s enemy is men. Of course, men are not a monolith. You either struggle to survive within hierarchies inside masculinity—or you become a “loser creep.” You can’t be an otaku, you can’t be fat, you can’t be someone who doesn’t have sex, and you can’t be gay. I want other men to stop pretending to be nice and be honest about their desire to secure socioeconomic status. That is, in a word, “cold capitalism.” If that’s their core worldview, then I can understand why so many of them foam at the mouth as they say they hate “femi-bitches.” Even within male society, relationships are hostile and competitive; anyone who criticizes their masculinity is nothing but an annoying obstacle—or a target of rage.

Throughout December, helplessness washed over me: how do we live together with people who cannot understand anyone with a different worldview, who feel not even a sliver of empathy for community, solidarity, or the value of connection? Are we once again supposed to overcome this social crisis by leaning on an authoritarian politician like Lee Jae-myung? Even when society faces a crisis severe enough to threaten collapse, how can any kind of social dialogue be possible with people who seem untouched—utterly unaffected—within their own worldview?

3.

Is the square powerless? It has been a very long time since the National Assembly and the government carried the face of the square. The media and political circles shower praise on women in their 20s and 30s for “saving democracy,” but in the National Assembly itself, you can hardly see any women in their 20s and 30s. No matter who holds power, workers, sexual minorities, disabled people, migrants/refugees, and farmers—those who have been hated and repressed—are on the front lines of the struggle to oust Yoon Suk-yeol. Yet the National Assembly is already saying that until the early presidential election, it cannot deal with controversial issues—even if they are demands from the square. Can politics in this country really contain the square? Is the square’s powerlessness inevitable?

In truth, it’s not that nothing has changed. In squares that have organized rapidly, discrimination and hatred against minorities—women, sexual minorities, disabled people, migrants—are firmly prohibited. Over and over, moving speeches pour out from citizens explaining the value of solidarity. When farmers and their tractors were blocked by police violence in Namtaeryeong, people ran there without hesitation and eventually broke through the police’s “fortress.” Even in that urgent scene, several sexual minorities stood up through the night, revealing their identities and insisting that we must stand in solidarity—and that remains vivid in everyone’s memory. Among the co-chairs representing the coalition of some 1,600 organizations leading the movement to oust Yoon Suk-yeol—Emergency Action for the Immediate Resignation of Yoon Suk-yeol & Major Social Reform—there is also Lee Ho-rim, an executive committee member of Rainbow Action Against  Discrimination.

The joyful protest culture long cultivated within the LGBTQ+ movement has carried over into the rallies to oust Yoon, and the power built through years of solidarity under the name “Rainbow Action” has formed a “Rainbow Zone” bloc in the square each time. In the square, people run from far away to receive signs reading, “A society without discrimination against sexual minorities, and without Yoon Suk-yeol,” and “Sexual minorities defending democracy.” When we said we would hold our year-end gathering in the streets and the square, Chingusai members readily agreed—and marched at the very front of the rainbow bloc holding huge rainbow placards that read “Yoon Suk-yeol, resign,” and “Long live sexual minorities.” Maybe this political structure is destined to be powerless, but if we’re going to be powerless anyway, I find myself believing we can at least be “powerless in a better way.”

At the core of every moving moment of solidarity is efficacy—the feeling that our actions matter. At the after-party for the year-end gathering, member Cheolmin said he had been terrified and struggling after martial law was declared, but he was grateful and strengthened because Giyong reminded him not to forget that we are all connected. I had been constantly blaming myself for my judgment not to join immediate civic resistance, but hearing that, I finally began to think: maybe there was no single “correct” answer for what to do that day.

The fact that I had been a source of strength for someone became strength for me. If politics can’t give us any efficacy, then perhaps we can become each other’s efficacy. Instead of fearing that dialogue will be impossible with certain groups, I began to think: even so, we must talk; rather than dismissing people for not feeling the value of solidarity, we have to push our way in somehow and expand the experience of solidarity.

We are already experiencing a kind of change. It is deeply interwoven with the history of practicing how to become one another’s efficacy and building political power together. Just as reading out a pledge for an equal protest culture may feel somewhat staged, yet the habit of reading it every time has now been applied even to massive rallies.

And in this moment, Chingusai moved through the gay community proposing that we try becoming a different kind of masculinity/non-masculinity, persuading community members and venue owners. Many people joined in, and it became a process of gathering hearts to oust Yoon Suk-yeol. The owner of HE’S Sauna in Itaewon called multiple times, read the materials closely, and even stepped forward to become a co-proposer. It made me feel that the strength of the ground we have built is not weak at all.

Under the rainbow flag, let us become one another’s efficacy, become one another’s courage, stop looking only toward the National Assembly and the government, renew our principles, and fight. I believe that keeping the square from being cut off from politics will come from our persistence. In the end, democracy is activated by our living vitality and our efficacy. Let’s not be defeated by the powerlessness imposed by institutions. Let’s fail better. Let’s be powerless—better.

LGBTQ+ Activist , Chingusai / Gi-yong (기용)

 Updated English translation available on April 20

[Field Notes]

A Gay Man Rides the Hope Bus

Writing when there is nothing in particular you want to say is a grueling task. You might ask, then why not just not write? In one of her essays, the writer Noh Hee-kyung said that “a writer is a laborer who writes eight hours a day.” She said that this kind of diligence is what makes a good writer. That, perhaps, is why I have to keep typing right now, even though I can’t quite organize what I want to share with you. Of course, I don’t consider myself a good writer, nor do I particularly aspire to become one. Still, there is at least a little something I want to share with you, so I write—telling myself that this isn’t pressure imposed by others or by a deadline, and tapping away at the keyboard as a small act of consolation to myself.

A Brief Summary of the Hanjin Heavy Industries Situation

When Hanjin Heavy Industries built a new shipyard in Subic Bay, the Philippines, it promised to continue operating its domestic shipyards. It also signed a “special labor–management collective bargaining agreement” stating that it would secure three consecutive years’ worth of domestic orders and refrain from artificial restructuring such as downsizing or shutting down domestic plants.

However, over the past two years, operations at the Ulsan and Incheon shipyards were suspended, resulting in the dismissal of more than 3,000 in-house subcontracted workers. At the Yeongdo shipyard, after two rounds of layoffs, labor and management agreed to halt further dismissals—but that agreement was broken this year when layoffs were once again carried out.

Kim Jin-sook, a senior advisor to the Korean Confederation of Trade Unions, has been staging a protest related to the Hanjin Heavy Industries situation. As of July 9, 2011—the departure date of the Hope Bus—she had been living, eating, and sleeping atop Crane No. 85 for 185 days.

[Image attached]

I got off at City Hall Station with a bag full to bursting and a head completely empty. From a distance, I could see busy heads moving between long lines of buses. Seeing your black hair under the blazing sun, I was reminded—apologetically—of oversized, industrious ants. But for me, awed by the scale of it all, the thought felt oddly liberating. The reason you and I gathered here was to board the Hope Bus in support of Kim Jin-sook and in connection with the Hanjin Heavy Industries struggle. The background you might want to know about Hanjin Heavy Industries is laid out above. Kim Jin-sook has spent her third season 35 meters above the ground, close to the blue sky—but I don’t imagine that hearing this makes you think of anything romantic. To meet her, 185 buses set out for Hanjin Heavy Industries in Yeongdo, Busan (in reality, more than 195 buses, vans, and even planes departed). I had thought the Hope Bus was something like a cultural festival. Looking back, I should have corrected that misunderstanding earlier, seeing the tightly packed flags and the many red-lettered placards in your hands. Instead, still holding onto that misunderstanding, I boarded Hope Bus No. 36—the “Queer Bus.” From the songs we sang inside the bus, your intense emotions spilled over to me. Borrowing a few lines from the adapted lyrics of “Jinsuk’s Meaning,” set to the tune of “Your Meaning,” it went something like this: “Jinsuk, our beloved Kim Jin-sook. There is no one—no two, three, or four—like Kim Jin-sook. (Win the Hanjin struggle!) A world without Jinsook has no meaning at all. Let’s go together. Ride the Hope Bus. Gather in front of Hanjin. Let’s make Jo Nam-ho’s rotten eyes well up with tears, just once. (Jo Nam-ho, be ready.)” Inside the bus, the plums, soy milk, snacks, and other treats that Jo* had prepared turned into a miracle of loaves and fishes—everyone ate their fill, and there were still energy bars and mini honey cookies left over.

By the time we arrived at Busan Station and got off the bus, heavy rain was falling. There were people waiting there to share that rain, which cooled your hearts that had burned all the hotter under the summer sun. Standing before the soaked song of Line 3 Butterfly, I could see excitement in your eyes. Rain seeped through hastily donned ponchos, but the “peace march” began. Chants that sounded unfamiliar—calls to abolish non-regular employment—rang out, along with minjung songs. In the midst of it all, Korea’s only gay chorus, G_Voice, sang boldly: “You Will Never Walk Alone,” “Song of the Alley Cat,” “You Can’t Stop the Beat,” and more, drawing repeated calls for encores. Suddenly, I remembered a distant day on my way to school, when blind masseurs were protesting on the Han River Bridge over legislation related to massage licenses. I had been nearly an hour late and cursed them silently in my head. If I had told you that memory, you would probably have criticized me. Now, standing inside a protest line I had always viewed from a distance, I told myself this was for non-regular workers in this country. Though I felt reassured by a protest that looked different from my preconceptions, I still didn’t have the courage to meet the eyes of bus passengers waiting for the march to pass. After crossing Yeongdo Bridge, the march stalled. Standing on tiptoe, I looked ahead and saw a large, round yellow light shining through a sea of flags—like a scene from a movie. Ahead lay what you might know as the Hope Bus’s defining image: mutual anger and confrontation, shouting, violence, tear gas, and arrests. A nearby hospital kindly opened its restrooms and provided a place to rest. I remember a college student being led in by people on either side, unable even to open his eyes. His swollen red face was streaked with tears and mucus. Through the night, food of unknown origin passed from hand to hand, and spontaneous cultural performances—songs, impassioned speeches—continued without pause.

[Image attached]

Morning came. The sun rose. Cheerful sunlight dried bodies soaked through the night. But as someone put it, that sunlight only burned your face red, as if heaven were preparing the next trial. Those who had been busy all night endured the passing hours beneath umbrellas turned into parasols. The dawn hour when the peace march was supposed to end had long passed, and you ate breakfast—stew handed out from a food truck. I wondered if you had already anticipated how this march would end. Didn’t you know we wouldn’t be able to push through the young riot police sweating inside thick uniforms? Perhaps I was the only one who didn’t know. Even so, you told me that what we were doing still had meaning. The sunlight was no longer cheerful. Fewer and fewer mouths echoed the chants to abolish non-regular employment. As both the police and the Hope Bus participants grew exhausted, G_Voice stepped forward—comrades behind them, police in front—and sang “You Can’t Stop the Beat” and “Open the Closet Door.” I don’t know if it gave you strength. After a final phone call with Kim Jin-sook sometime after 2 p.m., the second Hope Bus dispersed, promising a third.

I didn’t want to write this piece. To be honest, I’m someone who can speak with even less conviction than you about issues of non-regular workers, labor, and Hanjin Heavy Industries. I didn’t feel qualified to fight like others or to clearly articulate my stance on behalf of workers and minorities in this country. I also didn’t want to pretend to agonize over these issues more than I actually do. So perhaps it’s shameful that I focused mainly on recounting events as they happened. The march blocked by police barricades felt powerless. There were many flags, but few people stepping forward into struggle. During the phone call with Kim Jin-sook, many minorities in this land shed tears. The words of thanks from Hanjin workers we met as we left Yeongdo hurt my chest. The sight of someone throwing their body in front of a police car—so the Hope Bus could pass first—was desperate. Even though the buses were arriving only sporadically, and it would have made little difference if the police car passed, I understood why he did it. Still, the memory remains unpleasant.

In many moments, I found myself looking on with a double gaze, unable to articulate what the right action should be, or for what purpose. So I’ll end this piece here, somewhat ambiguously. The impressions and judgments are yours. I don’t want you to catch me fabricating emotion, forcing myself to cry where it isn’t true.

Chingusai / Gil (길)

[Cover Story “Faith, Religion” #2]

Walking the Road Together with Sexual Minorities, and the Meaning of The Queer Bible Commentary

A few days ago, I attended the memorial service of Pastor Park Hyung-gyu, a towering figure not only in Korean Christian circles but also in the broader democratization movement in Korean society. He endured countless hardships while resisting the Park Chung-hee dictatorship, and as the Chun Doo-hwan military regime followed, congregants who opposed the Defense Security Command’s ongoing disruption of Sunday worship were forced, from December 1986 to November 1991, to hold their services for seven long years in front of the Jungbu Police Station. It is said that a defining turning point in the life of this once-ordinary pastor came on April 19, 1960, when he happened to witness people collapsing after being shot—an event that set his life firmly on a thorn-filled path.

Perhaps because the day I went to pay my respects coincided with the day Chingusai asked me to write a piece reflecting on “walking together with sexual minorities,” many thoughts surfaced on my way to the memorial.

When I conduct interviews about religion and sexual minorities—with media outlets, researchers preparing academic papers, or university students working on group presentations—one question almost always comes up: What was the turning point?

So here, too, I want to begin by unpacking that “turning point.” In minjung theology, what is often called an “event,” or “the site of an event,” includes the following moments:

The initial gathering of Christians for a World Without Discrimination, formed to resist backlash from Christian groups against the proposed Anti-Discrimination Act in 2007—a moment that marked the LGBTQ+ movement’s shift toward greater visibility, organization, and growth. The overnight occupation protest at the Seoul Metropolitan Council on December 18, 2011, the night before the Seoul Student Human Rights Ordinance citizen-initiated bill passed largely in its original form. And the publication event for <Meeting God as a Homosexual> (hereafter <MGH>), held on the third-floor sanctuary of Hyanglin Church on December 4, 2010.

At a time when it seemed as though the entire Christian establishment opposed the Anti-Discrimination Act, younger colleagues came to the church office insisting that there were Christians who supported the bill and believed it was necessary—and that their voices needed to be heard. I agreed that we could not simply remain silent. Still, I had not anticipated that simply saying “there are Christians here who support the Anti-Discrimination Act” would become the starting point for such fierce attacks.

 ▲ December 2014, at the Rainbow Sit-in for the enactment of the Seoul Citizens’ Human Rights Charter (Photo: Park Kim Hyung-jun)

The sit-in protest in the Seoul Metropolitan Council lobby lasted six days. On the day before the vote, a dark cloud suddenly descended on the site. News spread that passage was uncertain, and the space was quickly flooded with tears—beginning with LGBTQ youth. Even now, whenever I recall or speak of that moment, my eyes fill with tears. Despite occupying the council building to raise our voices, the fear and despair that it might all be erased caused people to break down sobbing throughout the space. When I was asked to lead a prayer service in that moment, I, too, could not hold back my tears. My tears came not only from anxiety or despair, but from witnessing firsthand who was oppressing us, who was trying to isolate and exclude us from society—and how people of faith were betraying Jesus, who preached love and hospitality as the core of their religion, by crucifying him all over again. Those tears of anger became a vow: that I would never forget the tears overflowing in that place.

The event organized to mark the publication of <MGH> began with a time of mourning for those who had fallen victim to Christian homophobia. That space, too, became a sea of tears. During the memorial for Yuk Woo-dang, Jeong Yul, who was speaking at the time, could barely continue through sobs, and the quiet crying and sighs from the audience filled the sanctuary at Hyanglin Church. Deep-seated wounds—traumas each person carried in their chest—were laid bare, and that very exposure became a river of tears. At the same time, it was a moment when we felt how exposing those wounds allowed us to comfort and strengthen one another.

 ▲ June 2015, at the opening ceremony of the Queer Culture Festival

Now, in 2016, Christian homophobia toward sexual minorities has become even more explicit, widespread, and persistent. At the same time, the LGBTQ human rights movement has diversified, become more visible across many spaces, and public awareness has grown accordingly. That “general public” includes Christians as well. Even as homophobia spreads widely under the banner of Christianity, voices challenging the underlying power structures—rooted in patriarchy and heteronormativity—and calling for fundamental Christian reform are also becoming increasingly visible.

Among the many distorted materials used to incite homophobia, the most powerful tool aimed at used by Christians is the Bible. The very fact that the Bible is weaponized is deeply saddening. Overt acts of hatred disguised as “medical information” are provocative enough, but in Korean Christianity, the authority of the Bible is absolute. With a single phrase—“biblically speaking”—diverse theological frameworks are routinely dismissed as false, nonsensical, or even heretical.

 ▲ Original cover of The Queer Bible Commentary

It is within this context that the work on The Queer Bible Commentary (hereafter QBC), which began in early 2015, can be understood as a new tributary in the movement resisting anti-LGBTQ religious hatred—led largely by Christians themselves. QBC is a monumental volume that rereads all 66 books of the Bible, from Genesis to Revelation, through theological frameworks attentive to gender and sexuality. In societies like Korea—and even in places where same-sex marriage has been legalized—religion-based homophobia still coils tightly. QBC helps illuminate the connections between LGBTQ lives, religion, Christianity, and the Bible within these contexts. If feminist theology itself has struggled to gain firm footing in Korea, queer theology is even more barren terrain. Among the contributors, only a few—such as Dr. Ted Jennings—are well known in Korea, but around thirty theologians and pastors, widely recognized abroad, participated as authors. Currently, more than twenty people, both in Korea and overseas, have participated or are participating in the translation, which is now about 80% complete.

Those leading anti-LGBTQ movements often single out queer theology for attack, dismissing it as shoddy theology or branding it as heresy unworthy even of being called theology. Yet abroad, queer theology is already an established field, taught as a regular subject in some seminaries. Throughout the arduous translation process—now stretching over more than a year—what repeatedly gave us hope was the passion of those determined to demonstrate, through the act of translation itself, that religion and sexual minorities, God, Jesus, and queer lives are not incompatible or mutually exclusive. Isn’t translation often called a form of new creation? We expect that, by carefully shaping the text so that even non-specialists can read it, and by gathering supplementary materials accessible to readers of many backgrounds, QBC will offer a refreshing cup of living water—not only to religious or non-religious LGBTQ people, but also to non-LGBTQ Christians and non-Christians longing to see the Bible illuminated in a new light.

 ▲ May 2016, at the IDAHOT (International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia, and Biphobia) event

Countless scholars have defined religion in many different languages. Among the keywords associated with religion, I want to place emphasis on experience and practice. The existence of God should not remain a mere abstraction; it must be something that can be experienced in the midst of ordinary daily life. And that experience should not end as a one-time stroke of luck, but lead to action—living out what has been experienced. To believe that God is love is to pass through events in everyday life where that love is experienced; and that experience, in turn, leads to the practice of extending love to others, just as one has been loved. As queer theologian Father Patrick Cheng puts it, God’s love is so radical that it tears down walls of division and separation. Though this society continues to produce hierarchies, enforce divisions, and normalize exclusion and marginalization, sexual minorities—who have always existed throughout human history—are living proof of what radical love looks like, dismantling arenas of power struggle by their very existence.

Still, we must remember that beyond sexual minorities, there are many other beings who have been erased or oppressed simply for existing. Solidarity—stepping forward together—is an essential part of practicing radical love. I believe it is there that a deeper meaning of existence can begin anew.

<Even for queer people living today, God’s reign instills confidence through the teachings of Jesus. Though we may live as second-class citizens in some places, be unable to marry, have our children taken from us, or even find our love criminalized, there remains, within God’s reign, freedom and liberation for all the world’s people. If we are to encourage others and give them strength as queer people, we must share this good news with everyone we meet.>
 — from the Commentary on Matthew, Thomas Bohache

Pastor, Seomdol Hyanglin Church / Lim Bora (임보라)

[Cover Story ‘Cultural Movement’ #1]
 G_Voice Music Camp Planning Forum Transcript
 : ‘Let’s Do Solidarity, Let’s Date’

   - When, where, and how do minority cultural movements meet one another?

[Image attached]

▲ G_Voice Music Camp Planning Forum (Photo: Gwanghun)

As part of the schedule for the April 14 music camp of 'G_Voice', we held the 2018 Music Camp Planning Forum ‘Let’s Do Solidarity, Let’s Date,’ focused on minority cultural movements. G_Voice began as a small chorus group within Chingusai, a Korean gay rights organization, but over 15 years it has grown into a choir of 40 members—building relationships not only through choral performances for sexual minorities but also through connections with a wide range of domestic civil society movements. This forum was created to share the values and outcomes of various cultural movements/activities within Korea’s minority movements and human rights movement circles (including G_Voice), to reflect on the necessity of solidarity, and to seek future outlooks and tasks together.

The Chingusai newsletter team is publishing the transcript of the planning forum below in order to widely share the concerns discussed that day. We extend our deep thanks to the four presenters and to the members of G_Voice for granting permission to publish this transcript. (Editor’s note)

Presentation 1 — G_Voice: Outcomes and outlook of G_Voice solidarity activities
Presentation 2 — Women with Disabilities Empathy: How did the LGBTQ human rights movement and the disabled women’s human rights movement come to meet through song?
Presentation 3 — Asian Culture Forum on Human Rights: Migrant rights and community-centered arts movements
Presentation 4 — Queer Culture Festival: How did the Queer Culture Festival end up standing at the very front line of Korea’s human rights movement history?

Presentation 1 — G_Voice : The current state and outlook of G_Voice solidarity activities

More than 100 performances

Jaeu Jeon (G_Voice Music Director): I’m Jaeu Jeon, the music director of G_Voice. (Applause)

By last year, G_Voice had performed more than 100 times as a single piece of content. For example, a performance on a stage like <Irregular Fantasy> (directed by Eunyoung Jung, 2016) counted as just one. So if you look at it in reality, we’ve performed far more than that, and our activities keep increasing. And aside from our regular concerts, almost everything else among those is either a collaborative performance or a solidarity performance.

Participation in our regular concerts has also increased a lot. Back in 2006, including staff, we had around 30 people, and about 50 audience members. Now more than 100 people prepare a concert together, and 500–600+ people come to the venue. As for media exposure—when we were first formed in 2003, we appeared at a human rights concert hosted by the Association of Families for Democracy Movement (Min-Ga-Hyeop), so we got covered once then. In 2011, when <Miracle on Jongno>—a film about gay men coming out, made by Chingusai together with Yeonbunhongchima—was released, we were briefly in the media again. In 2013, the year of our 10th anniversary concert, we got media attention because of the incident where we were hit with feces-water at the congratulatory performance for the “ordinary wedding” of Jo Kwang-soo and Kim Seung-hwan. Then what really brought us into the media in earnest was probably from late the year before last into early last year, when the film <Weekends> was released and we were exposed a lot. That’s only counting what appeared on Naver News, so in reality it’s probably more.

It turns out G_Voice’s songs were not made by just one or two people. I thought I made everything myself, (everyone laughs) but there were at least 30 people who participated in writing lyrics, and as many as 14 who participated in composing. If you look at workshop-created songs, there are really a lot. I dug through everything and wrote it all down—if I missed anyone, I’m sorry. (Laughter) I wanted to show that we collectively produce our content. So G_Voice does regular concerts, solidarity concerts, and also produces recordings—we’re recording diligently these days. And we’ve collaborated a lot with artists in film and other arts fields; we’ve done many collaborations with visual arts and music artists as well. Of course, we also drink and hang out. (Laughter)

Now I’ll talk in earnest about solidarity activities. First, I tried to list solidarity performances where we talked about gay/LGBTQ issues inside the LGBTQ+ community, and the gay community specifically. The largest number were, unsurprisingly, culture-related ones—because we’re an arts and culture organization. It looks like we’ve also done queer parades, film events, and book publication events. We once sang as guests at a performance by the non-married women’s chorus A-neun Unni-deul, and we’ve done performances related to anti-hate and HIV/AIDS issues too. In the case of UNICORN, that was an event where vocal teams and music teams within the gay community gathered to do something together. And there were military human rights issues, institutional reform, youth issues, and starting 3–4 years ago we began exchanges with foreign friends as well through events like HAND IN HAND.

Min-Ga-Hyeop human rights concert, Disabled Women’s School graduation, ‘comfort women’ survivors project, International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination event

First of all, in the year G_Voice was founded, as I mentioned earlier, we appeared at the 2003 Min-Ga-Hyeop human rights concert. At the time we shared the stage with Hong Seok-cheon and Harisu. But when we first formed G_Voice, we used to go out and sing at Chingusai events or year-end parties, and we got seriously scolded by members—why do you keep coming out when you’re not good? (Everyone laughs) Then after some time, people started inviting the G_Voice folks to their own events. The beginning of that was when we were invited to the graduation ceremony of the Disabled Women’s School hosted by Women with Disabilities Empathy, who are here with us today. I remember it being around 2010. That became the connection, and when they held protests in Gwanghwamun for abolishing the disability grading system and the family support obligation system, we did solidarity performances several times.

Next, regarding women’s issues: we participated in a project for women survivors of Japanese military sexual slavery (‘comfort women’), and we also did a solidarity performance for a women sexual minorities’ rally. A more recent issue we’ve come to stand in solidarity with is that, thankfully, we were invited to an event for the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination—so it became an opportunity for us to take more interest in migrant issues and foreign migrant workers, which we had previously paid relatively less attention to. As for labor issues: in 2011, during the Hanjin Heavy Industries situation in Busan, when the union leader Kim Jin-sook held a high-altitude protest, we rode the Hope Bus and did a solidarity performance. That same year, we also performed at ‘Hope Tent: Day 1 of Surrounding the Factory — Warak Christmas,’ held at the Ssangyong Motor reinstatement struggle site in Pyeongtaek.

As for solidarity with religious groups, it turns out we performed for three traditions: Protestantism, Catholicism, and the Jogye Order of Korean Buddhism. (Everyone laughs) Next, prisoner-of-conscience issues: in fact, our first solidarity performance began with prisoner-of-conscience issues, and last year there was another occasion, so we performed at a Gwanghwamun cultural rally related to prisoners of conscience. Also regarding eviction issues: when a noodle shop called Duriban near Hongdae was evicted, many young cultural artists around Hongdae expressed solidarity and performed there, and we also dropped by and performed once. We sang in an open lot, and I remember the conductor conducting while standing on a broken flowerbed as if it were a platform.

Why do we do solidarity?

What I wanted to talk about with you begins now. Why do we do solidarity? What are the desires of G_Voice members who participate in solidarity activities? I went around and asked each person. To feel belonging; to follow because seniors go—those might be the most common. Among them, in the case of our office director, they’re very strong in human rights awareness, so they go with the mindset that they must help solve that issue. Others may go because they want opportunities to be on stage. In any case, there are likely many reasons.

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But in the early days, there was some resistance: “I joined because I just like singing with other gay people—why do you keep taking me out to sing about other issues?” There could be various reasons, but the biggest was that with regular concerts, people pay money or invest their time and heart to come see us; but performances on the street or similar places can be seen by an unspecified public who doesn’t know us. So the burden of coming out was, naturally, the biggest. That seems to have been the major issue. Or people might think in their head, “What they’re saying is right; I should support them,” but most cases were probably that they couldn’t follow through to an actual solidarity performance. And maybe some thought, “I’m not even good at singing—should I really stand on that stage?” I hope some people thought that. (Everyone laughs)

Now, that resistance has decreased a lot. I wondered why, and I think most new members now join after doing a lot of studying about G_Voice. Some join after watching the film, or reading media articles, and they prepare themselves: “Ah, if I go there, there might be situations where I have to show my face.” Another reason is that compared to the past, anti-LGBTQ hate has become much more visible, so people feel more rage about these issues: “I can’t take it anymore; I want to speak.” For example, we went to the “ordinary wedding” in 2013 and got hit with feces-water—until then we didn’t know, but after being hit we realized, “Ah, just gathering in the office and singing isn’t enough; I want to tell stories more actively through song.” I think that kind of will might have grown.

Also, at the 2015 IDAHOT event, when we went and sang at the Ssangyong struggle, those people also come and sing to show their support for LGBTQ rights and their opposition to hate. The same is true of Women with Disabilities Empathy and others; and when Asian Culture Forum on Human Rights invites us to their event, it means they also empathize with our issue. So people feel, “Ah, now I can tell who’s on our side and who’s against us.” They said they thought ‘pro–North Korea leftist gay’ was just a ridiculous joke, but maybe it isn’t? (Everyone laughs) Those things reduce the burden and gradually increase interest.

Most importantly, as you see more, you become friends. When your friend is truly hurting and suffering, you can’t pretend not to know. I think that was probably the biggest reason we became more active in solidarity. Now when we ask, “Who wants to go to a solidarity performance?” people raise their hands, right? Or not? (Everyone laughs)

The dilemma between art and movement

Second, I want to share a few concerns G_Voice has—things I’d also like to ask advice on from G_Voice members and people from other organizations here. The first is: how should we draw the boundary between movement and art? Are we an arts group, or a movement group? It would be great to catch both rabbits, but it’s really hard, right? Especially when we stand on solidarity stages, we often go out without being fully prepared to build artistic skill, or without enough practice. At those times, we wonder: is it right to go out like this? Should we wait until we have a song we can truly do well, and then bring that? But organizations don’t invite us according to when we feel ready. So when something really important happens, even if we’re not ready, we have to go anyway. What do we do then? That dilemma exists for us.

So up to now, while it’s not 100% and some think differently, there has been a tendency: even if the singing is a bit less polished, when an important issue arises, we can emphasize the movement aspect a bit more and speak out. Also, G_Voice is already slightly off the path that other amateur choirs take. So we don’t always devote that much time to building artistic skill, (everyone laughs) and instead we spend more time cultivating inner character. (Laughter) Instead, in our concert outcomes, we try hard to include our issues or minority issues as much as possible. And if song doesn’t work, then with dance; if dance doesn’t work, then with our faces; if faces don’t work, then even with tears—(everyone laughs)—we try various ways to show things. I think we’ve taken on a very special form of choir.

This was something we didn’t fully realize, but after making the film <Weekends>, or when comparing ourselves with foreign gay choirs that participated in the Asia HAND IN HAND festival, the position we have is quite unique. Many of them just want to sing inside the closet, and their desire to actively express their issues through song seems somewhat less than ours. They even say they learn a lot from us. So even if we’re not the best singers, maybe we can still have pride—that’s something I think.

But even so, no matter how good the intention is, it might not be delivered artistically. For example, last time at the LGBTQ candlelight cultural rally in Gwanghwamun, we sang a song. We could say the sound system was bad or the backing track was bad, but what happened was the tenors and basses were basically singing different songs. (Everyone laughs) I was so flustered, but luckily the sound system was so poor that people at the back of the rally said they couldn’t hear the song at all. (Laughter) I felt it was a huge relief, but still, it was really embarrassing. If it isn’t being delivered at all, wouldn’t it be better to just go out, greet, and come back in? That kind of thought came up. So that’s one concern we always have.

The boundary between me and G_Voice, and the depth and breadth of solidarity

The second concern is: where is the boundary between me and G_Voice? Singing well and performing well matters, but for some people in the gay community, G_Voice is their first debut stage. We also have many very young members. People grow a lot personally through music and life within the group. There is musical growth, but also personal growth through preparing performances together—bumping, arguing, fighting. So for those who’ve been active a long time, they sometimes worry, “Am I G_Voice? Is G_Voice me?” and that can cause huge stress. They struggle with, “I love G_Voice this much—why doesn’t that person love it the same way?” So maybe it has the character of a community like a church.

And the organizational power affects each individual strongly. Put positively, it seems to give a strong sense of belonging, stability, and calm. People say their expression has gotten brighter since coming to G_Voice; that they used to not sleep but now they sleep well—though I’m not sure whether it’s because they drink. (Laughter) And in some cases, someone had been strictly separating their “straight world” life and their “gay world” life, but coming to G_Voice breaks all that. They can feel confused, then go a step further, grow, and find their own ways of living. I wanted to talk about those things together.

Lastly, G_Voice started as a hobby of gay people gathering to sing, but it has now become an organization that cannot be defined only by the desires of each member. We give G_Voice our time and our voices, and G_Voice gives us not only personal growth in life but also the idea that beyond life as a gay person, there is another life—that you can grow more and expand the boundaries of your life. I think that’s a very important and precious aspect. The problem is that it always shows something one step ahead of our capacity, so it’s incredibly hard to chase. So I think overcoming that gap might be our task.

So the spaces where G_Voice does solidarity are widening, but are we going as deep as we go wide? Are we just lending our name? That’s a worry we have. Also, we’re always passive: we go when invited. When an issue arises, why can’t we be the ones to go first? When there’s an issue we care about, or another minority issue, why can’t we propose first? I think we carry those questions. So I hope that by hearing from other speakers today, these concerns can deepen even a little. Thank you. (Applause)

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▲ G_Voice’s first solidarity performance, the 15th Min-Ga-Hyeop Human Rights Concert (2003.12.18)

Audience Discussion

Seok (G_Voice head, moderator): Yes—Music Director Jaeu Jeon has checked in, through the presentation, on the concerns G_Voice carries while doing movement and activities. Those who were dozing off, please wake up. (Laughter) If you have questions about the presentation, or opinions and thoughts about doing activities, please share.

Kano (G_Voice member): I want to ask about solidarity. Just 1–2 years ago, we often participated in a solidarity performance and then went straight home when it ended—so it was basically an invited gig that’s honestly embarrassing to call “solidarity.” Regarding what you said about the problem of us going passively when an invitation comes in, I think that although we’re kind of a human rights group, we didn’t really think much about other human rights issues.

So I think it’s right that there should be ongoing solidarity activity about the issue, and then when performance talk comes up we join in—that seems right. But for me too, being uninterested in everyday life and then only showing up when the season comes, in the end, looks not so good. So what direction should we take going forward? If there are educational events in normal times, should we go, do solidarity, and then naturally participate when someone says, “Please perform once”? Or should we respond passively as we do now when invitations come? But I don’t think we can do everything. Even while doing G_Voice activities or Chingusai activities, it’s hard to keep steady solidarity with other organizations.

Jaeu Jeon: Rather than a question, you raised a very important point, and I think it’s a concern we should talk about together. I said something similar earlier. Because of points like what you raised, in the past we didn’t often create a space like this within music camp—but we created this space because of that. In everyday life too, let’s prepare ourselves mentally and take interest. And I think the only way we can join in as “G_Voice” is through song. But G_Voice keeps pointing us toward life’s signposts; it keeps poking at life beyond “gay,” making our hearts uncomfortable. At those times, I think changes in one’s personal life also matter. And if it’s hard to join through song when an issue comes up, there could be other ways: issuing a statement, visiting a sit-in site to express support, and so on.

Seok: Then, do we have someone who wants to share an opinion or another question?

Jonggeol (G_Voice member): Maybe because I personally received a lot of invitations for solidarity performances or invited gigs, and because I’ve thought a lot about invited performances, I often worry: if I bring this to G_Voice, will G_Voice accept it or not? One case that left me personally regretful was Samsung Banolim—because of cases where semiconductor workers died from industrial accidents, they’ve been protesting for 3–4 years. In one situation they invited us, but we were in the middle of regular concert rehearsals and couldn’t do external performances, so we politely declined. But it kept staying with me.

Recently there was also the hunger strike protest by laid-off Ssangyong Motor workers. We did solidarity in the past, but there was insufficient “after-service” after that—we couldn’t keep up. We visited at moments, but there were times when we couldn’t go first again. A movement doesn’t end in one shot; it keeps going. So I did feel regret about those things.

And in one way, I think this was tied to certain goals or desires I had for G_Voice, as the Chingusai office director or as an individual. But I think those goals and desires differ for each person. Some might have a stronger desire for community than for performances; others might have goals centered on Sunday rehearsal. I’ve come to understand that difference. But I also have personal desire.

For me, the kind of performance I want is like what the New York Gay Men’s Chorus did when the issue itself was highlighted: performing live on a morning broadcast. The issue was commemorating victims of the Orlando tragedy on a show like Good Morning America. The performance quality was high and the meaning was so good. I think maybe G_Voice should become able to prepare something like that. That’s my personal concern—and for G_Voice as a whole to take it up, I think we still need time and discussion. Because each person’s goal for G_Voice is so different, we need sufficient discussion about how to achieve things—sharing concerns together. Within that time, I’ll keep going steadily. I’ve been active for 14–15 years now, so maybe at 20 or 30 years, we can sing on a national morning broadcast like ‘Morning Madang.’ So I think strategies for visibility through broadcasts were one goal for G_Voice—but I wonder how much that has been discussed and shared.

Jaeu Jeon: Let me add one thing: today too, schedules overlapped. There’s the Sewol Ferry April 16 rally today, and there’s a citizens’ choir festival where civic choirs similar in character to G_Voice do a small performance in front of Gwanghwamun. We were invited too, but because we’re here at music camp to study more and strengthen community consciousness, we couldn’t go. I think both are important. And since today’s topic is solidarity, it’s okay to speak even more strongly about solidarity.

Seok: As you said, focusing more on how we do solidarity—given the time, it’d be good if just one more person shares.

Aquarius (G_Voice member): What I’m going to say is about an experience that made me personally uncomfortable. It wasn’t within the group. I’m seeing a partner now; he used to work in a metals-related industry. He knew I was in G_Voice, and we talked about solidarity activities. I hadn’t done solidarity performances with the metalworkers’ union, but I had been doing solidarity without fully knowing the context, and because I went to solidarity performances often, I assumed, vaguely, that it must be “good solidarity.” But my partner didn’t have such a positive view of that solidarity. Because there are a lot of issues around the metalworkers’ union—people talk about “elite unions,” and so on—he talked about what he experienced in the field, and said he wasn’t sure whether it was right to do solidarity with them.

It hurt, and my thoughts got complicated. I also thought about how much I had actually been thinking about these issues. Even if I look things up alone, it wouldn’t be just me in the group who has these concerns. But those contexts aren’t shared by all members. So I thought: it’s important to do a lot of solidarity, but if members don’t understand the movement’s context and the context of our participation, it might not have that much meaning. So depth matters, but it also matters how much members understand the context of movements and solidarity.

Jaeu Jeon: I agree. It feels like we’re all saying similar things: will we go knowing things only superficially, or will we have more depth? How much depth is appropriate? Those questions are here. Honestly, I think the gay community is similar too. It’s diverse—very different people. Even among those in the community who have certain ideas, the ones who like singing, and among them, the pretty ones join G_Voice—(everyone laughs)—and in the community too, there are people with no interest in human rights awareness at all, and people who vote for Park Geun-hye or Lee Myung-bak. And even then, we can’t dare say that person is a bad person. Because there are so many different people, I think we can decide after holding many concerns and moving forward.

Seok: Yes. Overall, it seems many members are thinking, when we do solidarity, what kind of mindset we should have. Keeping those concerns, we’ll move to the next presentation. Ms. Jinhee Lee from Women with Disabilities Empathy will present under the title “Doing Art with Strangers: A Practice Room That Fails, Rehearsals for Living Life, Struggles That Change the World.”

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Presentation 2 — Women with Disabilities Empathy : A practice room that fails, rehearsals for living life, struggles that change the world

2003 founding of Dancing Waist; 2011 founding of Seven-Colored Rainbow

Jinhee Lee (Women with Disabilities Empathy, Secretary-General): Hello. I’m Jinhee Lee from Women with Disabilities Empathy. While Director Jeon was presenting, I was surprised because his “character” felt similar to what we do in Dancing Waist. (Everyone laughs) It’s like continuing to say self-contradictory things. “We don’t do this for artistic perfection, but still, isn’t this too much?” But also, “We must have movement-ness, so artistic perfection isn’t that important.” But also, “Still, this should be improved.” (Everyone laughs) It’s like a tightrope walk—should we call it a minority cultural movement? Like two sides of a coin that can flip easily—those feelings are what I wanted to share first.

I came once in 2011, to music camp, and now I’m here again after seven years. The concerns you had then and the concerns you have now feel quite different in tone. Probably stories about Dancing Waist or Seven-Colored Rainbow have also changed a lot since then. Dancing Waist was founded in 2003, the year G_Voice was founded, and Seven-Colored Rainbow was founded in 2011.

What I prepared today is “How did the LGBTQ movement and disabled women’s cultural movement meet?”—but rather than saying something grand, I think we can talk about how similar the textures of what we do are to the textures of what G_Voice does—how similar the sites, the scenes, the trajectories of concerns are.

The gaze on stage and the gaze in everyday discrimination are similar

I mainly brought examples from Dancing Waist and Rainbow. After a Dancing Waist performance, the most common things we hear are like: “You worked hard,” “It was moving,” and suddenly, “I love you,” from someone you just met. (Everyone laughs) It’s an expression of warmth. But in fact, just as in migrant movements people say “You seem Korean,” “Your Korean is so good,” thinking it’s encouragement though it’s another face of discrimination, we become awkward about what expression to make each time we hear those things. And while performing, we wonder whether we are being seen not as individual beings, but only through the identity of a minority group—“disabled women”—and whether our other facets are not seen. It’s not that we hate that identity. It’s not that identity and I are separate. But the gaze directed only at the group caused considerable discomfort.

Those concerns we experience on stage aren’t merely small mistakes by “well-meaning” people. As we do disabled women’s movement, we think: why are people with bodily differences treated as abnormal in society? Chasing the reasons, we find that society labels some people “normal” and others “abnormal,” and if you refuse to chase an intangible standard stage called “the norm,” you end up pushed outside the norm and outside the system, becoming someone discriminated against. So we often felt that the sensation and gaze we face on stage are identical to what we feel when we meet people who blame us, pity us, or don’t understand us when we do anti-discrimination movement.

So when people see our cultural arts performances, some say: “Disabled people must do it because they have nowhere to go, because they have a lot of time from morning to night,” or if there’s a “genius” artist, they say: “Disabled people are originally good at concentrating.” (Everyone laughs) A funny analysis. So we get evaluated only as idle people, or as “geniuses” because of disability-related immersion—so terms like “healing” and “therapy” are often used to describe disabled people’s art.

But when I look at the reactions people have when we stand in the street, and when we stand on stage, and at the reactions of people who oppose us or don’t know us well, I realized: standing on stage is highly political. Revealing my experience, my body, my story requires immense courage and decision. It’s a challenging act that confronts society’s “normal” norms. So even though we don’t say every day with headbands and flags, “This is political!”, the moments where we smile and sing, smile and move our bodies, fight, redden our faces, and conflict—those processes themselves are desperate moments of living our way within sharp social conditions.

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From being “seen” to living as a subject who “shows”

Especially for disabled women, there’s often an expectation that we will be “inspiring,” that we will “move” people. So within discrimination, we are not subjects who show—we are those who are seen, evaluated. We think we aren’t given conditions to speak as ourselves. So “doing art” for people who live exposed to the gaze that hates, discriminates, or pities them—living with a body that is “seen” and continuously reduced to a minority identity—extends from everyday life to the practice room and to the moment on stage. Fundamentally, I think that as people doing cultural movement, the decisive motivation is rejecting being a “seen” being and choosing the life of a subject who “shows.”

Of course, not everyone says this in words—our performers don’t either. But I want to talk later about how we got hints that we are thinking this way. So “doing art”—singing, acting—is a process of building a life as a subject, building a life we want to live as ourselves.

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This is a performance scene from Dancing Waist. I think it’s very different from the kind of scenes you see on TV programs like <Unbelievable Story> or <Surprise>, or documentaries that frequently feature disabled people. So we focus on that difference in our artistic activities and movements. Dancing Waist is mostly women with physical disabilities, and since two years ago women with developmental disabilities have also joined. And then we face concerns: when women with physical disabilities and women with developmental disabilities communicate, the beginning of difficulty is communication itself—between a woman with physical disability who has a speech impairment, and a woman with intellectual disability.

I think G_Voice might be similar. From the outside, people just see us as one lump. But if you look inside, each person is so different—orientations, desires, all very different. So the dynamic created by arguing, debating, conflicting inside—that force is huge. We inevitably become stronger. In this process, there were times when women with developmental disabilities challenged themselves to understand what women with physical disabilities and severe speech impairments were saying; and women with physical disabilities don’t automatically understand the characteristics of developmental disabilities—disabled people don’t all understand each other. After going through those times, we became sturdier. Outside, people think we are all the same, but as you listen, you see how we discover each other’s differences and grow.

So Dancing Waist is now 15 years old. We reached an agreement: “We do disabled women’s cultural movement.” The decisive reason we reached that agreement is that for five years, we didn’t recruit new performers. But the timing was also funny: even if we recruit, people don’t come. (Everyone laughs) So we thought, “Let’s do well with the people we have,” and six performers stayed. Through that, discussions deepened. Our recent concerns are: what is technical training, and what is artistic completeness and achievement?

We say: rejecting the images society expects from the stage itself, and showing movement that reveals disability and rights—that act of showing itself is resistance and a cry for human rights. And next: we think the standard of artistic achievement for us is very different from the point of non-disabled people’s art. For example, if a non-disabled actor aims for good vocalization and clear pronunciation, the artistic achievement for a disabled performer is not practicing pronunciation to “overcome” a severe speech impairment; it is finding what themes harmonize with the characteristics of that speech impairment—that is our artistic achievement. We are in the process of agreeing and debating through such content.

Minorities also have the right to fail, and the right to hold agency over life

Anyway, as you can hear, we also have many complicated and noisy things internally. Even so, why didn’t we collapse? I want to talk about that. I think we didn’t collapse because failure is guaranteed in the practice room. This is what our performers said. One performer lived in an institution for a long time, and she said: when teachers or friends from the institution meet her now, they say, “You’ve become smarter than before,” “You speak well now.” That’s funny in itself, (everyone laughs) but then how did they see her back then? That’s uncomfortable. (Laughter) While saying that, she also feels she’s changed. Another performer says: at Empathy, they tell you to worry, think, debate, share opinions—she says she’s tired, “Why do we have to do movement? I came here to be the main character. Why do you keep making me uncomfortable? I’ll do this once and never again.” But strangely, her body keeps coming here. (Everyone laughs) “I’m sleepy to death from meds, but I’m here again.” (Laughter) This pull.

So I think it’s not that disabled women come because they have nothing to do; it is a political decision to break from a past life. Times when survival required being a “good disabled woman” who listened well to staff; times when the body might have been easier but one had to be non-subject to receive assistance; times when if you opened your eyes wide and said you didn’t want something, no one would kindly care for you—maybe the body was easier then, but she declares she doesn’t want those times to return. The practice space becomes that declaration.

Why do I call it a “practice room that fails”? If disabled people fail, people say, “That’s how disabled people are,” right? I think failure is not permitted for social minorities. Because people try to find the cause of failure in that minority status: because you’re disabled, because you’re a migrant, because you’re LGBTQ, because you’re a woman. That reduction happens. So you must be extra careful to not fail, under pressure to look “normal.” Disabled women too. But in this practice room, I think many practices of living as oneself are possible. So we can’t help but fight a lot. So I think our practice room is moving toward an invisible completion. And that invisible completion is practice in holding agency on the stage. It’s also a process where people with little experience of being exposed in public, or for whom exposure felt threatening, create a public stage together.

One performer said: “Outside the stage, I’ve never once done things the way I planned; but inside the stage, with a script made from my story, I can decide the beginning and end. I’m practicing a life with agency on the stage.” Those experiences are so important. When I first met G_Voice, Dancing Waist, and Rainbow, I think the feeling on stage—the one moment of being on stage—we don’t remember it because we wanted to look pretty. I think we can’t forget the equal sense we felt, the sense we made with the people who came to see us. And when Rainbow, Dancing Waist, and G_Voice meet, I feel we sense, without words, that they also know that.

People who didn’t speak down on first meeting

We met G_Voice through Dancing Waist and the Disabled Women’s School, and then met in earnest through Rainbow. It’s not that Rainbow was perfectly prepared with the awareness “we must not discriminate against sexual minorities,” and then met G_Voice; in fact, Rainbow members were all different too. But meeting G_Voice, I think they did long preparation to be together. Starting about four years ago, they began by attending each other’s performances, and last year Director Jeon and the conductor came and did a workshop together. Through that workshop, I think we had time to learn each other’s minority status.

The process of meeting to make something, and fighting and conflicting while making something—those are challenges to society, and building such a community can be an important issue in each person’s life. It can be time to discover one’s own minority status. And solidarity, I think, is discovering and learning about another person’s minority status. It’s not that Rainbow started meeting with a perfectly correct awareness of “don’t discriminate against sexual minorities”; rather, through meeting G_Voice, they came to know them as friends—as relationships, as beings with faces. We do lots of education and workshops saying “this is what discrimination against sexual minorities is,” but that can remain an abstract sense.

But when Seven-Colored Rainbow met G_Voice, what surprised them was: first, G_Voice members did not speak down; they were kind and respectful. Wherever they go, people always speak down; people are always “teachers.” But women with intellectual disabilities are always placed in relationships where they are not friends but “a woman with intellectual disability” and “the teacher guiding her.” G_Voice—30 people at once—formed a completely different relationship over about three weeks. So Rainbow members felt strongly: “The way they treat and look at us is very human-rights-oriented; there is respect.” So they probably contact you often—please don’t misunderstand. (Everyone laughs) There’s no other meaning. (Everyone laughs) You all know. So please don’t misunderstand; think of it as an echo of equal treatment. (Laughter)

They were the first people we met who didn’t give feedback like “I love you” right after a performance, but gave different feedback. About solidarity—should we study a lot before going out, prepare before going out, when are we prepared—these are concerns we also have internally. But at some point, as you go out, bodily experiences you can’t obtain through learning become important. And the feeling of fighting together. Especially the stage at the 20th anniversary ceremony of Women with Disabilities Empathy this February felt even more special. There were several incidents a few days before the stage, right? Those incidents made the reasons for solidarity clearer.

So Rainbow members say things like: “G_Voice should take care of their throats.” If you write that, misunderstandings can happen. (Everyone laughs) It’s not that your voices are bad; it’s health concern, (laughter) because they worry your condition might worsen. And they also say: “G_Voice practices a lot—more than we thought—more than us. Let’s learn through G_Voice.” (Laughter) They didn’t know that when alone.

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The sense of a community that conflicts yet is safe

How did we come to do solidarity? I think it was fateful. And through actually meeting, we experienced the smiles of respect, the KakaoTalk messages, the photos—remembering those. So solidarity wasn’t completed; in a way, solidarity between Rainbow and G_Voice may just now be beginning in earnest. They say they want to make songs together, go to rallies together.

There will be countless conflicts in this process. That conflict, paradoxically, seems like what keeps us safe—keeps our community safe. This is something one Rainbow member said: “People say women with intellectual disabilities are stupid and can’t remember well, but sad things never leave your head forever. Aren’t non-disabled people the same?” They asked me that. So I think Rainbow and G_Voice came to know a “community that can share any memory, that conflicts yet is safe.” And because they knew that, they could meet. That was too long—sorry. (Applause)

Seok: It feels like G_Voice and Seven-Colored Rainbow are very similar. Listening earlier, I kept thinking, “This is a G_Voice story.” (Laughter) There were many such points. Then if you have questions or things you want to share about what was said, we’d be grateful.

Audience Discussion

Jaeu: I’ll ask one easy question. I really love Seven-Colored Rainbow performances, but I also find Dancing Waist performances so fun. Watching Dancing Waist made me realize how much I had lived with only one set of values—how there can be a different perspective in viewing art. I’m curious about how you write the script. Who intervenes to what extent, what stories you use, how much time you take, things like that.

Jinhee Lee: It differs by work. Usually something created through workshops takes a few months. We do “scene-making”: someone tells a life story around a theme, and others do improvisational theater with that person as the protagonist. Then an activist in charge or a playwright facilitating the workshop stenographically records everything. From that, we find key scenes; we find lines from what performers said in improvisation. Our playwright has been with Dancing Waist from the beginning and is quite famous in theater circles. But in our work, they say they can’t do anything unless Dancing Waist gives the “source”—the performers continuously speak, move, and talk, and we create from that. So we do workshops for months. Recently it’s gotten a bit faster. Sometimes a disabled woman director writes a first draft, and then the playwright makes it more dramatically fun.

Baro (G_Voice member): Hello. I joined G_Voice not long ago, and this is also new to me, but if there are performances similar to G_Voice’s regular concerts, please tell me where they are.

Jinhee Lee: I’ll promote. This year we’ll have two performances at the Daehangno Eum Center. In July, we’ll do <Complaint Overload Radio>, and this time we’re preparing a one-woman play by a disabled woman performer. That will likely be in November. Please come watch then.

Baro: Can I find it on your website or somewhere?

Jinhee Lee: Yes—seems like you haven’t visited our website. (Everyone laughs) Sorry— I always say what’s in my heart. (Everyone laughs)

Jaeu Jeon: Jinhee, do you appear too?

Jinhee Lee: If we don’t have enough performers, I go on stage. I usually play non-disabled roles—bad non-disabled roles—(everyone laughs)—unequal social worker roles, that kind of thing. Please come watch. (Laughter)

Seok: Then we’ll take one last question.

Ssagae (G_Voice member): When performing with Rainbow, someone left a strong impression. They said they used to go to church, but don’t anymore. A pastor was preaching and made a lot of hateful remarks about sexual minorities, homosexuals, and they were so angry they ran out, and after that they stopped going. I remember that so strongly. Even though we also try to keep interest beyond our own identity, I realized they also make that effort in everyday life—they do that kind of education. That thought stayed with me.

Jinhee Lee: Yes—we do workshops and programs a lot, and we try to talk a lot. Activists work every day, so we naturally have more information and more time to think, but members have relatively less time. At Empathy, we believe what drives the movement is members’ opinions and voices, so we try to create lots of time to talk.

And that person actually changed churches. Along with discriminatory remarks about sexual minorities, the pastor also said things like “don’t vote for that,” “vote for the Christian party,” even the year before last. But because the person’s mother was a deacon at that church, they couldn’t quit quickly, so it was very hard. Still, they eventually broke away. And they moved to Seomdol Hyanglin Church. When they moved, they wrote this on the first offering envelope: “Lord, I attended OO Church, but OO Church discriminates against human rights and discriminates against sexual minorities, so I came to attend Seomdol Hyanglin Church. Still, God, please protect me.” (Applause)

Seok: That’s so moving. Hearing about Dancing Waist and Rainbow, you may have felt points of resonance, and also thoughts like what solidarity we’ve done and what solidarity we want. Holding those thoughts, we should now think about what we do going forward. Let’s take a short break and continue with the next presentation. (10-minute break)

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Asian Culture Forum on Human Rights : Dreaming of a village where ‘everyone enjoys’ while respecting differences

Migrants’ right to enjoy culture

Jungeun Lee (Asian Culture Forum on Human Rights): Hello. I’m Jungeun Lee, working at Asian Culture Forum on Human Rights. We’re based in Dodang-dong, Bucheon. We are a civic organization doing migrant rights movement, and our organization name includes the word “culture.” When we talk about migrants’ rights, we talk about universal human rights. Usually when people hear “migrant,” they first think of migrant workers—and they’re depicted as people who do nothing but work endlessly regardless of weekends or holidays. But among the rights humans should enjoy is the right to enjoy culture in everyday life. There’s prejudice against that.

So the name ‘Asian Culture Forum on Human Rights’ reflects the meaning that migrants’ cultural rights—being respected for their own culture and rightfully enjoying it, as well as their rights as residents/citizens—are important. On the other hand, we also create points of contact mediated by “culture and arts” so that migrants and long-term local residents can communicate. But we’re not a place that professionally does arts activities, so I wondered whether it’s appropriate for me to present here. I feel a lot of pressure, but I’ll share our community experiences in a comfortable way.

Before that, on March 18, G_Voice stood in solidarity with the ‘2018 Joint Action for the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination.’ You supported us for two consecutive years and gave a wonderful performance, and I was so grateful—I think I should start with thanks. (Applause)

When we evaluated this year’s event, we heard about meaningful reactions from migrant communities. Among those who came to the rally for the first time, many people apparently watched the G_Voice choir performance with intense focus. Seeing solidarity with migrants’ human rights issues through performance—somehow they seemed to feel emotions beyond gratitude; the first meeting itself… I’m so nervous right now—my face is turning red. (Everyone laughs)

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Migrants and long-term residents in the local community

Asian Culture Forum on Human Rights has an organizing direction like what’s summarized above. Our office is in Dodang-dong, Bucheon, which is an old downtown area. Because there are many small-scale businesses, the proportion of migrant workers living nearby is high—about 18%. So if you walk around the area, you can easily meet migrants. Not only migrant workers, but also migrants who formed families through marriage, refugees, and their second-generation children live here. A traditional market sits at the center and the village forms around it. In this market, you can see restaurants where you can taste foods from various countries and grocery shops selling diverse ingredients. Our office is inside the market.

Even though migrants and long-term residents coexist in this space, there is almost no direct meeting as neighbors. People pass each other on the street, on the bus—meeting someone with different skin color and appearance—but without real interaction. Even in the residential neighborhood, it was similar. We began thinking: when people with different cultures live together, how do we create points of contact?

(Looking at the PPT screen) In survey results about images commonly associated with migrants, it was hard to find positive ones. In findings from investigations on hate speech toward migrants, you see expressions like: “dirty,” “noisy,” “smelly,” “a group that comes to someone else’s country and steals jobs,” “uncivilized,” “ignorant,” “lazy but money-hungry,” “potential terrorists”—especially used to refer to Muslims—and “pitiful people sold here to have children,” used toward marriage migrant women.

As with hate speech toward sexual minorities, when there is no direct exchange or communication and understanding is lacking, vague stereotypes and prejudices take hold. Media representation also contributes a lot. If a migrant-related crime occurs once, reporting continues day after day, and “migrant group = crime” becomes imprinted.

“Dirty, noisy, smelly” are unrelated to reality; they’re “vibes.” Why do people feel that way? It’s discrimination based on skin color. Even among migrants, people feel more distance from those with darker skin than those with lighter skin. There is a case: in the same situation, someone speaks English and asks for directions, but responses differ—people are more unfriendly or brush off a darker-skinned person, while they kindly guide a lighter-skinned person. Korean society is very insensitive to skin color and racial discrimination.

Because stereotypes and prejudice are vague yet strong, the gaze toward migrants becomes deeply hateful. So how can people develop openness toward those with different skin color, race, and country of origin? Research results show that by age, adolescents’ acceptance was higher than adults’, and those with experience in multicultural education or activities had relatively higher multicultural acceptance.

We can also find that in our area. In an old downtown area where many migrants live, even market merchants often treat migrant customers with discriminatory attitudes—reacting defensively, and so on. As we created diverse chances to meet, people naturally developed interest in other cultures. For merchants, there began to be recognition that speaking down casually in an unfamiliar relationship is wrong.

What multiculturalism includes: human rights, cultural diversity, and minority sovereignty

We use the word “multicultural” a lot these days. But “multicultural” isn’t just about nationality, race, or skin color—it refers to a society where diverse cultural differences are respected: region, gender, sexual orientation, religion, education, academic background, occupation, and more. In Korea, as the phrase “multicultural family” was created, “multicultural” became associated first with marriage migrant women and marriage itself, and there is a tendency to treat them as beings who “need help” unconditionally.

But what multiculturalism must include is: human rights—the most universal human rights; cultural diversity—recognizing and respecting difference; and beyond universal rights, emphasizing ‘minority sovereignty’—especially for those who are excluded and marginalized. We began thinking about how to practice that in the local community. I’ll talk about that process and its outcomes.

As I said earlier, acceptance increases through meeting—so we have to keep creating points of contact. In the local community, it takes time to communicate and exchange, and to understand difference through experiences of meeting. In situations where people used to feel awkward and keep distance when encountering migrants with different skin color, through various chances they begin to recognize the person’s existence, and start to think: how can we coexist as neighbors living together?

The goals of mediating local cultural and arts activities are as follows. First, for migrants, it strengthens identity regarding their own culture. It starts from the idea that “Because you came to Korea, you must learn and enjoy only Korean culture” is wrong. Second, for long-term residents, it aims at ‘interculturality’—understanding and respecting other cultures through exchange. Through this, the local community aims for social integration as a space where migrants and long-term residents live together. The biggest purpose is to secure equal rights as residents living in the area.

Now I’ll focus more on actual cases. We began holding a village festival. Since 2012, once a year, under the name “Gangnam Market Village Festival.” In our second year, we made a campaign poster printed on the back. It says: “Even if our hometowns differ, if we live here, we are Bucheon residents.” The people on the poster are all migrant and long-term resident merchants in the market. In speech bubbles above their heads are the names of their hometowns. In Korea, there isn’t really a concept of “citizenship” in everyday life; rights differ depending on whether you have nationality or not. But what we mean is: if you live here together, as residents, rights should be equal.

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Multiculturalism is a goal for both migrants and long-term residents

To convey that it’s a festival where all residents gather and enjoy together, the faces featured on the poster change every year. So people say, “Oh, that person was on it this year,” “Should I be on it next year?” The images show market merchants and residents of all ages mixing warmly. The origin of the name “Gangnam Market” is unclear. (Everyone laughs) For our interpretation, we set that year’s theme as “The swallow that brought a gourd seed.” In the folktale Heungbu and Nolbu, the gourd seed a swallow brings becomes the source of prosperity for Heungbu’s family. We thought of migrants—beings who moved from their home countries—as “swallows.” The phrase “the swallow that brought a gourd seed” suggests that as migrants move with their own purposes, their being and cultural uniqueness carried from their countries are conveyed 그대로. We compared that diverse culture to a “gourd seed.” We should be grateful for that existence—because it enriches us. That’s the meaning we put in.

During the festival, both participants and organizers include both migrants and long-term residents. Migrants share their home cultures by making food at booths, doing games, and so on. As mentioned earlier, many children and adolescents with migrant backgrounds live here too, and they staged a scene from Heungbu and Nolbu as a yard play. On that day, the market becomes a site where people show off their talents and exchange with residents. It’s a small stage laid on mats in the neighborhood, but through these cultural and arts activities, young people meet others, communicate, and gain an opportunity to present themselves confidently as subjects.

We also did a parade. Because of the area’s characteristics, if you come here you can see many cultures at a glance. As you can see in the photos, the festival now looks joyful, but the beginning was quite harsh. Especially market merchants’ reactions were cold. Because they misunderstood a “multicultural festival” as “a festival only for migrants,” many said, “It doesn’t concern us,” “Why must you do this in the market?” and shook their heads. Since we used spaces all around the market, we needed cooperation in advance, but even when merchant association officers tried to persuade them, many were stubborn. But as one year, two years of experience accumulated, thinking began to change. “Multiculturalism isn’t only thinking about migrants; we must live together,” “Our village has multicultural elements, so we have this characteristic; we should use it well.” People began to align. Market merchants then led the parade holding signs that said “Hello” in various languages—symbolizing welcoming the festival.

People standing on stage together

The merchant association even organized an “apron ensemble.” They said they wanted to do something too, but because they had to practice by carving out business hours, it would be hard to learn something grand; since they like singing, they wanted to have fun singing—so they made an apron ensemble and performed. And in separate spaces prepared by the organization, people met other cultures through films. A migrant worker band was also organized. I mentioned cultural rights at the beginning. Among Myanmar and Cambodian migrant workers, some used to play guitar in their home countries. But here they were too busy working and had stopped. They said they wanted to play together again, and a good opportunity came; we collaborated with artists to form a band, and they performed at a party at the end of last year. They sang Korean songs and Myanmar songs.

There are days we run talk programs where people speak about life in this small space, and we also cook and eat neighboring countries’ food together. Food makes meeting easier. So we do these activities often. We recreated Vietnam’s beer street locally—an event called “Didi Party,” where we made various neighboring-country foods and sold them at low prices while drinking beer outdoors. And adolescents also did a musical. There were several reasons that led to doing a musical, and one of them is G_Voice. (Laughter) Two years ago I watched the film <Weekends>, and I was deeply moved by seeing, in condensed form, the activities of G_Voice that I had only heard about. I thought: if we connect that experience—embedding one’s own voice, containing one’s own story, forming a community, and building solidarity—to migrants I meet and to adolescents with migrant backgrounds, perhaps we could do it in our own way.

Since we can’t do professional cultural arts activities ourselves, collaboration with artists was necessary. About half of these friends have migrant backgrounds; the other half are children of long-term residents. Among them, maybe about three sing really well and love it? (Everyone laughs) So the pitch was often off, (laughter) and although they loved dancing and singing, early on they lacked motivation for why they “had to” do a musical, and the burden was huge because it was their first attempt. The plot of the musical was about the hardships and stress that children of multicultural families experience—and it was based on their real experiences. As middle and high schoolers now, they created the story by recalling elementary school days. There were many twists and turns during rehearsals, and even up to the dress rehearsal we worried: can they really go on stage? But the kids were truly made for the stage. That was what we trusted. Once on stage, they receive focus, and they transform as if by magic—shining, bright, releasing their talents and abilities fully. That day was like that. The venue was a small theater, but it was packed, which made them even more excited. They adapted the work <Dog Poop> by author Kwon Jeong-saeng: Dog Poop sits in the playground listening to children’s worries; the kids also listen to one another’s conflicts and build solidarity; at the end, Dog Poop melts its body to bloom a dandelion; everyone looks at the flower and closes the show with their hopes. Once again, we thank G_Voice for giving us courage. (Applause)

Adolescents with migrant backgrounds sometimes have migration experiences themselves, but often they have migrant backgrounds through their parents. As they grow, they experience identity conflicts. We expect that in migrant rights movements, second-generation movements will become stronger. First-generation migrants already struggled just to adapt to Korean society. But these youth were born and raised here, educated and grown under conditions equal to long-term residents, so they have resources. And the moment they recognize their identity, they can become beings who lead their own movement. We don’t “inject” that into them, but we think that simply being able to stand proudly through such experiences is already something great. When you look at the youth on stage, each one is smiling brightly. We’re preparing again this year, but they’ve already forgotten how excited they were on stage and at the start of this year they complained, “Do we have to do that again?” saying they hate it. (Everyone laughs) Still, if they practice hard and go on stage, I think the same scene will be produced again. We perform at the end of October, and if you have time, I’d like to invite you—it’s far, but I hope you’ll come. (Applause)

Just as G_Voice has stood in solidarity with us for the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, solidarity among minority movements is being emphasized more and more. For us, this isn’t just about gratitude for inviting you and having you come; it also became an opportunity to think about how the migrant rights movement can stand in solidarity with the direction the LGBTQ movement—and G_Voice—will go. So I hope we all hold hands and go with strength along the road we must go. Thank you. (Applause)

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▲ G_Voice Music Camp Planning Forum (Photo: Gwanghun)

Audience Discussion

Seok: Thank you. I really want to go to the events you mentioned. If anyone has questions related to what was shared, please ask.

Kano: I enjoyed it, and I’m curious: when I ride the bus past Hyehwa, I often see a Filipino market open there. And there’s also the Itaewon World Food Festival—events like that happen in various places. Are those events building communities with migrants in that area, or are they more like schedules that each area runs separately?

Jungeun Lee: As you said, the Filipino market opens every Sunday in front of Hyehwa Catholic Church. The reason is that the Philippines is predominantly Catholic, and migrants gather around churches for religious life. Hyehwa Catholic Church is large and offers Mass in Filipino languages, so people gather there every Sunday, and a market forms where they sell their home foods. In Seoul and elsewhere, communities also form around areas where migrants live densely. For example, many Chinese migrants live in Guro and Daerim-dong; Dongbu Ichon-dong has many people with Japanese backgrounds; and Itaewon seems to be an annual event held once a year. Seongbuk-gu also holds similar events, and these days there are many events under the name “multicultural.”

One issue is that sometimes “multicultural” can be consumed as a label. Some think that simply listing various countries’ cultures makes it multicultural. But I think more effort is needed to weave into local communities the mindset of respecting each other’s cultures and the attitude of trying to understand.

Sander (G_Voice member): That was interesting, and since we also have members from migrant or multicultural-family backgrounds, and there must be sexual minorities in migrant communities too, it felt like our world is widening, and I liked that. I’m curious: those communities also each bring their own “gourd seeds,” so they can’t be uniform groups. When you run a movement, there must be a lot of collisions—different positions, communication not easy, maybe like Women with Disabilities Empathy. What kinds of issues did you face, and how did you overcome them?

Jungeun Lee: As everyone said earlier, when we claim a minority’s rights, there’s a tendency for the diversity within the group and individuals to fragment. What you said applies to migrants too. Because class and hierarchy differ by country of origin and background, it’s very difficult to speak in one voice when claiming rights. So we do have conflicts.

For example, marriage migrant women can obtain stable residency as “a spouse of a citizen,” while migrant workers often cannot. So for migrant workers, stable residency is the most critical issue in rights struggles, and government policy and institutional problems are big. Even in migrant support policy, support for migrant workers is very narrow; many resources focus on “multicultural families.” There are many gaps there too. Also, it’s important to recognize migrants not as one group but as people with diverse internal identities. Because positions and situations differ, solidarity can loosen at times. The key is to keep communicating, connecting, and gathering while focusing the movement. It’s an important question, but it’s not easy to answer on the spot. And as you said, there are certainly sexual minorities among migrants. How to build solidarity going forward will be an important issue.

Seok: Thank you. Then, due to time, we’ll quickly move to the next presentation. We’ll continue with a presentation by Holic from the Queer Culture Festival.

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Presentation 4 — Queer Culture Festival : A history of the Queer Culture Festival

Evolution of Slogans at the Queer Culture Festival

Holic (Queer Culture Festival): Hello. I’m Holic, and at the Queer Culture Festival I handle film festival work. Nice to meet you. I really wanted to come today. I also work at the Queer Culture Festival, but the place where I mainly earn a living is the Korean LGBTQ+ Culture and Rights Center (KSCRC), where I work as an activist. There was a book talk event, and I got an invitation call, but I wanted even more to meet the G_Voice members, so I abandoned our event and came here. (Audience exclaims)

First of all, I wanted to share some thoughts about cultural movements, and I also wanted to take this opportunity to express my gratitude to G_Voice—for raising your voices at the Queer Culture Festival and at so many sites of struggle.

I spent a long time thinking about how to tell this story. The Queer Culture Festival may look very large now, but if you look at how it first began, you can see how something gradually becomes a movement—how a cultural movement can become a human rights movement. You can actually see this just by looking at the changes in its slogans. The Queer Culture Festival is often recognized mainly as a parade. But I’ve heard that when it first started, the parade began almost by accident. I wasn’t there at the time, but back then it was organized by a joint organizing committee called Rainbow 2000. At that time, there was no parade, no party, and no film festival. There were only special events, theater performances, and discussion forums.

Then, by chance, at an independent arts festival—what is now the Fringe Festival—someone suggested, “We’re doing a parade; would you like to come out and join us?” Since it was our first time doing a parade, we decided to try it. But it rained that day. So no one from the independent arts festival came out—only us did. (Laughter)  About seventy people marched around Daehangno twice. That was the very first parade. It was raining, but we alone marched earnestly, holding rainbow flags. And if you look at the terminology used back then—gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, open plaza—everything was mixed together. Today we use the term “queer,” but back then, it wasn’t yet consolidated.

Queer Culture Festival Slogans by Year (2000–2017)

- 1st Queer Culture Festival, Rainbow 2000: Shout it loud: “I am a homosexual”

- 2nd Queer Culture Festival, Rainbow 2001: Just take one step out—let’s have fun

- 3rd Queer Culture Festival, Rainbow 2002: Don’t stop—this is just the beginning, heartbeat racing!

- 4th Queer Culture Festival, Rainbow 2003: Move!

- 5th Queer Culture Festival, Rainbow 2004: Freedom and equality for all

- 6th Queer Culture Festival, Rainbow 2005: Queer climax

- 7th Queer Culture Festival, Rainbow 2006: Proud and dignified queer happiness

- 8th Queer Culture Festival, 2007: This Is QUEER

- 9th Queer Culture Festival, 2008: Burst! Queer Scandal

- 10th Queer Culture Festival, 2009: Ten years off your life

- 11th Queer Culture Festival, 2010: OUTING – Currently stepping out

- 12th Queer Culture Festival, 2011: In praise of queer

- 13th Queer Culture Festival, 2012: Queer love song – Forming family ties

- 14th Queer Culture Festival, 2013: THE QUEER – We are here

- 15th Queer Culture Festival, 2014: Love is stronger than hate

- 16th Queer Culture Festival, 2015: Love, resist, queer revolution

- 17th Queer Culture Festival, 2016: QUEER I AM – Fighting for our existence

- 18th Queer Culture Festival, 2017: There is no later—we change it now

▲ Past Queer Culture Festival slogans (2000–2017)

When you look at the second festival, the first slogan was “I am a homosexual,” and if we used that slogan today, it would cause an uproar. (Laughter) The second slogan was “Just take one step out—let’s have fun.” Maybe people weren’t taking even that one step, so that’s why it was written that way. (Laughter) At the time, we even held an exhibition on the streets of Hongdae—at the Hongdae playground. In the first year, we had the parade, discussion sessions, theater, and movement performances. The film festival began in the second year, starting with just one film, screened at a place called Théâtre Chou in Hongdae. The party that year was a dance party held in Itaewon.

Back then, we decorated the stairways with rainbows and tried, in our own way, to make things look nice. When the parade was held in front of Hongdae, about 200 people participated—quite an increase from seventy. It was held in September. While preparing this presentation, we searched for old photographs and organized the history, and it felt like studying all over again. As many of you know, the origins of the queer parade lie in the Stonewall uprising. In the U.S., police regularly raided a bar called the Stonewall Inn, extorting money, and on that particular day—when Judy Garland had died—the LGBTQ patrons, already grieving, finally erupted. When the police came again, people shouted, “Why do we have to keep being beaten, harmed, and extorted?” and they poured into the streets. That incident became the origin of queer parades around the world. In Sydney’s Mardi Gras, Han Chae-yoon and Kang Myung-jin once went just to “check it out,” and rumor has it that’s how they ended up doing this work ever since. (Laughter)

The Emergence of Red Ribbons Signifying Refusal of Media Coverage at the Festival

The slogan of the 3rd Queer Culture Festival was set as “Don’t Stop—It Starts Now, Thump-Thump.” It was held from June 6 to 8, 2002. That year again, separate gay and lesbian parties were held in Itaewon, and the film festival expanded from a single screening to twelve films, held at Artcube. A lecture by Professor Douglas Sanders, along with photo exhibitions and other programs, were also part of the festival. What is especially important to note at this point is the following. You may or may not remember, but although today many people participate confidently in parades despite the ongoing threats of outing and media exposure, back then, simply appearing in the media or joining the parade itself was deeply frightening. Because of this, the organizers distributed red ribbons. If you tied one somewhere on your body, it signaled: “Please do not photograph this person.” This so-called red ribbon movement continued for quite some time. That year, the parade took place in Itaewon, with around 400 participants.

The slogan of the 4th Queer Culture Festival in 2003 was “Move.” Building on the earlier slogan “Just take one step out,” it was now time to actually move—hence the slogan. As before, the festival included a parade, dance parties, exhibitions, a film festival, and discussion forums. What deserves special attention that year were the World HIV/AIDS Photo Exhibition, a Stonewall Uprising commemorative forum, and a film festival screening seven films. About 600 people participated in the parade. At that time, some performance groups still appeared with their faces covered. At the very front of the parade, members of Chingusai marched in the lead, leaving behind images that would become especially memorable year after year.

The 5th Queer Culture Festival in 2004 adopted the slogan “Freedom and Equality for All.” You may notice that the tone of the slogans began to change significantly from this point. At the time, the Queer Culture Festival did not operate as a permanent organization but rather as a planning committee. Individuals joined the committee in their personal capacity, and although they each belonged to different organizations or professions, the festival was run entirely by volunteers. So while the Queer Culture Festival may appear quite large, even today its CMS and regular monthly donations do not exceed 2.5 million won per month. The conditions have always been extremely precarious. Maintaining full-time staff has also been difficult, and currently Director Kang Myung-jin is serving as the sole full-time worker. By securing funding from institutions such as the Korea Culture and Arts Foundation, the festival was able in 2004 to receive 10 million won, which made it possible to hold events around Jongno and Gwanghwamun. It rained that year as well, but participants marched proudly, visibly exposed. (Laughter)

The 6th Queer Culture Festival in 2005, titled “Queer Peak,” was particularly notable for its beautiful poster. The overall look became more polished, with a pink-toned aesthetic. During the 7th Queer Culture Festival in 2006, under the slogan “Proudly, Queer Happiness,” torrential rain poured down. Around 600 people still participated in the parade. That year also featured discussion gatherings and a Condom Café, operated in collaboration with iSHAP. In 2006, Choi Hyun-sook organized an event provocatively titled “Are You Not a Man Without a Penis?” At the time, there was also the Transgender Rights Solidarity “Earthworm,” which played an important role in raising awareness about transgender and LGBTQ+ rights. That year, a salsa dance team composed of non-queer members performed on stage—something that would be extremely difficult to imagine today. If a general salsa team were invited to a Queer Parade stage now, there would likely be an uproar. But back then, it was simply the atmosphere of the times. During the parade, volunteers carried massive rainbow flags, and when it rained, their weight became overwhelming. It remains a very vivid and exhausting memory.

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The Gap Between Leather Gear in 2006 and Thong Shorts in 2014

That year, there were also people who showed up at the parade wearing leather outfits typically associated with SM communities. Pretty radical, right? These days, the Queer Culture Festival is often framed through incitement as “a perverts’ festival,” “an obscene festival,” and so on. But back in 2006, this kind of attire was possible. By 2014, even with far less exposure than that, there were cases where police arrested participants on the spot for minor offenses during the parade. That’s the kind of shift we’re talking about.

The 8th Queer Culture Festival in 2007 was held under the slogan “This Is Queer.” This was the year the festival finally moved into Cheonggyecheon Plaza. About 1,000 people participated in the parade. It was also the period when the festival shifted from being called the Rainbow Film Festival to adopting a more formal identity as the Seoul LGBT Film Festival. If we were to point to the most historic moment of that year, it would be this—although the Queer Parade wasn’t very widely known at the time, so the incident passed rather quietly. John Cameron Mitchell visited Korea. The reason he ended up on the Queer Parade stage was almost accidental: someone from the Queer Culture Festival organizing team happened to spot him while walking through Insadong. (Laughter) They stopped him and asked if he would come up on the festival stage, and he ended up singing two songs from <Hedwig>. Quite a few people in the audience had come through John Cameron Mitchell fan cafés. If he came now, the timing would be perfect—but back then, he may have come a bit too early. Still, it remains a genuinely historic moment.

In 2008, the 9th Queer Culture Festival was held under the slogan “Blazing! Queer Scandal.” These days, slogans are selected through open submissions, but back then they were created internally by the planning committee. When deciding how to come up with a slogan, they often used words that were trendy at the time—“blazing” was a popular term back then. (Laughter) Hyun-gu and Chae-yoon from iSHAP served as the event hosts. What was then known as the Korean Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Alliance—the predecessor of today’s Solidarity for LGBT Human Rights of Korea—also marched with their flags.

The Disappearance of the Red Ribbon Signaling Refusal of Media Coverage

After that, the slogan of the 10th Queer Culture Festival in 2009 was “Ten Years Off My Life.” There is honestly so much to say about that slogan. When you’re setting a research topic or framing an argument, you really do end up following the slogan. At the time, we truly felt like we were losing ten years off our lives. (Laughter) So many things happened that year. First of all, we were supposed to hold the Queer Parade, but former President Roh Moo-hyun passed away. His memorial service was held in late April, which meant we were suddenly in an emergency situation, unsure of what to do with the parade schedule. Beyond that, there were many other hardships for the organizing committee. One meaningful development that year, however, concerned the red ribbons I mentioned earlier, which were used to indicate refusal of media coverage. Over time, people began wearing the red ribbons around their necks or using them as decorative accessories, so it became unclear whether someone was wearing a ribbon to refuse media coverage or simply as an ornament. Because of that confusion, we tried switching to stickers instead. If you put a sticker on your face, it meant the media should not film you. But during the parade, the stickers would fall off because of sweat. After going through all of that, the festival organizing committee eventually announced that we would no longer use red ribbons or stickers. It was an important shift.

Moving on to 2010, the festival was held under the slogan “Outing — Currently Going Out.” These days, outing is understood as a crime, something dangerous that exposes a person’s identity. But historically, the term “outing” was used quite differently in the United States—as a positive, activist concept—when politicians were hiding their identities, to assert that they, too, were sexual minorities. That understanding shaped the overall tone of the parade that year. In 2011, the festival was held under the title “In Praise of Queer.” In 2012, the slogan was “Queer Love Song: Forming Families, Tying Bonds.” The idea was to explore wedding performances at the Queer Parade and to center issues such as same-sex marriage and diverse family formations within the Queer Culture Festival.

The 14th Queer Culture Festival in 2013 was held under the slogan “THE QUEER — We Are Here.” An enormous crowd showed up that year. It was held in Hongdae, marking the move from Cheonggyecheon Plaza to Hongdae. What was particularly significant was that the organizers reached an agreement with the Hongdae Merchants’ Association to hold the festival together. Around 10,000 people gathered on Hongdae’s “Walkable Street,” and shops belonging to the merchants’ association even hung rainbow flags to mark the festival.

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The Emergence of Hate Groups in 2014, and the “Solidarity of Shit”

I think the 15th Queer Culture Festival in 2014 was the most important year. As I said, the slogan ends up shaping everything, and that year we went with: “Love is stronger than hate.” From that point on, hate groups began to show up in massive numbers. It was held in Sinchon. Those of you who’ve joined the parade will know this: it’s a route that takes about an hour if you walk slowly, or about twenty minutes if you move quickly, and the march proceeds as a procession—people and trucks together. That year, just as a huge crowd had gathered and the trucks were about to depart, the opposing side laid out 3,000 chairs. They held placards saying that homosexuality would ruin Korea and destroy families, and they lay down in front of the parade procession. The parade was originally scheduled for the daytime, but it kept getting delayed, and we ended up holding the first-ever nighttime parade, at 9:30 p.m.

After that—after the Sinchon parade—the Queer Culture Festival was effectively forced into a situation where it “held a festival together with” hate groups. So we, too, began to set slogans that carried the power of resistance. The slogan of the 16th Queer Culture Festival in 2015 was: “Love, resist, queer revolution!” One particularly striking thing that year was this: in order to hold the festival, we have to file a protest assembly report to secure the venue, and those reports are handled first-come, first-served. There were times when men on the opposing side took turns sleeping outside so they could claim the first spot, which forced us to line up at the Namdaemun Police Station. That year, we finally held the festival at Seoul Plaza, and a truck came all the way from the Tokyo Pride Parade as well. People on the opposing side showed up wearing hanbok. (Laughter) What was funny was that they played music by Tchaikovsky, a gay composer, and danced to it. That’s the kind of large-scale counter-rally it had become.

What was also meaningful was what happened when we went down to Daegu—something G_Voice likely experienced as well. During the parade I was walking toward the back of the procession, and suddenly I smelled shit from behind. People parted like the Red Sea, and someone smeared it on the rainbow flag at the very front—and then smeared the rest of it on their own body. The organizing team blocked the “shit water” and ended up going to the police station. G_Voice members were hit with shit too—so in that sense, we’re comrades bonded by getting splashed with shit. (Laughter)

In 2016, for the 17th Queer Culture Festival, we chose the slogan “Queer I Am, Fighting for our existence,” and we got an enormous amount of abuse for it. (Laughter) In the past, nobody cared what slogan we used, but these days it feels like a lot of people are watching closely. I think that means the festival has grown more significant. The Chingusai truck had gotten much bigger, diplomats from foreign embassies came, and the hate groups on the other side even brought out placards in English.

The slogan of the 18th Queer Culture Festival in 2017 was “There is no later—now we change it!” That slogan came in response to supporters of President Moon Jae-in chanting “later”—as in, why are our human rights always “later,” and why is our love always treated as something temporary? So: there is no later. The situation was, as always, uncertain. One of that year’s posters even said, “Where is this year’s Queer Parade being held?”—because we genuinely didn’t know where it would be held, and that’s why we made that poster. Even this year, to use Seoul Plaza, we have to submit an application 90 days in advance, and whenever we apply there is always competition with other groups. We’re working on coordinating that process right now.

[Image attached]

The Implications of Minority Culture: We Are Not the Same as You

The reason I’ve shown you the parade slogans and their history is this: today, the Queer Culture Festival Organizing Committee may look very large, as if it sits at the center of everything, but in reality it grew out of what individual activists, one by one, sought to change through cultural activism. When I meet people outside, I often hear this kind of remark: “How are sexual minorities any different from us? They’re just the same people as us. Let’s not discriminate against difference.” But that line always leaves me with a strangely uncomfortable feeling. We are different. Right?

Even the phrase “understanding sexual minorities” is a bit odd, but I believe it is important to understand the culture of sexual minorities. That’s why queer films, for example, can make groups of young people laugh together, feel sadness together, and share those emotions. Just as the experience of watching a film changes depending on where it is screened, I think it’s important for people to come to know queer culture itself—not simply to say that they “understand” sexual minorities. From the perspective of the human rights movement, this is why cultural activism is such a crucial point. There are people here already doing this work—G_Voice, Dancing Waist, migrant rights movements, and others—but I want to emphasize that we need to do this work together even more. Thank you.
 (Applause)

Audience Discussion

Seok: Thank you for your remarks. Because of time constraints, we’ll take just one question.

Jeon Jaewoo: What we’re most curious about is when and where this year’s Queer Culture Festival will be held. Could you give us at least a rough idea?

Holic: I’ll let you know—at least here… (cheers) Actually, I don’t really know myself. I’m not an informant or anything. (laughter) It’s not a secret, though. There are local elections this year, and there’s also a very important inter-Korean summit, so we have to pay close attention to the political climate. We’ve submitted an application to use Seoul Plaza, and we’re currently expecting July. Since the local elections are in June, we’re aiming for July. We’ve put in dates for the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th weeks. Because there’s competition, we don’t know which date it will be yet, but the festival is planned for July.

Seok: Right—July, July. Please get ready. (laughter) Now let’s have each panelist give a brief closing remark. As I was listening, a common theme stood out to me: moving from being an object to becoming a subject—on stage. Those fleeting moments of sparkle. That feels like a shared point among minority groups engaged in cultural activism.

Jeon Jaewoo: Yes, we wanted to devote more time to a full discussion and talk about many things, but unfortunately the next speaker has been waiting outside for twenty minutes already. I hope there will be many more chances to continue these conversations afterward. (Applause)

Lee Jinhee: Thank you to G_Voice for continuing to sing—on the streets and on stage. And thank you so much to Lee Jungeun and Holic for joining us today. I’m very grateful to the members of G_Voice for creating a space like this. (Applause)

Lee Jungeun: I’m sorry for taking up so much time because I was so nervous. As I mentioned earlier, we in the migrant rights movement will continue to think together about ways we can build solidarity, starting after this session. (Applause)

Holic: I think I took up the most time today. (laughter) Thank you so much for creating such a great space, and I’ll keep working to help build a stronger queer cultural scene. Thank you. (Applause)

Seok: It’s a shame we couldn’t have the full discussion we had planned today. I hope we’ll have more opportunities to keep talking in the future. With that sense of regret, we’ll bring this session to a close. Thank you. (Applause)

Audio transcript

Chingusai / Teoul (터울)

 Updated English translation available on April 20

[Contributed Article]

To the Rainbow Pilgrims Who Stepped into the Square

▲ Rainbow flags flying at the <Arrest Yoon Suk-yeol Immediately · Step Down! Social Transformation! Nationwide Civic March> held at Gwanghwamun Square on December 21, 2024

1. Times of Justice

December is a month when, even though the cold wind keeps forcing its way through our thick layers of clothing and makes our bodies hunch involuntarily, our hearts swell strangely with warmth. Last weekend (December 21–22), the Jeon Bong-jun Struggle Group, which had been isolated for 28 hours after being blocked by police barricades in Namtaeryeong, finally broke through the blockade and advanced as far as Yoon Suk-yeol’s residence in Hannam-dong. Thirteen tractors and the thousands of citizens following behind them shouted “Struggle!” while singing <Into the New World> and waving light sticks to the rhythm of <Song of Women Farmers>.

Beginning on the 16th, the struggle group departed from Jinju in South Gyeongsang Province and Muan in South Jeolla Province, calling respectively for “the arrest of Yoon Suk-yeol” and “the abolition of open-market agricultural policy.” When the tractor convoy passed smoothly through Gyeonggi Province and entered Seoul, the police declared the march illegal and threatened to suppress it unless it dispersed (on the 21st). As news spread, citizens who had participated in the nationwide civic march at Gwanghwamun Square gathered at Namtaeryeong after the rally ended, vowing to stage an overnight sit-in and refusing to tolerate police encroachment.

In the early morning hours, when thirty million people slept, participants shared why they were fighting alongside farmers and the futures they each hoped for. Drawing warmth from one another’s words and encouragement, they endured the biting cold of minus ten degrees Celsius. Citizens who could not be there sent snacks and hand warmers, and when hypothermia emergencies occurred, donations were raised to rent and dispatch heating buses.

Even as his own political survival hung by a thread, one high-ranking official—busy shielding the ringleader of an insurrection—slandered the Jeon Bong-jun Struggle Group’s protest as “rioting” and spewed the outrageous remark that “clubs are the answer.” Yet the citizens gathered in the square made clear that freedom of assembly and association is not only one’s own right but also the right of others. Confronting power that sought to suppress those rights by force, they embodied the principle that “solidarity is the answer.”

What made this struggle—often called the “Battle of Namtaeryeong”—so awe-inspiring and moving to many was that a fight led by farmers, long pushed to the margins of Korean society, was ultimately protected through solidarity among people with different vulnerabilities. The slogan from the Jeon Bong-jun Struggle Group’s Ten Articles of Reform—“Abolish hatred and discrimination against women, people with disabilities, migrants, and minorities!”—became a lived reality in Namtaeryeong. It demonstrated that safeguarding farmers’ survival and dignity resonates with a just future. There is no one who has grown up without eating rice grown by farmers, just as there is no sky untouched by the rainbow.

In December 2024, even as I witness rulers attempting to wreck our everyday lives through all manner of contrivance, I also see comrades who refuse to be cowed—checking in on one another and preparing for a new future together. After the late-night declaration of martial law on December 3 failed, citizens rose up to demand severe punishment for the insurrectionary forces that sought to overturn democracy. To defeat those who believed they could seize power with martial law troops and tanks, the weapons we prepared were glowing light sticks and mass K-POP sing-alongs.

I cannot forget the procession of lights that filled the dark streets of Yeouido on the night of the 7th. It reminded me of the fairies—or warriors—of justice from the comics I loved as a child, figures onto whom I once projected myself. “In the name of justice, I will not forgive you.” Like a magical incantation to overcome despair, we hummed K-POP lyrics packed with change and love. The insurrectionary forces may have wanted to claim that citizens with weak “will to resist” had been brainwashed by “anti-state elements lurking in society,” but such logic would have branded Korea’s idols and global K-POP fans alike as anti-state forces—perhaps why they dared not voice it aloud.

Contrary to our hopes, the first impeachment motion was defeated when the ruling party walked out of the plenary session. The next day, the prime minister and ruling party leader announced a maneuver dubbed “Unconstitutional Season 2” (the so-called “orderly resignation”). What we confronted then was not defeat or despair, but the true face of the villains. With greasy smiles, they dressed reaction as conservatism and revealed, with characteristic candor, that the “citizens” they claimed to serve were not us. We named them accomplices to insurrection and gained time to raise once more the light sticks that had emerged to confront injustice.

On the 14th, the National Assembly passed the impeachment motion, halting the violence of the insurrection. Our relief was short-lived. That suspending the duties of a criminal who had aimed guns at citizens and violently invaded the National Assembly barely passed—just over the quorum of 200 votes, with 204 in favor—was infuriating. Recalling that forty million citizens, seventy million people living on the Korean Peninsula, indeed people around the world, had been forced to hold their breath until this obvious decision was made, my anger still surges.

2. The Future Woven by the Rainbow of the Square

In last month’s newsletter article (“‘Emergency Martial Law’: Checking in on You Who Endured That Long Night in Anxiety”), I urged my comrades that it was “time to begin democracy in a queer way.” Yet, to be honest, before this struggle began, I harbored doubts. I feared that if emergency martial law (an insurrection) led to impeachment and a snap election followed as procedure dictated, we would be handed a ballot asking only which president to choose—without ever being given the chance to speak of the society my comrades and I desire.

That fear stemmed from bitter memories of the 2017 presidential election, when self-proclaimed democrats dismissed our existence and the right to love by chanting “later.” In the years since, whenever voices demanded the enactment of an anti-discrimination law, they evaded responsibility by saying “making a living comes first” or “social consensus is needed,” or brushed it off with a smirk and a “that’s enough, right?” Rather than apologizing for their paltry sense of human rights that capitulated to hate groups and condoned discrimination, they continued to proclaim—without shame—that they “oppose homosexuality.” Along the way, we lost Staff Sergeant Byun Hee-soo, who wanted to protect citizens’ lives as a transgender soldier. They also ignored demands for safer workplaces for non-regular workers and for the realization of mobility rights for people with disabilities, even as they touted “rooting out deep-seated evils.”

“At Coupang, workers are dying. In Yongjugol, Paju, sex workers’ lives are being destroyed in the name of redevelopment. At Dongduk Women’s University, university democracy is under threat. In the Seoul subway, the right of people with disabilities to move freely is still not guaranteed. Dating violence against women, the absence of an anti-discrimination law for sexual minorities, discrimination faced by the children of migrant workers, and regional hatred toward Jeolla Province—if all of this remains unresolved, then our democracy is still incomplete.”
 — Statement by Eugene, who identified herself as a karaoke hostess, at the Busan Seomyeon impeachment rally, December 11, 2024

Those of us who stepped into the square were not simply recalling the misgovernance of the Yoon Suk-yeol administration. At the Busan Seomyeon rally, Eugene spoke of the wounds left by a democracy that has failed to permeate everyday life. Those wounds are the pain we have witnessed over the eight years since the candlelight protests that ousted Park Geun-hye—pain that has repeatedly returned as guilt and rage. Throughout that time, rainbow flags confronted hate groups, layering one another’s experiences of discrimination atop the wounds others endured, cultivating a sensibility of solidarity. The square of 2024—said to be “different from before”—did not appear suddenly or like a comet; it is the sum of these accumulated memories.

With the hard-fought struggles for equality as its foundation, the square is now constructing a political stage for those pushed aside by society. From the square outward, efforts are made to police hatred and discrimination and to create assemblies that are safe and equal. As flags symbolizing the rainbow and diverse genders flutter, they inscribe the demand that the future of democracy must realize the rights of feminists, queers, and minorities. This is how we break with Yoon Suk-yeol and other discriminationists, and how we open a society unlike the one before. The multicolored waves of light invite us to imagine desires and lives far more diverse than what the single candle of “impeachment” can contain.

I keep turning over the words of a Chingusai comrade who said they still felt an “unresolved frustration” even in the 2024 impeachment square. I recall the faces of comrades who leaned on one another, sharing body heat on the bone-chilling asphalt. I cannot confidently promise that a future unlike the past awaits us at the end of this square, or that a world will unfold where our existence and love are respected. Still, I believe this winter we spent together will be remembered as a struggle that was not lonely. That in the winter of 2024, we fought together to change our lives and to build a world without discrimination. That in a world filled with pain and sorrow, we nurtured love. That though it was bitterly cold, it was warm because of the caring greetings we exchanged. In the new year of 2025, I look forward to greeting you again in the square. Take good care of your health.

“When we went down to Earth, we met those other beings, and many of us would fall in love with someone. And soon we would come to know the world that the one we love stands up against—how full it is of pain and grief. The truth that those we love are oppressed. Olive knew that love also means standing up to the world together with the one you love.”
 — Kim Cho-yeop, “Why the Pilgrims Do Not Return,” in <If We Cannot Go at the Speed of Light>, Hubble, 2019, p. 52.

Chingusai / Ram (람)

 Updated English translation available on April 20

Chingusai Gay Culture School, Cohort 3: <GayBongBakDoo 3> Ready

The thirteen-session course of the Gay Culture School, titled Cohort 3: My First Film Made with a Phone, which began last March, has now come to an end. The films produced through this program will be presented to audiences under the name <GayBongBakDoo 3>. Let us look back at the eventful production process that led to their completion, and take a preview of the films created this year.

Launched in 2012, the short film production workshop Gay Culture School, My First Film Made with a Phone, marks its third edition this year. Unlike the first and second editions, which moved directly into short film production from the outset, this year’s program was divided into a beginner track and an advanced track. In the four-session beginner track, eight participants produced a variety of videos using only smartphones, exploring the characteristics of smart-movie production. In the final session, a small screening was held at Chingusai’s Sajungjeon space, where participants screened the documentaries they had created over the four sessions. Among the eight films produced, director Han Ho-seung’s <Ah! So Sweet> and director Lee Seung-jun’s <My Home> were later screened at the 14th Korea Queer Film Festival.

There were many strong works among those that were not screened at festivals as well. Some of the beginner-track films were not submitted at all, as they had not been produced with public release in mind from the outset. This was unfortunate, but the choice to keep these documentaries private functioned as a way to allow for more candid storytelling. That said, these works may still be shared through small screenings for Chingusai members. Those interested are encouraged to consult with the secretariat and even plan their own “smartphone documentary” screenings.

The advanced track, designed as a ten-session course, included seven of the eight participants from the beginner track. With only the final public screening remaining, all other stages have now been completed. From developing ideas and writing scripts to creating storyboards, filming, and editing, participants carried out the full production process. After an internal screening and midterm review held on July 15, they are currently completing final edits in preparation for the public screening. Notably, unlike in previous years, participants moved beyond smartphones and used equipment of their own choosing, including DSLR cameras and video cameras. Those who attend <GayBongBakDoo> screenings each year will be able to notice this difference.

Many people contributed greatly to this process. Director So Jun-moon, who has attended internal screenings every year to offer advice, joined the workshop this year for the first time as a mentor. Director Lee Hyuk-sang continued his support as a mentor for the third consecutive year, and director Kim Jo -Gwang su served as head mentor. Under their guidance, the films were steadily prepared. Director Son Tae-gyeom also attended the internal screening and offered valuable feedback. We take this opportunity to once again express our sincere gratitude to everyone who contributed their support.

Perhaps thanks to this extensive guidance, this year saw more external screenings than ever before. To name a few: director Kimchi-up’s <Billy> from the second cohort was officially invited to the 29th Torino GLBT Film Festival in 2014, marking the first overseas screening in the history of <GayBongBakDoo>. At the 2014 Seoul LGBT Film Festival, four films were screened: director Byun Cheon’s <T.N.T>, director Murfly’s <A Society That Encourages Kissing>, director Kimchi-up’s <Billy>, and director Kim Hyun’s <Little Finger>. At the 14th Korea Queer Film Festival, screenings included the beginner-track films <My Home> and <Ah! So Sweet>, as well as director Byun Cheon’s <Secret> and director Lee Seung-hwa’s <The Wiretap Inside My Heart>. These screening announcements include works from the first and second cohorts, as well as the third cohort’s beginner track. High expectations surround the advanced-track films being produced this year.

▲ A scene from <Ah! So Refreshing> by director Han Ho-seung

Seven films will be screened this year. First, director Han Ho-seung’s <Ah! So Refreshing> depicts a protagonist who becomes obsessively attached to a close younger gay friend. When the younger friend—who does not reciprocate his feelings—suggests calling for a massage and spending time together, the protagonist finds himself torn by inner conflict. The film calmly portrays obsession disguised as love. Familiar faces also appear, including Kwon Gi-ha, who previously appeared in <While You Were Sleeping> and <Little Finger>, and Lee Sung-jun, who played the father in <The Wiretap Inside My Heart>.

▲ A scene from <Can I Stay> by director Lee Seung-jun

Director Lee Seung-jun’s <Can I Stay> portrays, through restrained visual language, a protagonist caught between desire and fear when a young man arrives at his home late at night.

▲ A scene from <Summer Night> by director Park Sang-eon

Director Park Sang-eon’s <Summer Night> unfolds on the terrace of a bar tucked into an alley off a street lined with gay venues. A middle-aged woman and several young men in their mid-twenties drink together, prompting curiosity about the nature of their relationship. As the film progresses, that relationship is gradually revealed.

▲ A scene from <Word Chain> by director Na Geon-nyeong

Director Na Geon-nyeong’s <Word Chain> portrays a couple waiting for the last bus at a bus stop, passing the time by playing a word-chain game. The protagonist’s tender efforts to soothe his irritated partner and bring him home give the scene an affectionate tone. Will their word chain be able to continue?

▲ A scene from <GREEN LIGHT> by director Gong Do-yeon

Sehun and Baekhyun, a young couple, enjoy going on dates together. When Baekhyun expresses a desire for sexual intimacy, Sehun repeatedly resists and eventually agrees—reluctantly—to do so on their 100th day. Director Gong Do-yeon’s <GREEN LIGHT>, which depicts a story of young students in love, stands out for its witty narrative structure and concludes with a slightly absurd ending that elicits a quiet smile.

▲ A scene from <Adonis Flower Boy Fortune-Telling Shop> by director Kang Woo

A fortune-telling shop suddenly appears in the neighborhood, calling itself the “Adonis Flower Boy Fortune-Telling Shop.” Defying all expectations, word spreads quickly and the business thrives. Proud and strong-willed Young-soon scoffs at the rumors but eventually finds herself visiting the shop. Let us listen to the fortune of happiness pursued by Adonis in director Kang Woo’s <Adonis Flower Boy Fortune-Telling Shop>.

▲ A scene from <Turkish Sky> by director Kim Gay

Director Kim Gay’s <Turkish Sky> quietly observes the conversation between two men who reunite at a shabby bar after two years. Sang-min, who married a woman as part of a sham relationship, reveals that his wife is pregnant and says he will stay for just one beer before leaving.

With such a diverse lineup prepared this year, audiences have much to look forward to. Do note, however, that <GayBongBakDoo> is not something you can watch at any time you wish, so be sure not to miss the screening announcements. The screening of <GayBongBakDoo 3> is scheduled for early September.

<GayBongBakDoo> Film Instructor / Choi Young-jun (최영준)

Time Between Times #5: A Certain Sense of Liberation That Is Neither Activism nor Art

- Original Songs by the Gay Chorus 'G_Voice'

'G_Voice' is a gay chorus founded in 2003 as a hobby group within Chingusai. There have likely been other LGBTQ music groups that took the stage before them, but 'G_Voice' may be the first gay choir in Korea to sustain its lineage through ongoing performances and recording activities since its founding. Beginning with its first annual concert in 2006, 'G_Voice' also held a 10th anniversary commemorative performance in 2013, filling most of the program with original songs. Following its 9th annual concert, <Coming Out>, in 2014, the group is now preparing its 10th annual concert this year.

A thesis titled <The Cultural Politics of a Gay Men’s Choir> has already been written on 'G_Voice',1) and that work has organized an overall analysis and evaluation of their songs and performances. Here, then, I would like to focus more closely on the original songs that 'G_Voice' wrote and composed themselves, tracing the textures of gay life that those songs depict. I also want to revisit the meanings and resonances of the “male vocal ensemble” form, and to re-examine their position—one that can appear, at first glance, to sit ambiguously somewhere between “activism” and “art.”

A list of 'G_Voice'’s original songs that have been included on albums or performed on stage is as follows.2)

1. <Open the Closet Door> (2003): lyrics by Chorusboy, music by Body
2. <Peaceman> (2007): lyrics by Garam, music by Chorusboy
3. <Memories of the Correctional Facility> (2007): lyrics by Gala & Chorusboy, music by Norma
4. <The Boy Next Door> (2007): lyrics by Norma & Chorusboy, music by Norma
5. <The Miracle of Jongno> (2007): lyrics & music by Chorusboy
6. <Gay Day> (2007): lyrics by Garam, music by Norma
7. <Chorusboy> (2008): lyrics by Dongha, music by Chorusboy
8. <G_Voice di Gloria> (2008): lyrics by Norma & Chorusboy, music by Norma
9. <Nagwon-dong Blues> (2009): lyrics by Cheon Jeong-nam, music by Chorusboy
10. <A Cheeky Confession> (2009): lyrics by Norma & Chorusboy, music by Norma
11. <The Miracle of Jongno 2> (2009): lyrics by Garam, music by Garam & Chorusboy, arranged by Norma
12. <UP> (2009): lyrics & music by Chorusboy
13. <Happy Gay Christmas> (2009): lyrics & music by Chorusboy
14. <The In-Between Season> (2009): lyrics by Cheon Jeong-nam, Jaegyeong, Garam, Tina, Samgun, & Chorusboy; music by Chorusboy
15. <It Isn’t Easy> (2010): lyrics by Sander, music by Chorusboy
16. <Memories of a Stray Girl> (2010): lyrics by Laika, music by Chorusboy
17. <On the Way to Bukahyeon-dong> (2010): lyrics by Garam, Jaegyeong, & Chorusboy; music by Chorusboy
18. <World, I Forgive You Your Sins> (2010): lyrics by Jaegyeong, music by Chorusboy
19. <Bravo, My Life> (2010): lyrics by Cheon Jeong-nam, music by Chorusboy, arranged by Norma
20. <Congratulations> (2010): lyrics by Cheon Jeong-nam & Ingwan, music by Chorusboy
21. <Song of the Alley Cat> (2011): lyrics by Tari & Chorusboy, music by Chorusboy
22. <I’m Everywhere> (2011): lyrics by Garam, music by Garam & Chorusboy, arranged by Norma
23. <Your Habit> (2011): lyrics by Chorusboy et al., music by Chorusboy, arranged by Norma
24. <Love Is Love, Even for a Day> (2011): lyrics by Garam, music by Chorusboy
25. <The Road to Me> (2012): lyrics & music by Chan
26. <Me, Pulled from the Mire> (2012): lyrics by Seongard & Chorusboy, music by Chorusboy
27. <Mom and Dad Have Changed> (2012): lyrics by Homi, music by Chorusboy
28. <Superstar> (2014): lyrics by Sang-eonni, music by Chorusboy
29. <I’m Done> (2014): lyrics & music by Chorusboy

1. The Calm “Fake”, and the Uncomfortable “Real”

The key reason 'G_Voice'’s performances can be so striking lies in this: every member who takes the stage does so with their face fully open. Their faces appear not only on the day of the performance but also in the printed leaflet distributed to the audience, meaning that a 'G_Voice' concert effectively becomes the members’ coming-out. The performance is staged with that awareness, and the members sing with that awareness. The shock of seeing perfectly ordinary(!) gay men stand onstage without hesitation and sing in chorus about gay life still carries real impact—even as times have changed. In a society where there are not many public figures or activists who have come out, the fact that some thirty everyday gay men can show their faces and sing becomes an experience that fills out what might otherwise sound like an embarrassing word: “miracle.”

This really is the miracle of Jongno
 We are the miracle of Jongno
 — <The Miracle of Jongno> (2007)

The miracle of Jongno that we created
 The miracle of the world that we will create
 — <The Miracle of Jongno 2> (2009)

Of course, given the limitations of the male choir form, 'G_Voice'’s stage cannot be described as radically subversive in genre or form. The goal of a gay chorus is not to spotlight one person’s exceptional technique, but to realize harmonies and dynamics built by many voices together. And in terms of lyrical content, most songs depict everyday gay life in an unforced, matter-of-fact way. So the kind of avant-garde sensation one might feel in drag performances at Itaewon clubs—performances that deftly cross and recross the limits of what social norms will tolerate—or in albums like <Iban Basement>, produced by the Korean Sexual-Minority Culture & Human Rights Center (KSCRC), which overtly exposes and satirizes the felt differences between gender identities, is difficult to find in a 'G_Voice' performance.

But 'G_Voice' is by no means limited to highlighting only an easily digestible image of the “good gay” that the general public might accept. Earlier I said that their original songs contain gay everyday life—and it is precisely this unfiltered rendering that brings their performances to life. Just as it is impossible to talk about homosexuality while removing the dimension of sexuality, and just as it is foolish to demand that participants in queer pride parades not display anything “sexual,” 'G_Voice' does not avoid “sexual” stories that can only feel unfamiliar to many and are easy targets for condemnation. In particular, the often-targeted figure of the “feminine” gay man is expressed without exception. In this way, refusing to bleach sexuality out of gay everyday life and choosing the uncomfortable “real” over “fake” calm is one of the central identities of 'G_Voice'’s stage.

Love is love, even for a day—it makes my heart flutter again
 Maybe this time, this man is really my fate
 But love that’s passed by—truth is, I still miss him
 It was short, but it was good; someday he’ll be forgotten
 — <Love Is Love, Even for a Day> (2011)

That street I stepped into without thinking / from the bathroom to the square
 Eyes that only stared at the ground grow wider / my heavy hips start swaying on their own (...)
 Take action, heirs of the stray girl / we host the street
 We host it / we host it
 — <Memories of a Stray Girl> (2010)

There are plenty of men I want to sleep with, but you’re the only one I want to hold hands with
 (You want to, don’t you?)
 — <The Miracle of Jongno> (2007)

But that’s not it—what I’m really curious about is
 Is his face handsome, is his body good
 And his type, and his tastes—yes, his tastes, his tastes, his tastes
 I just go along with it, I sing along
 — <Me, Pulled from the Mire> (2012)

The moment I saw my friend’s boyfriend / oh my god, someone I know
 He’s my ex / did his type change too
 I’m done, really / I’m done, it’s fine
 It’s not the first or second time
 If we keep rotating like this, everyone ends up like family
 (It’s fine—even if they call me to a fun place) I’ll live
 — <I’m Done> (2014)

Shout—if anyone laughs at me / Fight—if anyone hurts me
 Out—run in with a hairpin, throw lipstick, shake your hips and fight
 — <UP> (2009)

I’m going to live as a flirt / I’m going to make a new road
 Don’t tell me the love I want isn’t allowed
 I’ll love with flair / I’ll live with flair
 I really am a superstar
 — <Superstar> (2014)

2. The Shadow of Pride, and Pride Blooming in the Shadow

Many of 'G_Voice'’s lyrics contain references to gay pride: coming out, standing confidently in front of others, showing oneself—including one’s sexual identity—and becoming proud through that. This message, aimed at helping gay people feel pride, is in fact obvious; it is both 'G_Voice'’s goal and Chingusai’s goal as well. Yet, as with any important message, repetition can make it feel predictable. At times, their pride can seem almost formulaic—so repeated that it begins to sound stale, like a utopian tale or an activist slogan that has lost its force. For something like “proud pride” that already feels worn into the ordinary, other devices are needed to refill it with substance.

So cheerfully, so happily
 And becoming proud again—singing together
 — <Me, Pulled from the Mire> (2012)

Love, cry out—youth, sing
 Shine in the dark, laugh in hardship
 — <Bravo, My Life> (2010)

I realized I’m not alone
 I realized despair has ended
 — <Open the Closet Door> (2003)

A flame bursting up from deep inside my heart
 I will go forward along that path / I will go forward proudly
 — <The Road to Me> (2012)

In fact, the public of this era—or the emerging gay public of this era—has already become quite proud. It is no longer the case that the infrastructure of gay culture is as narrow as it once was, and many people build their lives quite satisfactorily on the cultural ground that has been established. In a world where social media allows anyone to promote a polished image of themselves day and night, pride does not seem lacking; if anything, it seems to overflow. There is no need to urge the already-proud to become proud, nor to get in their way. Elevating oneself “to sell,” to become a better version of oneself, is the common sense and the proverb of our time. And yet, many of 'G_Voice'’s songs do not focus only on that polished pride; they also listen to the unpolished story of wounds.

In a world where appearing perfectly fine right in front of others is so important, people often forget the conditions of their own lives in order to maintain that appearance at all costs. For gay men, it is even more common not to fully recognize the conditions they live under—because for those living that life, the problems can be so obvious that it is impossible to remain conscious of them all day long. This is one of the major survival techniques of modern people—and of gay men: living while broadly, selectively forgetting one’s conditions. 'G_Voice'’s songs pull back out those conditions we had forgotten.

After laughing and talking for a long time in a place where everyone is happy
 In a swaying back alley, I cough up a breath that’s been blocked
 In this world, only stories like a gray fog saying I’m not me
 Where is my voice
 — <The Miracle of Jongno 2> (2009)

Ah—living like this
 Am I really gay, really gay?
 — <Gay Day> (2007)

Sometimes time is the hands of a clock turning backward
 — <The Road to Me> (2012)

Among the shadows in gay men’s lives, the most powerfully absorbing is despair within love and sexuality: the fear that one cannot love or be loved. This is a problem not only before coming out, but also after. Recognizing and affirming one’s sexual identity is only the first step toward romance; it does not, in itself, help much with the process or fulfillment of romance. Even after one “debuts,” the web of “taste” and “relationships,” and the despair of love and sexuality, easily entangle what anyone would find painful with the particular knots of one’s fate as a gay man. And the moment one’s condition is compared with someone else’s perfectly fine happiness, people fall into feelings they cannot control—like being the only one left behind in this “proud” world.

During the time that could have been ours
 The love I confessed to the sky becomes resentment
 — <World, I Forgive You Your Sins> (2010)

You who left me / the man I threw away
 I won’t believe anymore / I don’t want to believe (...)
 People without courage / people who’ve grown tired
 Don’t think—just get drunk / our paradise
 — <Nagwon-dong Blues> (2009)

Days I cried with envy, comforting you as you ached from love
 Your love you can speak, your worries you can speak—maybe that’s happiness
 My love I cannot speak—I bury it in my chest, and even that is a sin
 — <Bravo, My Life> (2010)

In a society where the demand to look perfectly fine operates like a superego—where living proudly has already become common sense and a form of citizenship—looking back at oneself is not easy. In that context, 'G_Voice'’s songs that sing the shadow of gay life feel like they pry open and peel away the thick shell one had to harden in order to survive. And one is forced, once again, to face the newly visible conditions of one’s life: not that sorrow is simply “fine,” but that sorrow is precisely aimed at as sorrow—bringing relief, as if something inside loosens and one’s emotional center is set upright again. From there, it becomes a pride not for being seen by others, but for standing oneself upright. And the familiar prides—the familiar pride, the familiar Pride, the familiar confidence—gain new meaning when measured against the depth of despair one has managed, with difficulty, to face.

On a cold winter night, I saw
 It was more beautiful than any prayer
 Licking each other’s wounds
 Sharing a sky no one else can have
 — <Song of the Alley Cat> (2011)

Take me to Ahyeon-dong, my poor neighborhood
 An alley where my ugly shoulders grew a little wider
 Where a song would form on its own
 On this road, at least, I become the protagonist
 — <On the Way to Bukahyeon-dong> (2010)

Let’s go, let’s go up the hill
 To the hill where flower-winds blow
 So your sorrow will carry a scent
 Let’s pin flowers to our chests
 — <The In-Between Season> (2009)

In those moments, one briefly awakens to oneself as a gay person—and further, as a human being. Against memories of having scraped out one’s insides just to appear fine, and against the voices of those who did not want one to be human, 'G_Voice'’s songs quietly open a short moment in which one is at last affirmed as a full, complete gay person and human being. The passage that replaces “I confess my sins” with “I forgive the world’s sins” is the moment when a fragmented inner self—dismissed as inferior in a world of people who look fine, treated as something that could simply disappear—is dramatically lifted up and allowed to see its own light. It is a Copernican reversal: what mattered no longer matters, and what did not matter becomes what matters. This experience of reversal, conversion, and healing is an achievement 'G_Voice' can rightly call remarkable.

Now I’m going to leave
 I can’t endure this world any longer
 Don’t try to understand me
 I have no heart left to forgive this world either
 — <Bravo, My Life> (2010)

World, I forgive you your sins
 It was love, and love again
 World, I forgive you your sins
 It was love, and love again
 — <World, I Forgive You Your Sins> (2010)

3. A Certain “Liberation” That Is Neither Art nor Activism

Of course, 'G_Voice'’s future is not bright in every way. As a male choir, it may be difficult to satisfy members’ musical and performative desires, and just as pride can become formulaic, stories of gay pain and wounds also risk being received as cliché. Above all, as gay society grows, cultural communities that come out are emerging one by one—making it feel as though 'G_Voice'’s relative advantage is fading. Of course, seen from the perspective of gay society as a whole, this is something to welcome.

Then, if gay people were to gain full citizenship, would this choir’s reason for existing disappear? If, as some say, the ultimate goal of the gay human rights movement is a world in which the gay human rights movement no longer needs to exist, then when the day comes that no gay person is oppressed—should this choir happily dissolve?

My song is buried under the irritable cry of cicadas
 The shy passion—those green days
 Has faded with time
 — <Memories of the Correctional Facility> (2007)

Regrettably, that day seems far away. New homophobic organizations of every name continue to rise, and we are repeatedly forced to confront just how deep structural hatred and phobia run within the clouds of unexamined ignorance that “ordinary citizens” carry. In such circumstances, it is reasonable to be optimistic about 'G_Voice'’s lifespan for now. And I also expect that their sensibility—moving back and forth between gay pride and gay despair—will, at least for the time being, continue to shine without falling too easily into the swamp of formula and cliché.

Liberation swelling through musical notes

 Shoulders bound together by harmony
 — <The Miracle of Jongno 2> (2009)

We have to become happier
 So there is much we must do
 For you who endured hardship
 Everybody, congratulation
 — <Congratulations> (2010)

On May 16, 2015, at Seoul Station Plaza during the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia (IDAHOT), the SsangYong Motor branch choir <Dreaming Together> from the Korean Metal Workers’ Union and 'G_Voice' shared one stage. In a single voice, the two choirs sang <Congratulations>, an original song by 'G_Voice', and performed 'G_Voice'’s choreography together. The sight of the voices of laid-off union members and a gay chorus mixing within one song showed how the “conversion” of a minority—finding hope and pride in the depths of despair—can make eye contact with so many other things in the world.

Please—you have to say it
 So it won’t disappear
 — <On the Way to Bukahyeon-dong> (2010)

Finally, amateur choirs like this one, which work to cultivate gay pride, always face a particular question: “Are you doing activism, or are you doing art?” Embedded in the question is the assumption that such activity is neither activism nor art—a vague, in-between state—and, further, the notion that such a balancing act is somehow “inferior” to choosing one side and devoting oneself to it. It is true that there are parts of 'G_Voice'’s work that cannot be neatly labeled activism or art—setting aside how difficult it is to manage that “in-between” tightrope well.

But their position is not an “in-between” form to begin with. It is not an ambiguous middle that must always be unstable between two poles; it is, clearly, another pole altogether—its own realm and stage. So there is no reason their pursuit should be deemed “inferior” simply because their goal does not sit at either extreme of “art” or “activism.” Their activity can be activism, and it can be art. And beyond that—what would it matter if their songs were not activism, or not art? From the beginning, they have another aim they want to pursue. If healing, achievement, and a sense of liberation are gained there, who could dismiss it as something “half-baked”?

If you are curious about what that liberation actually feels like, I recommend meeting the members of 'G_Voice'. Some of them will surely answer heavy questions like these in the following way:

“Activism? I don’t really know about that—I just like singing, so I go on stage.”

_

Footnotes

1) Bae Jae-hoon, <The Cultural Politics of a Gay Men’s Choir>, MA thesis, Graduate Program in Cultural Studies, Yonsei University, 2012; Bae Jae-hoon, <The Cultural Politics of a Gay Men’s Choir>, <Feminist Theory> 31, Nov. 2014.

2) This list is a reorganized version of the contents on pp. 64–66 of <Chingusai: 20-Year History>, published by the Korean gay human rights organization Chingusai, 2014.

Chingusai / Teoul (터울)