Today marks the 46th anniversary of the beginning of the Gwangju Uprising, a topic I've written about many times (an index is here).
One topic I've never looked deeply into is the view from the military side. It's worth noting the military deployments that occurred at this time. The New Military Group under Chun Doo-hwan responded to two days of large-scale student protests in central Seoul (on May 14-15) by expanding martial law (partial martial law had been in place since Park Chung-hee's assassination the previous October), closing universities, closing the National Assembly, and arresting politicians who could challenge Chun. When this occurred, most Special Warfare Command (ie. special forces / paratroopers) units were stationed at university campuses in Seoul or nearby. The exception was elements of the SWC 7th Brigade that were sent to Gwangju and (likely) Jeonju universities, likely chosen for this because they were based near Iksan. Marines were deployed to southeastern cities. The 7th Brigade's brutality in Gwangju on May 18 sparked the uprising, but the fact that any protest at all was occurring there led the New Military Group to quickly send the SWC 11th Brigade to Gwangju, and they arrived the morning of May 19. When they failed to quell the protests, the SWC 3rd Brigade (perhaps considered the best-trained; they had put down the October 1979 Busan protests) were deployed and arrived on May 20. As the situation worsened, the 20th Infantry Division was sent, but by the time they arrived on May 21, the military had fired on protesters in front of the Provincial Office, the citizen army had formed, and the New Military Group ordered all units to retreat to the outskirts of the city, where they surrounded it for 5 days before returning in force on the morning of May 27.
Over the last year or so I've found three accounts by paratroopers of the events of May 1980 (and earlier). I haven't found any by former 7th Brigade soldiers, but there are two by those from the 11th Brigade and one from the 3rd Brigade.
The first I'll share, which I found reprinted here, was originally published as 이경남, 20년 만의 고백 : 한 특전사 병사가 겪은 광주『당대비평』 1999년 겨울호 / Lee Gyeong-nam, “A Confession After 20 Years: Gwangju as Experienced by a Special Warfare Command Soldier,” Dangdae Bipyeong [Contemporary Critique], Winter 1999, pp. 203-223.
Lee is a witness to the SWC's training, the shooting in front of the Provincial Office, and the May 24 accidental firefight between two military units, which he describes in detail.
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1980 was not only a time of upheaval for our society but also a period of personal pain for me. I was a young man in my mid-20s about to graduate from a theological seminary. Like Jonah in the Bible, unable to bear my burden, I chose to flee to the military. God, like casting Jonah into the sea, placed me in the Special Forces and ultimately threw me into the horrific scene of Gwangju in May.
Over the next 20 years, I wanted to escape the memories of that dreadful site. Above all, due to the physical injuries and emotional wounds I suffered, I tried to stay as far away from them as possible.
Perhaps that wasn’t the only reason. The renewed faith life I embarked upon and the demands of pastoring a rural church didn’t allow me the space to deeply contemplate serious historical issues. Still, in a corner of my heart, I always longed to visit Gwangju in May someday—to revisit the horrifying sites, reflect on the message they conveyed to me, and mourn and pay respect to the innocent citizens lying in Mangwol-dong.
I enlisted in the military in May 1979. After completing airborne and special warfare training (specifically guerrilla infiltration and riot control training), I was assigned to a brigade under the Special Warfare Command around the end of September. Then, in October, the presidential assassination occurred, followed by the December 12 incident. The Special Forces troops, unknowingly, became the power base of the New Military Group with political ambitions and were swept into an enormous political whirlwind.
After the assassination, DEFCON III—a wartime alert level—was issued, and serving in the frontline airborne brigade in Hwacheon, Gangwon Province, I had to endure tense, sleepless military days. The ensuing chaos and unrest in spring 1980, spurred by the New Military Group’s intentions to seize power, made life and training unbearably tough for the paratroopers. As junior soldiers and NCOs, we had no understanding of the political situation or the military’s intentions. We simply believed the narrative: the president was dead, the country was in turmoil, and war was looming—therefore, these riots had to be suppressed.
Moreover, what we heard in ideological training was that all college students were leftist radicals. Naturally, this instilled hostility in us, which psychologically set the stage for the atrocities we would later commit in Gwangju.
Even now, some may think the New Military Group’s rise to power in 1980 was an inevitable reaction to the outbreak of the Gwangju Uprising and ensuing chaos. But in retrospect, this was not the case at all.
I still vividly remember the expression of our company commander during the end-of-year meeting around December 30, 1979, as we began a three-day New Year break. At the time, Special Forces troops received higher pay than regular infantry due to parachute allowances. Though I don’t remember the exact details, it was said that from the new year, Special Forces soldiers would receive a 200% salary and 500% increase in parachute allowances. I remember the excited faces of my fellow soldiers as they cheerfully calculated their future pay. I, a private first class at the time, did the same and thought I might actually save some money during my service. This was clearly a calculated incentive by the New Military Group to win loyalty and create their own Praetorian Guard.
Since my assignment to the unit in October 1979, all regular training had been suspended and we were thrown into endless riot suppression drills. I had suspicions: if there was a real threat from North Korea, why weren’t we preparing for war instead of focusing solely on quelling protests? By spring 1980, the student demonstrations and political fragmentation caused by the rivalry of the three Kims made the situation increasingly grim. Our unit began full preparations for riot suppression. Soldiers ventured into deep mountains in Gangwon to chop down tough birch trees to make our own batons. Ideological training was repeatedly drilled into us, stressing the urgency of early suppression and the need to eliminate leftist radicals.
I recall that our brigade in Hwacheon moved en masse to Seoul around early May 1980. This was not a temporary deployment but a relocation intended for long-term stationing. Every July and August, airborne troops undergo weeks of swimming training on the coast. We were instructed to bring swimming gear when we relocated in spring, implying a long-term plan that included martial law and what might follow—not simply a return to base after a mission.
I remember departing in the evening and arriving at Chuncheon Station late at night, where we boarded a train with all curtains drawn and reached the airborne brigade in Gimpo by dawn. At that time, I recall thinking, “During the Korean War, North Korean soldiers moved south in similarly covered trains. What kind of strange situation is this?” I began to feel a growing unease about the unknown developments.
In May, we had to sleep without removing our boots or uniforms, ready to deploy at any moment. Just a few days before martial law was declared, the commander of the Special Warfare Command issued a 15 million won allowance to each brigade. Our battalion received 4 million won, and we held a grand feast with pork and liquor. While waiting, we continued receiving ideological training, conducted by a battalion commander who had suppressed the Busan-Masan (Buma) protests.
He proudly recounted how ruthlessly and decisively they had crushed the protests, and the soldiers admired him as a hero.
Several deployment orders were issued and then suddenly canceled. Finally, on the evening of the 17th, the order came through. We boarded military vehicles and entered downtown Seoul. When we got off the trucks, we realized we were at Dongguk University, and it was almost midnight. Some of us were sent to apprehend protesting students inside the campus, while the rest of us paused to listen to a broadcast instead of unloading our gear. The person on the broadcast was then Army Chief of Staff Lee Hui-seong. In a sharp and intimidating voice, he announced the proclamation of emergency martial law and declared that key anti-government figures would be arrested.
The next day, on the afternoon of the 18th around 5 p.m., we were abruptly ordered to redeploy to Gwangju. We were suddenly told to pack our things, with no explanation, though there were vague rumors among the troops that large numbers of guerrillas had infiltrated Jeju Island, which is where we assumed we were going.
Some personnel boarded planes and departed first, while the rest of us took a late-night train from Cheongnyangni Station. None of the soldiers knew where we were going or why—we simply obeyed orders. We were accustomed to that kind of life. No one questioned it, nor could they.
As the train sped south, I remember a moment as we passed through the darkness of Pyeongtaek, where my parents served as pastors. I saw faint village lights in the distance and felt an overwhelming longing for my family. I pulled out a book from my bag, one I had hidden from others back in the barracks: An Appeal to the Korean Youth. I may have been reading it half-heartedly, but I remember thinking: “As a Korean youth, where am I being taken right now…?” My comrades scoffed: “This is no time to be reading.”
We arrived in Gwangju around 2 a.m. and were taken to Chosun University, where sleeping quarters had already been arranged. Exhausted, we threw down our gear and got a few hours of sleep—maybe just three or four—before being jolted awake by orders to deploy. We quickly packed light field gear, fixed our bayonets, and loaded into military trucks to conduct what was called a “show of force.”
Rumor had it that a different Airborne Brigade based in Geumma, North Jeolla Province, had already been deployed to Gwangju. But due to unexpectedly fierce resistance from the students and the excessive response by that brigade, public sentiment turned sour. That unit was pulled out and replaced with ours.
On the morning of the 19th, the student demonstrations were relatively subdued, perhaps due to the brutal crackdown the day before. When soldiers approached, protesters usually dispersed rather than confront them directly.
But by the afternoon, things began to change. Infuriated by the stares and silent disapproval of the citizens, soldiers became increasingly aggressive. They began indiscriminately rounding up young people—on the streets, in markets—beating them, stripping them, and attacking them with riot batons and bayonets.
Troops spread out across the city. When student protesters fled into houses or buildings, soldiers followed them in and beat anyone young-looking, assuming they were part of the demonstrations. Innocent bystanders—people simply walking home from work—were dragged off and assaulted.
I remember members of my unit storming into an inn, dragging out a young man, and beating him so severely that his head and face were covered in blood. He begged for his life in utter terror.
Women were not spared. Those apprehended were often stripped, kicked with military boots, and humiliated before being loaded onto trucks and taken to military bases at Jeonnam or Chosun Universities, where the abuse continued. People watching from the streets were horrified. Initially, some protested, but after witnessing such extreme violence, everyone grew silent and fearful.
Despite the horror of it all, I remember the confidence and swagger of the soldiers as they returned from “clearing” the streets.
In a word, it was an attitude of, “Those bastards, those nobodies dare to act up.” I do not remember clearly whether it was the 19th or the 20th, but when I returned after going around the city, there were hundreds of students who had been captured by soldiers in the grounds of Chosŏn University, and on that wide athletic field they were being mercilessly beaten and trampled by dozens of soldiers. They were forced to crawl through gutters as the soldiers ordered, and had to do dozens of laps around the athletic field, while those who lagged behind suffered the humiliation of being kicked with military boots and beaten with riot batons.
Also, whether it was on the 20th or the following day I cannot remember for certain, but in the gymnasium building being used by the military police I saw two young men lying there dead, pale white. They were probably people who had been killed either while being transported in vehicles or amid such circumstances. I also heard that there were soldiers who, while transporting beaten and injured students in military trucks, detonated several tear gas grenades inside the trucks, so the situation was so horrific that if it was fortunate they did not die in the process, that alone could be counted as luck. Such miserable scenes continued without end.
Throughout the morning and afternoon of the 20th we went around the city suppressing demonstrations, but the more the soldiers did so, the stranger it seemed that even though many people were not directly participating in the protests, the crowds nevertheless kept growing until the streets were full. Perhaps, as matters had reached such a state, people were curious, and although they were too frightened to join the demonstration ranks themselves, they seemed to be silently expressing support for the protests and hatred toward the airborne troops. Perhaps because they sensed this atmosphere, some soldiers even unhesitatingly made extreme remarks such as, “All those Chŏlla-do bastards ought to be killed.” Many among us had already become slaves to blind rage.
That day wasn’t as violent as the day before. I think the commanders realized things were escalating too fast and gave orders to hold back. And maybe because of the strong show of force, student protests had temporarily diminished in intensity.
However, from late in the evening onward, the number of demonstrators increased rapidly. The soldiers exercised restraint and merely surrounded them without forcibly dispersing them, but on the streets not only did the number of demonstrators grow enormously, the number of ordinary citizens did as well. Some among them even looked at the soldiers surrounding them and asked whether they were really soldiers of the Republic of Korea, or perhaps communist troops instead. There were also people demonstrating with Taegeukgi flags attached to their vehicles, and in the face of this situation I saw unit commanders unable to decide what to do, busily contacting higher commanders by radio and receiving operational instructions.
At length, the order for the unit to retreat was given. The soldiers were to withdraw toward Chosŏn University, leaving the demonstrators as they were, and citizens who saw this even applauded as they sent the soldiers off. The demonstrators also followed the withdrawing soldiers while singing military songs to them. Abandoning the hostile attitude they had shown up to that point and seeing the airborne troops quietly withdrawing, some citizens jumped into the ranks of soldiers, offering handshakes to them and even trying to embrace them, showing enthusiastic reactions. The sight of this truly gave a strange feeling.
In my view, as the situation was taking on a serious aspect, the soldiers were carrying out a tactical withdrawal, but people seemed pleased, thinking the soldiers had changed their minds and were going back of their own accord. In the end, I cannot help but think bitterly that this only left them even more deeply wounded.
I sometimes wonder: did that idealistic young man who ran toward us smiling, thinking things were okay—did he survive?
That night, as we retreated from Chosun University, a terrifying confrontation occurred. It must have been around 9 p.m. To block the demonstrators following behind, soldiers continuously fired tear gas as they withdrew. Despite repeated warnings to turn back, some of the protestors seized a fire truck and charged past our blockade—a highly dangerous situation. Then a fiery glow lit up the night sky. I later heard it was the local tax office that had been set on fire. The situation was spiraling out of control.
As the night grew darker and more serious, a battalion commander, standing behind an armored vehicle and firing warning shots, desperately requested permission via radio to use live ammunition. From what I saw, his voice grew increasingly urgent, as if pleading.
Later I found out that the demonstrators had followed the military back to Chosun University not just to chase us down but to demand the release of the citizens who had been detained on the campus. When their demand was not met, a small group of radical students began to act—commandeering the fire truck to ram through barriers and throwing stones to launch a surprise attack. Rocks hurled from the darkness struck some soldiers, who collapsed screaming in pain. Enraged, soldiers responded fiercely, chasing down fleeing students and, in some cases, beating them to death. I think that night may have marked the true beginning of the slaughter that became the Gwangju Uprising. In that moment of chaos, I felt like I wasn’t in my right mind. How had I come to be here? The unfolding scene allowed no room for questioning. It was like a vision of hell—gunfire and tear gas everywhere, darkness swallowing the neighborhood near the university, screams and cries blending into a horrific cacophony.
Somehow, amid it all, I spotted a civilian who had been beaten nearly to death by soldiers. Without thinking, I left formation, lifted him onto my back, and carried him into a nearby civilian house. Why did I act so recklessly? I can only say that it felt like the only thing I could do.
But no matter how much I knocked, no one would open their door. Eventually, I turned down an alley and saw a small church, with a faint light glowing from within. I knocked frantically, and a tall, dignified elderly man with white hair opened the door. Startled at first, he quickly led me and the injured man into his study. There, we found several students who had already taken refuge.Imagine the scene: a paratrooper, still wearing boots and carrying a rifle, entering a sanctuary where frightened students had hidden from the very violence I represented. I can't imagine what they thought.
When I laid the man down under the light, he was already unconscious. He looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s—a laborer, maybe. His head had been split open by a riot baton, a gash more than 15 centimeters long. One of his arms appeared broken and limp.
That night, I slept in the pastor's study alongside those students. At dawn the next day, I returned alone to my unit. Of course, my unauthorized absence caused serious trouble. My superiors were furious. I was punished, beaten, and reprimanded. But what truly terrified me wasn’t the punishment.
Even now, I can still hear the students sobbing and wailing, dragging the bodies of their dead comrades, shouting, singing, pleading into the night.
I never learned the identity of the man I carried, nor whether he lived or died. All I know is that the church was “Gwangju Sae Church” in Hakil-dong, and the pastor’s name was Jeong In-bo. Judging from his age at the time, he must have passed away by now.
When I returned to the unit on the 21st, it turned out to be one of the most pivotal days of the entire Gwangju Uprising. Upon arrival, word of my return was radioed to the command, and I was sent by truck to Sangmu Base, where my unit had been resting. My uniform was soaked in blood. My direct superior exploded in rage, berating me. But despite everything, what he said left a lasting impression on me. Though he had spent the night anxious over my disappearance and was livid, he knew I was a theology student and not someone prone to trouble, so he handled it within reasonable limits. He told me, “Under martial law, desertion is grounds for immediate execution. I know what you were doing last night—but this is a war zone. Get your head straight and act properly.” To this day, I’m strangely grateful to that captain and the other officers who handled the incident with discretion.
Later that morning, on the 21st, we marched into the Gwangju Provincial Office. All the soldiers from our brigade were gathering there.
By then, the demonstrators were filled with fury after seeing so many die the night before. Armed with vehicles, they now began to confront the military directly. At one point, I saw an armored vehicle stolen from an industrial complex advancing toward us.
During the Gwangju Hearings, one of the brigade commanders testified that the army began firing after soldiers were killed by demonstrators in armored vehicles. Court records also reflect this. But that is not what I witnessed.
When the demonstrators’ armored vehicle appeared near the Provincial Office, no soldiers were present in the immediate area, so it passed without injuring anyone. It simply turned and drove away. The soldier who died beneath an armored vehicle was not struck by one driven by the demonstrators, but rather by a military armored car maneuvered by our own forces during a chaotic retreat.
I saw it with my own eyes. Negotiations with the protestors had failed, and when some demonstrators began driving vehicles toward us, a military armored vehicle, attempting to retreat in a hurry, ran over a fallen soldier. He died instantly. His body was pinned beneath the tracks of the vehicle, blood pouring from his mouth. He had just joined our unit—a rookie.
When demonstrators holding steel pipes, batons, and riding trucks and buses faced off against soldiers on Chungjang-ro Street, the situation became extremely dangerous and urgent. The commanding officers appeared visibly distressed, unsure of how to respond. I was positioned more toward the rear of our formation, so I wasn’t in immediate danger, but those soldiers stationed on the front lines—just meters from the protesters—must have been paralyzed with fear when vehicles suddenly surged forward toward them. From the sky, helicopters broadcasted demands urging the protestors to disperse. The protesters chanted and sang solemnly. Thousands of paratroopers and tens of thousands of protestors now stood on the brink of an all-out clash. Unless one had actually stood there in person, it would be impossible to grasp the sheer intensity of that moment.
Earlier that morning, another vivid memory comes to mind. At the plaza in front of the Provincial Office fountain, demonstrators and soldiers faced each other in a standoff. A city bus suddenly broke through the line and rushed toward the soldiers. The soldiers, startled, scattered. The bus crashed into a tree and came to a halt. Angered by the incident, the soldiers ran into the streets and began to beat passing civilians indiscriminately. One man in his 40s or 50s, wearing rubber slippers and a jacket, happened to be walking by and got caught up in the frenzy. He was soon knocked unconscious by batons. Sensing that his life might be in danger, I rushed to lift him and drag him away to safety. He was a large man, and I struggled to carry him. At that moment, a sergeant from another company ran over and helped me. Hundreds of fellow paratroopers were watching us. After dragging the injured man to safety, we gestured to nearby citizens to take care of him, then returned to our lines.
Shortly afterward, a senior officer from my company approached me. He pointed his bayonet at me and asked, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Then he added, “Whose side are you on—ours or theirs?”
I didn’t respond. I just smiled faintly. He then warned me, “If you pull something like that again, I’ll shoot you myself.” But I had seen something else. As we had rescued the injured man and handed him over to the citizens, some of them, unable to approach out of fear, simply bowed their heads toward us in gratitude.
At one point during a standoff near what I remember as the Jeonil Building, a young man leaned out a window and hurled profanity at the soldiers. Furious, soldiers stormed into the building and dragged him out, bloodied and broken. As they pressed bayonets to his neck and threatened to kill him, he pleaded for his life with a look of pure terror on his face. I can’t forget that look. As a low-ranking private, I was powerless to intervene. What happened to him afterward, I’ll never know.
The shooting at the Provincial Office on May 21 began shortly after one of our soldiers was run over and killed by our own armored vehicle during the chaos caused by oncoming protestor vehicles. As the protesters advanced, our defensive line collapsed. The plaza in front of the Provincial Office filled with demonstrators and their vehicles. At that point, someone ordered the soldiers to open fire. With gunfire, the crowd scattered. We dropped to the pavement, lying prone to take cover.
In my memory, at that time, the armored vehicle stood in the middle of the road and fired a .50 caliber machine gun in rapid bursts. That was not just a warning shot—it was clearly live, targeted fire. Some people say the shooting at the front of the provincial government building began with gunfire from the demonstrators, and that the military only responded, but to my knowledge, that’s simply not true. It was only after the military began shooting that the citizens, having seized weapons, began to return fire. They did not shoot first, nor was it simultaneous. At the time, hundreds of soldiers were lying prone, completely exposed, on the road in front of the provincial office. Even after we had withdrawn, none of us were hit by any gunfire from the protesters. If the demonstrators had indeed possessed firearms and fired at us, some of us, who were lying completely vulnerable, should have been hit. But that did not happen. Furthermore, around 4 p.m., when the troops of our brigade stationed at the provincial office withdrew on foot toward Chosun University, they were able to walk away along the road unscathed. If the demonstrators had had guns and were prepared to shoot, would that have been possible?
After retreating from the provincial government building to Chosun University, we immediately received an urgent evacuation order. I also remember that an armored vehicle at the university plaza opened fire repeatedly toward the surrounding neighborhood—where residents, children, and curious onlookers had gathered. Presumably, the purpose was to cover the retreat of the soldiers and to maintain operational secrecy. But whether the shots were meant to be direct attacks or simply warning shots to disperse people—I do not know.
We quickly packed up our gear and departed Chosun University around 7 p.m., as dusk fell. The main unit, carrying important documents and equipment on military trucks, was ambushed by demonstrators as they exited the city, resulting in the first military casualties.
We didn’t know where we were going—we just followed the soldier ahead of us, walking all night. Then, around 11 a.m. the next day—May 22—we realized we had arrived in a deep valley in Mudeungsan. There, not only our brigade, but—though I’m not certain—also troops from another brigade had gathered. We received rations delivered by air and were issued 580 rounds of live ammunition per person, as well as grenades and tear gas. Then we rested our exhausted bodies and awaited operational orders. We were like wild animals trapped in a jungle of barbarism.
In that mountain valley, I heard that a college student who had been taken prisoner was executed by firing squad. I did not witness it myself, but I heard the story from a fellow soldier in another battalion who saw it and confided in one of my juniors, saying he couldn’t understand why he had to be in such a unit. At the time, the incident circulated within the unit as a rumor, and about ten years later, the discovery of skeletal remains with gunshot wounds in the area where the airborne troops had been stationed served as evidence. That wasn’t the only case. One company from another battalion, while lying in ambush along a national road, spotted a vehicle carrying protesters and opened fire, killing many students. A female student who was the only survivor from that bus later testified that the soldiers confirmed the kills by individually checking and executing the wounded. Her account shocked many people.
We stayed in the Mudeungsan valley from the 22nd to the 24th and then received orders for an operation to recapture the provincial office and other key facilities in Gwangju. But strangely, the operational order was given and then canceled again. I suspect there was some disagreement within the South Korea–U.S. military command about how to proceed with the final crackdown, which was expected to result in heavy casualties. Much later, I learned that when DEFCON 3 is declared—signifying a wartime state and elevated alert level—South Korea's military operational command transfers to the ROK-U.S. Combined Forces Command, and no military action can be taken without U.S. consent.
Looking out over the darkened city of Gwangju from the mountains was a mournful experience. The suppression troops had already withdrawn from the city, but for some unknown reason, gunfire erupted all through the night, like beans popping in a frying pan. On the night of the 23rd, there was an order to launch an operation into the city that was later canceled. I still remember the sight of fellow soldiers, worn out by continuous operations and forced marches, fast asleep in their tents from sheer exhaustion. We were spent. We hadn’t properly washed or shaved for days. Numbed by the monotony of military life, we had no idea what we were doing or what might happen to us the next moment. Those simple, snoring faces, just relieved to be fed and resting...
Unable to sleep, sensing that the upcoming urban assault and the mission to reclaim key sites would result in heavy casualties and put my life in grave danger, I left the tent and prayed alone beneath a secluded rock. I was so tired, and my senses dulled by routine military life, that it was hard to collect my thoughts. But my prayer was something like this: “God, I was a seminary student, hoping to become a pastor. But now I’ve come to this point where I must kill innocent people to stay alive—or be killed myself. Please help me escape this nightmare. Let me neither kill nor be killed.”
It was late spring, and the land was lush with new growth. The mountains were filled with vibrant life and beauty. But May 24th—this day would become the most painful, the most tragic day not just for me, but for many soldiers and civilians alike.
After finishing breakfast, a sudden order for withdrawal was given. We were told to bring all our hidden packs and gear from where they had been buried in the mountains, which indicated that we were not heading out for another battle or mission but were instead relocating or retreating. It seemed we were moving to Songjeong-ri Airfield, located on the outskirts of Gwangju, where we would likely carry out the final operations to retake the city. Around 1 p.m., about a thousand soldiers boarded dozens of military vehicles, led by armored cars, and began moving toward the airfield. At that point, each soldier was armed with 580 rounds of live ammunition and various weapons including grenades and gas canisters. We were ordered to load our weapons with live rounds and maintain full alert against possible ambushes by protesters during the move. As we traveled along the national highway, we heard intermittent gunshots being fired toward nearby civilian villages.
These were rural villages far removed from downtown Gwangju, where farmers were planting rice in paddies or children were playing in schoolyards, seemingly unaware of the chaos unfolding in the city. Even now, I don’t understand why soldiers opened fire in such places. The occasional gunshot soon turned into a continuous barrage, like beans popping in a skillet. I vividly remember the farmers startled out of their fields, the children running from the reservoir in terror, and students scattering in panic from the playground—all from the sound of gunfire. According to the soldiers, they said the protesters had appeared, but I still don’t know the truth. For someone who didn’t experience that situation firsthand, it might be hard to understand, but from what I felt, it seemed that the soldiers, having loaded live rounds and gripped by fear on one hand and instinct on the other, fired at any moving object they saw. I later found out that during this chaos, several innocent villagers, including children, had been shot and killed.
A little later, in a place called Songam-dong, something even more horrific happened—by far the most dreadful thing I experienced during the Gwangju Uprising. A company from the Gwangju Infantry School, lying in ambush with recoilless rifles, mistook the approaching vehicles of the airborne troops, led by an armored car, for protester vehicles and opened fire on them. It wasn’t a long battle—probably no more than five minutes—but in that brief moment, I wondered how on earth soldiers could fire into a peaceful residential neighborhood like that. Caught off guard, I didn’t even duck for cover and was simply watching when I was hit in the head by a bullet.
The infantry school soldiers directly hit the armored vehicle at the front with a recoilless rifle, destroying it, and continued to attack the trailing vehicles. Suddenly, explosions rang out from all directions, and startled soldiers responded with gunfire or jumped out of the vehicles, fleeing into roadside ditches.
I first realized I had been shot when I felt something strike my body. I collapsed, as if my strength had suddenly vanished. I vaguely sensed that something had happened to the back of my head. As death came upon me so suddenly, I felt a wave of fear and futility wash over me. How could this happen to me? I couldn't believe this was really happening. What I remember most clearly was not just the fear of death, but a deep, aching sorrow about my family—especially my mother. As I imagined the agony she would feel upon hearing of my death, the pain was unbearable.
I didn’t want to face the reality of what had happened to me. I still had a faint consciousness, and even if I were to die, I just wanted to pass quietly like that. I was too afraid to confirm the extent of my injury. But trembling, I began to check myself. I touched the back of my head and felt blood pouring out. Then I felt my face. If the bullet had passed through the back of my head, I thought it would have come out the front.
I felt around my face, but there was no exit wound. The wound on the back of my head didn’t seem that large either. I began to feel a glimmer of hope—maybe I wouldn’t die. I was alone in the vehicle, lying there. I saw my comrades jumping out and running, heard explosions and gunfire all around. The only thought in my mind was that I had to get out of the vehicle if I wanted to survive.
As I tried to stand and jump out of the vehicle, a huge explosion occurred and I was thrown down, feeling like my entire body had been torn into a thousand pieces. That was the second disaster. I believe it was a shell from a recoilless rifle that exploded nearby. At the moment of the blast, I felt as though my whole body had been beaten with a giant club and torn apart. Terrified, I screamed and cried as death rushed toward me. I was consumed by fear. My body was riddled with shrapnel, soaked in blood, and in agonizing pain. I couldn’t even move. I lay on the ground and cried out desperately, "Oh God! Oh God!" I don't think even my upbringing in a Christian household or my status as a seminary student had ever made me call on God so desperately as I did then.
After some time, my consciousness returned, though I was still in great pain. Explosions and gunfire continued around me, bullets flying past. I feared that if I stayed there, I'd be riddled with bullets. Fortunately, the mistaken crossfire eventually ceased, and things began to settle down. I looked around—bodies of comrades were scattered everywhere, some with their bones exposed.
Among the dead was a sergeant from another company who had boasted to me just that morning about stabbing twenty of "them" the night before.
I was still lying on the ground, gasping for breath, unable to move—only barely able to shift my right arm. I started to feel a problem with my breathing. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Like a dying fish, I opened my mouth toward the sky, gasping for air. I thought for sure: this is it, I’m dying. Fear gripped me once again. I continued to cry out in my heart to God, begging to be saved. Perhaps because God took pity on me, my breathing slowly returned, and I was finally able to assess what had happened to me. I turned my head to examine my body. My right elbow was bleeding and embedded with shrapnel; I couldn’t move it. My left side, between my armpit and heart, was soaked in blood. Blood ran down my forehead as well, and my left leg was completely drenched in it. The pain was unbearable, and I couldn’t move at all.
Only my right arm could move a little. I was parched with thirst. Carefully, I took out my canteen and sipped a bit of water—it helped me regain some awareness. Despite everything, it seemed I might survive, since the bullets and shrapnel hadn’t pierced any vital organs. When my body was engulfed by the explosion, I had felt as if heavenly wings were shielding me. Perhaps God had taken pity on me and protected me. If so, what of those who had to die so cruelly in that hellish battlefield? I wonder now where my mind truly was at that moment. After I came to, I was eventually found by my comrades. I was stripped of my clothes and transported to a hospital. During that time, I prayed to God, thanking Him for sparing my life, while also cursing and crying out, “Damn it! Did I come to the army just to die like this?” I directed my anger at the unknown powers that had thrown me into such undesired misery.
As far as I know, that incident resulted in the deaths of nine soldiers on the spot. Two more died later in the hospital. Over forty soldiers were seriously or critically injured. Some soldiers, overwhelmed by the deaths and injuries of their comrades, reportedly stormed into nearby villages and—driven by blind rage—committed atrocities, shooting and killing local youths and livestock. What did the peaceful villagers in those remote rural areas have to do with soldiers mistakenly firing on each other? I believe some of the soldiers who committed these acts were so indoctrinated with the idea that “all Gwangju people are the enemy” that they justified such senseless violence.
I didn’t mention this earlier, but when a soldier in our unit was killed by an armored vehicle near the provincial government building, a sergeant who had been close to him claimed he had taken revenge by firing indiscriminately at demonstrators, boasting about it afterward.
The military's ideological education—or more accurately, brainwashing—that constantly branded student protesters as leftist or pro-North Korea sympathizers had deeply affected soldiers like us. It’s terrifying how such indoctrination can make people commit unspeakable acts.
I know several superiors from my unit who committed such acts without hesitation. I wonder: do they now regret what they did? What kind of memory does that "glorious excursion" leave them with today?
When the armored vehicle was destroyed, six soldiers inside were affected. Three died, and the battalion commander and two others were seriously injured. One of the dead was just ten days away from being discharged—how incredibly unlucky. One of the seriously injured officers had a calm and pleasant personality but was notorious for violently treating both his subordinates and protestors. Another was our battalion commander, a Catholic known in the unit for his solid leadership and strong sense of duty. He lost his left arm in the incident.
Dozens of helicopters were urgently dispatched, and in order of the severity of injuries I was transported on the second helicopter to the Kwangju Armed Forces Integrated Hospital. Just before being evacuated, I saw a sergeant I had normally been close with who had suffered a gunshot wound through the abdomen and was bleeding heavily. His helmet was filled with blood, and as he struggled for breath he pleaded for someone to save him. He was a man of gentle character who ordinarily got along well even with lower-ranking men within the unit. Tragically, he died during surgery at the hospital.
After receiving emergency treatment, I collapsed into a deep sleep from exhaustion. When I woke up, it was already the following afternoon, around 4 p.m. on May 25. I had slept for nearly 24 hours. I still can’t forget the sound of the radio I heard while lying in that hospital bed, half-asleep. It had interrupted regular programming and was repeatedly broadcasting marching music while urging protestors to surrender. The sound filled me with dread, as if it were warning me of more terrible events to come.
At the hospital, student and civilian protesters who had been injured during the demonstrations were being treated in a separate ward. I met a senior psychology major from Chosun University who had been shot in the back and was lying down. What she told me was horrifying. She said she joined the protest after seeing the corpses of people who had been beaten to death by soldiers. According to her, she saw the body of someone who had been sprayed with paint from a flame thrower, as if their corpse had been battered in tempura flour. It left her in shock.
At the time, the military had a plan to shoot paint from flame throwers to mark key protest leaders for arrest. That victim was probably one of those targeted by that cruel strategy.
My recollections of Gwangju end here. After the uprising was suppressed, I was transferred to a military hospital in Daejeon near my hometown. I left Gwangju and spent nearly nine months in and out of hospitals. After returning to my unit, I occasionally heard stories from fellow soldiers who had participated in the final operation on May 27, which ended the Gwangju Uprising. But I cannot speak in detail about that horrific event.
All I can say with certainty is that I feel immense sympathy and sorrow for the demonstrators—young students and ordinary citizens who, armed only with righteous anger and patriotism, stood against elite airborne troops with the latest weaponry. It was never a fair fight. They knew they were risking death. It was an act of defiance, not survival. To hear anyone from the special forces boast about their “victory” during the operation on May 27 is truly absurd.
From what I’ve heard, when the troops entered the city on that final day, many of the young protestors hesitated to even fire their weapons.
If you visit the Seoul National Cemetery and walk toward the final burial section on the left, you will find the graves of about 20 soldiers who died in Gwangju. Right next to them are the graves of South Korean officers who died during the Korean War, including my uncle, who was killed in Uijeongbu on June 26, 1950. Every Memorial Day, my family and I visit his grave, and we also pay respects to the soldiers buried nearby who died in Gwangju.
During the 5th and 6th Republics, there were veterans’ groups that took pride in the fact that these soldiers had “defended the nation.” But after the military regime fell, and as the truth about their atrocities was revealed, those gatherings faded away. Now only the bereaved families mourn quietly at those graves. The gravestones show that the privates were promoted to corporals and the sergeants to staff sergeants posthumously, but can those honorary promotions compensate for the senseless deaths of young men who were just following orders? Can they heal the lifelong grief of their families?
Twenty years have passed since the tragic events in Gwangju. What was once condemned as a “riot” is now recognized as a democratic movement. Those who died have been vindicated, and their reputations restored. Some of the men who were imprisoned for “plotting rebellion” now lead the country, while the military leaders who suppressed the uprising have been punished for their crimes and corruption.
So, can we say that the tragedy of Gwangju is truly over?
Every year, when May comes around, I hear Gwangju calling to me. For nearly twenty years, I’ve listened to that voice in my heart but have never been able to bring myself to return. This year was no different.
But someday, I absolutely want to return to Gwangju in May. I want to stand again in that place where cries of anguish once echoed through the sky—cries like those of the righteous Abel and the prophet Zechariah, whose blood called out from the ground. I want to hear the sorrowful voices of the dead that still seem to ring out from the heavens and the earth.
And I don’t want to go alone. I want to go with my aging parents, who sent their beloved son into the pit of death and endured unimaginable grief. I want to go with my beloved wife and children. And there, I want to teach my wise children not only about the pain of Gwangju, but also about the truth of those who died, and about the dangers of corrupt power.
Finally, I want to offer a word to the likes of Chun Doo-hwan and the other figures of the Fifth Republic, who still cling to their delusions of the past: “Be thankful you are still alive in this country. Show some remorse and stay quiet.”
Lee Gyeong-nam
At the time of the 1980 Gwangju People's Uprising, he was a soldier in the 11th Airborne Brigade, 63rd Battalion, 9th Company. He is now a Methodist pastor serving in Hoengseong, Gangwon Province. This article was written by Pastor Lee Gyeong-nam and first published in 1999 in Dangdae Bipyeong [Contemporary Critique].
One thing to note is that his description of them getting bonuses in late 1979 accords with an April 21, 1980 US Defense Intelligence Agency report, excerpted below:
Activities of Lieutenant General Chon Tu Hwan - An Opposing View
[...]
8A. (U) Details: [3 lines redacted, likely about source.] He is among the most reliable sources available to this office and provided the following information concerning LTG Chon Tu Hwan during wide-ranging conversations 18 and 19 April 1980.
(a) For several years LTG Chon has had a widespread loyal following within the ROK Army which has been carefully cultivated. Among the techniques Chon uses to insure loyalty are his own persuasiveness, KMA class ties, assignment of supporters to key positions, and the payment of substantial sums of money to loyal subordinates. Source stated that while he was a subordinate commander under Chon in the 1st ROK Infantry Division, he received a minimum of 100,000 won each month for operating expenses. This money was received directly from then MG Chon, or from one of his trusted subordinates. All other subordinate commanders also received similar payments, with the amount dependent on their respective positions. Following the events of 12-13 December 1979, Chon reportedly authorized the payment of 500,000,000 won to members of the Tactical Operations Center (TOC), Capital Security Command, who he considered to have played a key role in supporting him at that time. Source was unsure where the money for these payments came from, but expressed the opinion it was from certain unspecified businessmen who traditionally lent financial support to influential persons both within and outside of the military.
[Line redacted] The payment of “reimbursement” or “expense” funds within the ROK Army is not unusual. However, the amounts involved here are substantially larger than is normally the case. LTG Chon appears to have access to seemingly unlimited funds. He reportedly has spent large amounts of money in recent months during his campaign to generate support from segments of Korean society outside the military and justify the 12 December and subsequent actions.
Another thing to note is that (and I'm 99% sure on this - neither General Wickham's book or James Young's book mention it) the threat level in Korea during May 1980 was not raised to DEFCON 3 (though according to this, the ROK Army's designation was raised to Jindogae 1 in the Honam area), nor was Combined Forces Command (CFC) ever in charge of operations. As well, all troops involved in Gwangju were either never under CFC Operational Control (OPCON) or were removed from OPCON before May 18. (Some units were removed from OPCON after May 21 but were never sent to Gwangju.)
Also, he mentions being sent to Dongguk University where some soldiers were "sent to apprehend protesting students inside the campus," which accords with a story told to me a few days ago by someone who walked by that campus on the morning of May 18 and smelled tear gas. This speaks to the incorrect belief that protests only happened in Gwangju and not in Seoul. The suppression at Dongguk University - and a handful of other mentions in US Embassy cables - suggest that protests were planned and even attempted but they were stopped before they could really start by the troops stationed on campuses and circulating in trucks around the city (which was intended to intimidate the citizenry). As Ambassador Gleysteen reported on May 27, "In Seoul the city was calm, but the atmosphere was – to put it bluntly – one of military occupation."
I'll likely post the 3rd Brigade account - which also describes the unit's suppression of the October 1979 Busan protests - next.
