[Ask The Era] Are We Finally Ready to Let the Truth Bloom?

As politics drags tragedy into partisan conflict,

the deceased are distanced from being mourned.

After an era of enforced silence for victims,

a climate of allowing only certain interpretations grows stronger.

We must break fre

"The Jeju 4·3 Incident originally began as a communist uprising, but many innocent civilians were unjustly branded as communists and lost their lives." (1998, President Kim Dae-jung)

"As President, I sincerely offer my apologies and condolences to the bereaved families and the citizens of Jeju for the past wrongs committed by state power." (2003, President Roh Moo-hyun)

"In remembrance of the 4·3 Incident, I will abolish the civil and criminal statute of limitations to prevent the recurrence of state violence." (2026, President Lee Jaemyung)

The statements of these three presidents regarding the Jeju 4·3 Incident point in a certain direction, and their intensity has deepened over time. Seventy-eight years ago, April in Jeju was brutal, and its traces were devastating. As the years pass, memories fade, but the wounds are still felt. Not long ago, at the memorial ceremony for the Sewol ferry tragedy, the president recalled the maritime disaster from twelve years ago. We are a people who have endured turbulent times. When will the day come when the deep-seated resentment and anger, which are invoked whenever they seem to be fading, can finally rest? Excluding the Korean War, the Jeju 4·3 Incident is the greatest tragedy in modern Korean history. Was it a leftist uprising or state violence? I dare to say this: the 4·3 Incident does not belong to any one side. It is a deep historical scar that the Republic of Korea must confront head-on.

The 4·3 Incident, which began with an armed uprising by the Workers' Party of South Korea, claimed countless civilian lives during its suppression. If one separates the beginning and the development, and clings to only one side, the truth is easily distorted. The chaos after liberation, the clash of left- and right-wing ideologies, and the conflicts over U.S. military rule and the single national election all converged on this island, leading to a disastrous explosion. Triggered by the armed uprising on April 3, 1948, this incident continued through the Korean War and until the lifting of the entry ban on Hallasan Mountain in September 1954, taking 15,000 lives. Some claim the number is twice that. It encompassed not only soldiers, police, the Workers' Party, and left- and right-wing groups, but also their families, infants, the elderly, and women—people of all ages and classes. Lee Do-jong, the first ordained pastor in Jeju, was the first victim from the left, and journalist Kim Hojin was the first victim from the right in their respective fields.

When the police could no longer handle the situation, the military was deployed. Colonel Kim Ik-ryul, commander of the 9th Regiment, was replaced after the failure of the April 28 peace negotiations with ringleader Kim Dal-sam (whose grave is in the Pyongyang Patriotic Martyrs' Cemetery) and discord with the police. His successor, Park Jin-gyeong, was also killed by a subordinate linked to the Workers' Party just one month after taking office, prompting the suppression forces to become even more hardline. The tragedy deepened with the Yeosu Rebellion, in which the military refused orders to be deployed to Jeju.

The overt starting points of the incident were the attacks and arson of government offices, the killing of police officers and their families, armed actions aimed at disrupting the election, and attempts to overthrow the regime. Everything else is a distraction meant to blur the starting line. However, this should not be used as a justification for the state's excessive suppression. The brutal killings were not confined to any one side, and there were far more victims at the hands of the suppression forces. It is an undeniable fact that entire villages were burned down and innocent residents were falsely accused of being "communists" and killed. More than 130 mid-mountain villages disappeared. The innocent victims deserve restoration of honor and compensation. However, the Constitutional Court's decisions in 2001 and 2009, which excluded commanders of the communist armed forces, core members of the Workers' Party, and those who led murder and arson from such measures, must be respected. From a conservative perspective, there may be dissatisfaction with the minimization of leftist offenders. Conversely, while denouncing state violence, we must not hold ordinary soldiers and police officers—who had no choice but to follow orders—personally accountable. We should also avoid the folly of judging the urgency of that era by today's logic.

For me, the 4·3 Incident is not just an event found in historical documents. As a child, I remember a moment when a Jeju student, who had transferred to my school in town, was not understood by anyone, and the whole classroom burst into laughter. Recalling the child's bewildered expression, I reflect on another layer of the 4·3 Incident. The island's unique language and customs, a community unfamiliar to outsiders, and on top of that, the terror of ideology. A society that fails to understand one another ultimately makes enemies of itself. Poor rural communities, made up mostly of tenant farmers and illiterate people, became breeding grounds for socialism and communist revolution. Just before and after the founding of the government, police and military training was severely lacking, and the armed uprising groups, such as the partisans, were brainwashed with ideologies they did not even understand. It was utter chaos, with people killing and being killed with guns, swords (Japanese swords), bamboo spears, and pickaxes. Some died trapped in burning houses or were buried alive.

Yeongdo, Busan, my own political base, was a refuge for Jeju people who fled the 4·3 Incident. They called one another "samchon" (uncle) and shared the warmth of "gwaendang" (extended family), striving to live in the present and forget the past. For them, the 4·3 Incident was not an ideological struggle but a desperate fight for survival. Each person's story contains the depths of the tragedy. That is why I willingly participated in the National Assembly's discussions on the Special Act for the 4·3 Incident, led by the three representatives from Jeju (Byun Jeongil, Yang Jeonggyu, and Hyun Gyeongdae). During my time as Speaker of the National Assembly, despite concerns from those around me, I met with the bereaved families, and after the establishment of the Peace Park, paid my respects as the first among the three highest-ranking officials. Restoring the honor of the unjustly sacrificed is not a matter of progressivism or conservatism; it is a matter of national dignity and human decency.

Today, our society speaks of the 4·3 Incident only in half-measures. In the past, talking about the victims could get you branded a communist sympathizer; today, if you do not mention state violence, you are labeled a reactionary hardliner. If you only emphasize the harsh suppression, you erase the initial spark; if you only highlight the leftist uprising, you dilute the suffering of the innocent. The moment politics turns tragedy into a partisan battle, the dead are reduced from subjects of remembrance to mere tools of mobilization. After an era of enforced silence, there is now a strong tendency to allow only certain interpretations. Neither approach is correct. We must break free from partisan logic and face the complex truth through objective data and testimonies. The reason the 4·3 Incident was inscribed as a UNESCO Memory of the World is to preserve these vivid records, which erupted in a microcosm of the Cold War, as a legacy for humanity. The government and local authorities must return to their original intentions and rigorously question themselves on this point.

The lesson of the 4·3 Incident is clear: we must acknowledge the uprising for what it was and accept responsibility for the wrongs committed. Only then can we restore the honor of the victims and the moral integrity of the nation. Mourning only one side’s deaths and ignoring the truths of the other will only give rise to further conflict. In the name of freedom or the liberation of the people, innocent lives must not be trampled, and in reflecting on state violence, we must not erase the reality of the armed uprising. Viewing the 4·3 Incident correctly is not about choosing one side. It is a test of how honest the Republic of Korea can be when facing its own history. Politics should be the wisdom to find ways to live together, not the art of killing. The wind and rain of Jeju have made the red camellia, the symbol of 4·3, bloom and wither countless times, and now pose this question to us: Are we prepared not to be used by those who divide and polarize us again? Are we ready, even now, to approach the truth? Only when we answer with a burning conscience and a true love for our country will the 4·3 Incident become a living warning that matures our community beyond the wounds of the past. The camellia will surely bloom again.

Kim Hyong-o, Former Speaker of the National Assembly

This content was produced with the assistance of AI translation services.