The Politicized Pulpit: South Korea's Churches at a Crossroads Between Radicalization and Renewal
Change won’t be easy, as it requires the Church to admit its shortcomings, potentially losing its power and members who prioritize political alignment over religious conscience.
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A Critical Eye at MBTI
I’ve been encountering a peculiar dilemma since I arrived as an exchange student in Korea. As a Korean-American, I look like I belong in this country—and that’s the root of this dilemma. Unlike other foreigners, I have no linguistic grace period, so when I speak for the first time, the gap between how I look and how I sound can make me seem less like someone navigating a second language and more like someone who has speech impediments. While I am partially generalizing my countless encounters with Koreans so far, it did come to a head when I drank with club members for the first time. MBTI (Myers-Briggs Type Indicator) is a popularized personality sorting system that categorizes people into 16 types based on four traits: introversion/extroversion, intuition/sensing, thinking/feeling, and judging/perceiving. Despite originating in the U.S., it is globally known and, in particular, has become embedded in Korean social culture as a shorthand of sorts for understanding people you’ve just met. It has also made its way into dating culture and even job interviews. Inevitably, the question came up. When I said I was an ENFJ, a few people looked at me incredulously. “E” for extroverted? The label carries certain expectations: someone talkative, unguarded, quick to fill the silence. Generally speaking, I fit the bill. I love meeting new people, I’d rather be with others than alone, and I can talk a lot. What I was that evening, however, was sleep-deprived, guarded with my words, and mentally overworking to fit into this entirely new social atmosphere that felt super unfamiliar. I didn’t want to accidentally crack a joke Koreans would find disrespectful, but I wasn’t at all uncomfortable or shy with the others. My reservedness was unrelated to whether I was an E or an I. However, clearly that was not how it was interpreted. These students had known me for the length of one drink. Yet, a judgment had already been made about something I consider a core part of who I am. It got me thinking a lot about MBTI and Korea’s longer history of social categorization. Korea seems all about placing people into easy-to-identify boxes and labels “just for fun,” but could this have serious consequences? In addition, why do the systems for social categories keep getting simpler even as society gets more complex? Before I attempt to answer some of these questions, let us establish some context for Korea’s social categorization trends. To understand why Korea keeps reaching for social frameworks like the ones we see today, it helps to start far in the past. Starting from even before the Joseon dynasty, which was founded in 1392, Confucianism governed social philosophy. It was the backbone of everyday life and, unlike Western moral frameworks that centered on the self, was inherently collectivist. Every individual was perceived primarily as a part of a larger unit, whether that be family, class, or country. Social position and age were not just markers of status, but went so far as to reflect a cosmic and natural order. This worldview gave rise to saju and the use of the Chinese zodiac system. Saju is a fortune-telling system originating from ancient China that maps a person’s fate across four pillars: birth year, month, day, and hour. It provides thousands of unique combinations that are supposed to reveal everything from ideal career to future spouse. Even now, you can commonly see professional saju readers lining the streets of Seoul, some even being celebrity readers whose services cost a small fortune. The Chinese zodiac, which Korea also adopted, works similarly. Using the twelve-year animal cycle you could know someone’s sign and figure out what year they were born and from that, their personality quirks or future prospects. Together, saju and the zodiac share the same underlying logic: the self defined in relation to others, and a quick way to sort the room. Both are centered around not just your own destiny, but your place and interactions with society as a whole. If we fast-forward to the modern era, we can see that the impulse to categorize and the affinity for social order haven’t disappeared. This is exemplified by the popularity of blood types and MBTI. Blood type personality theory, which originated in Japan but became popular in Korea, assigned broad character traits to A, B, O, and AB types. Of course, the popularity of this theory has since been replaced by the MBTI rage. I don’t believe there is anything inherently wrong with any of this. If anything, it’s a fun way to get to know someone. But I think we should be more critical. Why did one offhand comment at that first dinner bother me as much as it did? Because when my clubmates said I didn’t seem extroverted, it didn’t just feel like an observation, but almost like a correction. I suddenly felt a pressure to perform based on my personality name tag rather than what felt right in the moment. Internalization can also lead to letting it become a permission slip. Introversion shouldn’t excuse you from showing up when you’re needed. Being a “T” shouldn’t mean a grieving friend needs to hear a logical breakdown of how their grandmother had a stroke. It’s possible for the label to stop describing who you are and start justifying who you’ve decided not to become just because of widespread social acknowledgement that you are a ZHBV. When you change the letters, it becomes nothing more than a silly characterization; and that’s how it should stay, if we are to encourage only the positives from trends like these. There is a broader risk here too that exists beyond the individual. When a society collectively buys into the idea that people can be sorted into fixed, inherent categories, it quietly sets a precedent that deviating from your type is somehow wrong rather than simply human. Foreigners often remark on how visually uniform Korean society can feel; something as small as the near-universal haircut among young men is a window into a culture that places value on fitting in. Personality frameworks reinforce that pressure, since being different from your label feels like a social error. It risks making people less willing to be surprising, contradictory, or openly themselves. A society is richer for its outliers, and these systems of categorization, when taken too seriously, can make outliers feel like mistakes. Does being extroverted mean you need to be loud around people you don’t like? When dealing with death, do you turn to someone who understands your situation regardless of MBTI or someone whose MBTI is feeling? When preparing for an interview as a sales representative, should you lie and say you’re an E? Of course we are all human and the answer to all those questions should be that we can be who we are without worry. Another rising trend is teto-egen, which sorts people into two types based on “gender energy”: teto (testosterone-type) for assertive and competitive, egen (estrogen-type) for warm and communal. Unlike every trend that came before it, teto-egen isn’t about compatibility or fate or even personality; it’s purely about labeling, and the label it reaches for is gender. Some might point to the egen-guy or teto-girl as proof that the system subverts norms, but the egen-guy is just as often a punchline as he is a personality type, and the fact that liking movies needs a special category says everything. The trend doesn’t emerge from nowhere. It borrows the cultural weight of Korea’s preexisting gender expectations and repackages them as something playful and low-stakes. If the risk with MBTI is that individuals stop growing, the risk with teto-egen is greater, and nudges gender itself back toward a binary at exactly the moment that binary was beginning to loosen. People should be aware of the origins of these trends and the inadvertent issues they could imply, as with all trends. Contrary to a collectivist society is an individualistic society. The U.S., where I’m from, exemplifies this. Personality traits are not labels but optional accessories. You take the quiz, laugh about it once or twice to someone, and move on because there is an underlying assumption that you can always redefine yourself. It’s not just acceptable but rather admirable in American culture to change. I love asking people’s MBTI but would never use it to predict their actions or give it any more significance than as a conversation starter. On the other hand, all these frameworks from saju to MBTI embody the very human need to be understood quickly and to understand others the same way. From a positive perspective, Korea, it seems, has been refining these cunning social shortcuts for centuries. My bet is that the next trend after this one is already forming in a KakaoTalk group chat somewhere, unbeknownst to its impending viral potential. A new icebreaker, a reason to laugh, a door into knowing someone; as long as we don’t let it be the last word on who someone is, there are real positives to these quirky systems. The most interesting parts of getting to know people are always the parts that don’t fit the box, like the fondness in seeing your initially quiet friend turn into the one who’s always the loudest in the room, or the relief in finding out your “T” friend actually has the best emotional advice for your situation because they went through the same thing the previous year. Maybe that’s the real gift these frameworks can give us: not an easily labeled map of who someone is, but rather a starting point from which we get to be surprised.
OMORI and Places Inside Ourselves
“Promise me… No matter what happens… Promise me that we’ll always be there for each other.” Released in 2020 by OMOCAT, OMORI is a psychological horror RPG that follows a group of friends—Sunny, Kel, Aubrey, Hero, Mari, and Basil—and the unfolding of an unspeakable tragedy that shattered them apart. Taking place four years after his sister Mari’s death, Sunny shuts himself indoors and creates a space of endless adventure but also an endless loop of avoidance inside his mind to conceal himself from the trauma. OMORI urges us to follow Sunny in exploring a surreal dream world as his titular alter ego Omori, alongside the real world, where he must face his past, mend broken friendships, and accept what has happened. As Omori, time never moves forward. It stays stagnant in the time before Mari’s death. On the surface, Omori’s world looks like a fantastical playdate with friends: bright and saturated with wonders. But brightness in the dream world is not always equivalent to happiness in reality. At its core, OMORI asks what it means to carry a traumatic event too heavy to hold alone. Beneath the colorful playfulness, OMORI constructs an architecture of trauma, of what happens when tragedy strikes and you are left with nothing but the horrors of when it happened. Places You Go When You Can’t Turn Back OMORI presents Sunny’s trauma through three layers, each a distinct world inside his mind: White Space as a place of rest and at length, emptiness; Headspace as the childlike images that mask the repressed trauma; and Black Space—located beneath Headspace—as the place that harbors Sunny’s fear and memories. While they differ vastly in texture and tone, each of them is an answer to the same question: what do you do with something you cannot face? The player is first dropped into White Space where Omori lives, a never-ending loop of nothingness. Here, time appears motionless while the furniture is minimal to the point of emptiness. Although bedroom-adjacent in structure, the only items present are a laptop, a tissue box, a sketchbook, a cat, and a light bulb. The monochromatic and desaturated palette, coupled with a lack of shadows, flattens the game’s visuals. White Space is so stripped down of life that it almost feels serene. The flatness, however, harbors an eeriness beneath its stillness. White Space’s never-ending stretches of white presents an uncanny peacefulness that emanates from emptiness. For Sunny, the familiar comfort of the place keeps him calm, and the stability it brings helps prevent the trauma from resurfacing. Yet, White Space’s minimalistic design functions as a place of denial. In White Space, Sunny hides himself from reality. If White Space is an absence, Headspace is an excess. The place is oversaturated and overwhelmingly imaginative. In Headspace, the player moves through colorful environments that resemble a child’s dream, featuring hide-and-seek with your friends, a futuristic junkyard, and a sprout mole village. The Neighbor’s Room area—the first area we encounter after exiting White Space—sharply contrasts with the monochrome of the previous room. Entering the vibrant pink, yellow, and purple, Omori is immediately shoved into the noisiness of his best friends: Aubrey and Kel bicker, while Hero acts as the mediator. The colorful room features objects that resemble many of Sunny’s toys: cards and snacks scattered around, a toaster, a toy castle, and a gigantic yellow cat with eyes that follow you everywhere. Even outside of the Neighbor’s Room, areas in Headspace are full of fantastical elements such as an underground village that is home to the Sprout Moles (yes, sprouts that live like moles), or Sweetheart’s Castle, ruled by a tyrannical princess. Then there is the Last Resort, where you can drown yourself in casino games, party with ghosts, and fight Mr. Jawsum—a businessman shark—to rescue your friend from being tricked into fraudulent contracts. Everything in Headspace is playful to the point of absurdity. Built from Sunny’s imagination and boosted by his escapism, Headspace expands itself by piling absurdity upon absurdity until we lose ourselves in its excessiveness. OMORI deliberately protracts the Headspace section to make players reluctant to leave. By drawing us into its excessiveness, Headspace implicates us in Sunny’s avoidance. Each detour is Sunny adding another barrier to shield himself from the pain. The more we immerse ourselves in Headspace’s adventures, the more effective his shield becomes. Places You Are Pushed Into Although White Space and Headspace seem like polar opposites, they are actually two sides of the same coin. Just like how time is suspended in White Space, time stretches into an eternal childhood in Headspace. Many elements here are reassembled from Sunny’s past. The Neighbor’s Room is built upon the treehouse Sunny used to spend time in with his friends. Sweetheart is his toy doll, and Captain Spaceboy is a character from a franchise that he has seen in the real world. However, childhood memories, especially when translated into a dream world constructed to avoid reality, are never purely innocent. Just like how trauma eventually resurfaces, the veil is never fully drawn down in Headspace. Episodes such as the sudden breakdown of Sunny’s closest friend Basil or the appearance of Mari’s ghost occasionally disrupt the paradise. Like glitches, these intrusions expose the instability of Headspace, suggesting that it is not so much a memory as a construction of Sunny’s refusal to face the truth. Rather than moving on with life, Sunny creates a pseudo-reality that is always suspended in his childhood. Inevitably, everything violently comes to a head in Black Space. Positioned beneath Headspace, this area only becomes accessible after players collect the scattered keycaps across Headspace that spell out “Welcome to Black Space.” The floor in Basil’s house then collapses, and choosing to jump into the pit lets Omori enter this hidden layer of Sunny’s mind. Visually, Black Space is sparse and disorienting. The area consists of sections accessed through doors floating in a void, subverting players’ spatial awareness. Here, the structured Headspace breaks down and only the intrusive pain of Sunny’s past is left. Creatures and memories expelled by Headspace roam around each room. The main event of each area—Basil’s recurring deaths—illustrates Sunny’s attempts to protect himself from his repressed trauma. As someone directly tied to the incident surrounding Mari’s death and present at the scene, Basil occupies a fragile and unstable position within Sunny’s constructed world. If his breakdown in Headspace signals the flimsiness of that world, then his repeated deaths here are Sunny’s attempts to suppress the part of his memory that threatens to expose the truth. Black Space feels like a fever dream, exposing how trauma cannot always be reshaped into an aesthetic narrative. The Space Between You and Me OMORI extends its depiction of trauma beyond Sunny’s internal collapse by incorporating his friends. Each character carries their emotions through their signature color. Aubrey is an angry red, Kel is a cheerful yellow, Hero is a sad but caring blue while Omori is black and unreadable. Their signature abilities in Headspace also mirror who they are in real life. Red, yellow, and blue extend from the dream world into Faraway Town—Sunny’s real world—and into the way each friend rebuilds themselves after Mari’s death. Aubrey shows aggressiveness through her appearance, dyeing her hair pink and joining the hooligans. Feeling abandoned by her friends and believing that Basil ruined their childhood photo album—the only artifact that archives their happiest memories together before the tragedy—she becomes his bully. By contrast, Kel and Hero, at least on the surface, seem to navigate the grief of Mari’s passing more easily. Kel is still happy and energetic, Hero still gentle and composed. However, appearing okay is not the same as being okay. Although the brothers appear stable, this does not mean they have forgotten Mari. If Aubrey’s red externalizes her pain, Kel and Hero’s colors suggest a quieter approach to grief. And then there are Sunny and Basil. Perhaps because they are the closest to Mari’s death, they become the most distant from everything else. Basil is haunted by a shadow he calls “something.” Sunny shut himself indoors both physically and emotionally. The toll of this withdrawal is reflected in his pale appearance, resembling the monochrome design of Omori. It is as if the line between Sunny and his constructed self—the line between fantasy and reality—has dissolved. During the first encounter with Aubrey after years of disconnect, Sunny swings a knife at her like how Omori does at the enemies in Headspace. The way Sunny directly applies Headspace’s fantastical logic into the real world shows how the period where Sunny “lived” as Omori has drastically disoriented himself. The Place You Return To In OMORI, trauma is an architecture layered and reshaped from past memories. Trauma can be repressed, like in White Space. It can be structured into something safer as in Headspace, or can emerge uncontrollably as in Black Space. Presenting all these processes not in chronological order but in the way memory naturally unfolds when triggered, OMORI helps us understand what life might look like for a traumatized individual. As players, we understand that the characters care for each other deeply. However, their own wounds drive them apart, causing them to hurt one another, avoiding both confrontation and reconciliation. Sunny isolates himself and pretends everything is fine. Hero goes to college and continues to be the high-achieving figure others expect him to be. Aubrey alters herself to the point of unrecognition. Yet, her tough demeanor hides her loneliness from her broken family and friend group. In reality, Aubrey only wants the group to stay together and cling to each other after Mari’s death. She becomes the bully so that no one mistakes her for someone who could be hurt, as vulnerability requires trusting that people will stay. And perhaps that is what OMORI ultimately suggests. Although everyone grieves differently, grief is not meant to be carried alone. OMORI, at its core, is about what it means to do things together. The game answers that question with Basil’s photo album, the follow-up system to collaborate during battles, and the Release Energy attack, in which everyone cooperates to perform an all-out attack. And the fact that we can only trigger the Good Ending, where Sunny finally confronts his past and reconnects with his friends, by accepting Kel’s invitation to go outside suggests that the place you return to is none other than reality and your loved ones. The promise to always be there for each other is so fundamental that breaking it means breaking everything. What OMORI suggests is that trauma can both shape who we are and destroy our sense of self if carried alone. The bravest thing is not moving on and pretending nothing happened. OMORI tells us that it is turning back, trusting those around you, and carrying it together.
Infiltrators in the Conservationist Sphere: Cat Moms, Victorian Fashion, and the Anti-Suffragette Movement
A War Against Cats Sometime during middle school, I suggested to my friend that the government should kill all stray cats and was promptly labelled a psychopath. At the time, I believed that I was making a rational and salient point on the preservation of urban nature. Feral cats have been named among the 100 worst invasive species by the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) and are responsible for the complete extinction of at least 63 distinct animal species across the world. Among those 63 species, a whopping 40 of them are birds. Middle school me, who held a particular fascination towards birds, thought this was the greatest tragedy on earth. She believed she bore the unenviable responsibility of “enlightening” her cat-loving friend about the necessity of burying the things you love, whether that be feral cats or a 10-year-long friendship. In simple terms, I was an insufferable nerd. It turns out I was ahead of my time, because there has been an uptick in online conversations around so-called “cat moms”—people who take care of the neighborhood cats by feeding them and funding their veterinarian care. Cat moms are widely bashed across the Korean internet landscape for the inconvenience they cause within residential areas: more cats in the streets leads to more noise, roadkill, and poor hygiene. According to a 2025 investigation in Seoul, 94.8% of cat food was found in densely populated areas such as low-rise apartments, leading to more civil complaints from residents. While this conflict between cat moms and frustrated residents has always been prevalent, a new faction has joined the war in recent years: birdwatching enthusiasts. Birders point out that cats are the leading cause behind the endangerment of birds, so the government must control their population through whatever means necessary. And the government is indeed responding to their increasing demands; in March this year, the Ministry of Rural Affairs introduced the “stray cat care guidelines” stating that cat food cannot be placed on private property without the landowner’s permission. Cities are also introducing TNR (Trap, Neuter, and Return) programs to gradually phase out the cat population. Recently, however, wildlife conservationists are arguing that TNR cannot meaningfully reduce the harm. In order to eradicate a feral cat colony through TNR alone, at least 70% of the population should be neutered—an unmanageable scale even in countries with harsher protection standards, such as Australia. Consequently, birders are increasingly pushing for a stricter focus on euthanizing the cats rather than releasing them back into the wild. I am unfortunately a nerdy psychopath still. I like birdwatching (lame), and I agree that our native birds must be protected through every available means; if TNR-ing cats demonstrably fail, we must begin exploring other methods. At the same time, I find myself hesitating to side with my natural allies in this war against cat moms. Because before entering political discourse on the internet, there is one question you must ask yourself: why are these valiant basement dwellers fighting alongside you? Why are they attacking cat people on social media instead of joining more worthwhile pursuits? And once you begin, it’s difficult to pull that train of questions off track: Why are these people insistent on calling their enemies by a pointlessly gendered moniker? Why are they a bit too happy about these cats getting killed? Are these people…chuds? Two Divergent Battles for Citizenship Doubtless it is grossly reductive to claim that every single person who engages with this topic is a bad faith actor who doesn’t actually care about protecting birds. In fact I would say the opposite: wildlife conservation is deeply rooted in caring about animals as sentient beings who should be afforded the same dignity and respect as ourselves. American Ornithologist Florence Merriam Bailey, who helped popularize birdwatching as a hobby in 19th century America, addresses the birds in her field guide Birds Through an Opera Glass with a distinctly courteous voice. She writes, for example, that even a bird as unassuming as the robin “bespeaks the self-respecting American citizen.” This equivalency she draws between the robin and the “American citizen” marks a clear transition from past attitudes in the 18th and early 19th century, where protection of animals was seen as a moral duty to care for less sentient beings (as per Jean-Jacques Rousseau), or as a simple economic duty to guard one’s property. These earlier approaches towards conservation worked under the assumption that animals are far less rational than humans, and thus fit to be unilaterally advocated for, not with. Merriam, however, refers to the robin as a “citizen” to not only compare it to a fellow human being, but also to indicate that nature deserves a more equal standing in America’s civic and political sphere. “Robin” implies that the robin is a silly little guy. “Citizen” implies that the robin should get to line up at the voting booth or run for the mayor of a small city. Perhaps I am vastly overrepresenting the extent to which Merriam wanted to politicize the robin. It may very well be that she simply wanted to emphasize the importance of wildlife to America’s national identity. Nevertheless, Merriam’s compassionate diction was reflective of the emergence of wildlife conservation as a broader egalitarian movement. In the late 19th century, the Western fashion industry was profiting massively from the sale of feathered hats for middle and upper-class women. Hunters culled millions of birds each year to feed the public’s appetite for poofy hats—at one point, the industry threatened at least 61 species of hummingbirds to extinction. Seeing this, a small group of British women founded the Society for the Protection of Birds (SPB) and called for the illegalization of violent hunting practices in the plumage trade. At first the SPB was met with skepticism and ridicule. The British Parliament dismissed their demands, stating that “the lives of human beings(…)are more important than the lives of birds.” Soon, however, they were soon joined by similar activist groups across the world such as the Audubon Society in America (which was in fact founded by Florence Merriam). Together, these conservationists pioneered the “Murderous Millinery” movement, fighting to dethrone man from his self-appointed position as master of nature. The conservationists’ concerns extended beyond a mere sentimental stint: at the movement’s core lay the political understanding that humans were no longer the center of the universe. As popular support grew, however, the Murderous Millinery movement began to gain some questionable proponents. These supporters mobilized the public against women who wore feathered hats, labelling them “bird-enemies” and “fashion-mad harpies.” Political cartoons satirized these women as heartless, bestial creatures who killed innocent wildlife for their personal pleasure. But the most fascinating allies of them all were the anti-suffragettes. The burgeoning revolutionary notion that the old dominant class must be decentered didn’t just spur on the conservationists; it motivated the women’s suffrage movement as well, which coincided with the Murderous Millinery movement. Although both were created in response to the dominance of Man (in both senses of the word), their alignments couldn’t be more different in practice: the suffragettes preferred to rally in huge feathered hats to signify their right to occupy physical and sociopolitical “space”—a deliberate strategy that the conservationists vehemently opposed. What resulted was a complex interaction between two women-led movements that was mostly defined by hostility. Hostility which was, rather unsurprisingly, taken advantage of by organizations such as the Men’s League for Opposing Women’s Suffrage. While it is hard to determine how much meaningful cooperation existed between anti-suffragettes and conservationists, it’s difficult to deny that their arguments, either intentionally or inadvertently, echoed each other by appealing to traditional sentiments of motherhood. The Men’s League disparaged the decadently dressed suffragettes for neglecting their womanly duties at home, while the Audubon Society criticized that fashion enthusiasts were going against their natural motherly roles by condoning the orphaning of egret chicks. The Infiltrators, One Century Later Both sides of the war got what they wanted eventually, roughly around the same time. While the Murderous Millinery movement lost steam for a while as World War I came and went, it did reach its hard-won culmination in 1921 when the Importation of Plumage Prohibition Bill was passed in British Parliament. The Women’s Suffrage Movement’s success was more gradual, with two successive bills in 1918 and 1928 granting voting rights to all women over 21. Moreover, the two sides managed to reconcile and even merge together in the form of Ecofeminism—an ecocentrist branch of the women’s rights movement that prioritizes equality for all citizens of the natural world, not just men and women. The prominence of Ecofeminism today makes it difficult to imagine that wildlife conservationists and feminists once stood against each other on the metaphorical battlefield. It also makes it easy to erase the meddlers who sowed division for their own political ends. These same meddlers are now rearing their heads in Korea. It should be telling that when you Google “cat mom,” the first autocomplete phrase that pops up is “cat mom getting schooled.” Such is the inevitable cancer that emerges in every political discourse that propagates itself through the internet—people seeking the gratifying thrill that comes with deriding others. What makes them truly harmful is their ability to hijack legitimate and necessary conversations in order to serve their strange, misinformed, and altogether petty causes. Am I expected to believe that these people are truly concerned with the local wildlife? These people who thoughtlessly exploit the long-standing cultural image of the undesirable, unproductive “cat woman,” who can’t come up with an insult without slapping on the affix “-mom?” At what point are they heeding their urge to attack over their obligation to protect and sympathize? Progress in wildlife conservation in 19th century Europe came only with the recognition that all sentient beings deserve the same empathy—meaning that we should, unfortunately, treat these internet trolls as people. Although a simplistic interpretation can be tempting, human beings are rarely demonized caricatures; I would be surprised if these hijackers, including the anti-suffragettes who sided with the conservationists, truly didn’t have an ounce of interest in protecting the natural world. At the same time, human beings are undoubtedly capable of caring about multiple causes at once, with some of these causes being more pressing than others. The historical precedent set by the anti-suffragettes urges conservationists in Korea to reexamine how others are interacting with their movement—whether or not their participation carries the strange brand of chauvinism that permeates Korea’s current sociopolitical landscape. Furthermore, it asks us all to examine whether we are being diverted from what truly matters in favor of more shortsighted pursuits.
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