The Two Koreas: A Contemporary History

by Oberdorfer, Don

  Chun Doo Hwan was born on January 18, 1931, in a village near Taegu, a major city in southeastern Korea, the home region of Park Chung Hee and many other political leaders of modern Korea. Chun’s father, a Confucian scholar, was forced to flee with his family to Manchuria in 1939 because of a violent feud with a Japanese policeman. After returning to Korea, Chun’s family was poor but proud. Chun graduated from Taegu Technical High School in 1951, in the midst of the Korean War, and joined the Korean Military Academy. He graduated in 1955 in the academy’s eleventh class—the first class to receive a full four-year military education and the first to have its curriculum based on an American rather than a Japanese model.

  As a junior officer in 1959–1960, Chun spent a year in American military schools at bases in North Carolina and Georgia, which left him with a tenuous command of English and a sense of easy familiarity with the United States. Unlike Park Chung Hee, who was Japanese educated and never entirely comfortable with Americans, Chun felt he knew Americans and could deal with them without complexes. As a foreign military student, he bought a used car, obtained a US driver’s license, and often traveled on weekends. He was fond of telling aides his surprise one night in seeing a car ahead of him stop for a traffic light, even though no police or anybody else could be seen for miles. This impressed Chun with the law-abiding spirit of the American people, a trait he proclaimed was “essential for freedom and democracy.”

  After Park’s military coup in 1961, Chun served for a year as a secretary for civil affairs at the Supreme Council for National Reconstruction, the official name of the ruling junta. Turning down Park’s suggestion that he embark on a political career, Chun returned to army duty. Nonetheless, his military duties were often entwined with politics. In 1964 he, Roh Tae Woo, and a handful of other Korean Military Academy graduates formed a secret club within the military that they named Hana-hoe, or “One Group,” devoted to solidarity and patriotism and, as it turned out, self-advancement. Park gave the members of the club, which was headed by Chun, fast promotions and special perks. Hana-hoe members made up the core of the group that took power by force after Park’s death.

  As a battalion commander of the politically sensitive Capital Security Command in 1968, Chun led the chase against North Korean commandos who had attempted to attack Park’s Blue House. After a tour as regimental commander of ROK forces fighting in Vietnam, he moved to the presidential security force at the Blue House, where he had frequent personal contact with Park. In February 1979, eight months before Park’s assassination, he became commanding general of the Defense Security Command, which Park used for political control and as a check on his politically active bodyguard force and the KCIA.

  On December 14, two days after his midnight takeover of the military, Chun engineered sweeping changes in the ROK army, moving the old guard aside and placing his classmates and close friends in sensitive posts. Roh became commanding general of the Capital Security Command; others of the Taegu Seven Stars, as the innermost group of insurgent generals were called, became commanders of the Special Warfare Command, the ROK Third Army, and other key units.

  The same day, Chun held his first meeting with Gleysteen, coming at the ambassador’s invitation to the US Embassy. In response to Gleysteen’s plea for a return to constitutional order, Chun insisted that he supported President Choi, that the events of December 12 were an accidental outgrowth of his investigation of Park’s assassination, and that he harbored no personal ambition. The purge of the army, which resulted in Chun’s unchallenged control of the most important levers of power, was a glaring contradiction of this claim. While recognizing his intelligence and drive, Gleysteen came to distrust Chun and eventually consider him “almost the definition of unreliability . . . unscrupulous . . . ruthless . . . a liar.”

  The events of December brought American officials face-to-face with the limited extent of their leverage on South Korean political developments. As in the 1961 military coup that brought Park to power, the military showdown of December 1979 was an accomplished fact before the United States could react. The US Embassy had sought briefly but unsuccessfully to reverse the 1961 coup by announcing its continuing support of the elected government, but the effort was an embarrassing failure, a cautionary reminder to officials who came later. When a Korean academic urged Gleysteen to “nullify what General Chun did and kick him out . . . teach Koreans a lesson that the United States does not support just anyone,” the ambassador rejected the idea out of hand. “Cannot act as a colonial governor,” Gleysteen responded.

  American officials, realizing it would be fruitless, made no effort to undo what Gleysteen privately called Chun’s “power grab.” Gleysteen explicitly told Chun’s military colleagues that “we are not trying to reverse the events of December 12.” Instead, the United States pressed Chun to refrain from interfering with the Korean political process or taking political power in his own right, which he soon did anyway.

  No one could deny that the United States had important stakes in the future of South Korea, but by 1979 it was unclear how far Washington could go in shaping that future. American diplomats relied mainly on persuasion, telling Chun and his colleagues that their takeover threatened national security and economic growth, in which the United States had major interests. In arguments often repeated later, Gleysteen told Chun in their initial meeting that “the [December 12] actions had set a dangerous precedent within the ROK military, run great risks in light of the North Korean threat, and raised further questions internally about the ability of the Choi government to sustain progress toward orderly political liberalization, and externally about the prospects for stability.” Gleysteen stressed that “the ROK had to maintain a civilian government and could not afford to lose the support of the U.S. military and businessmen who were deeply disturbed by what had happened.”

  Chun received these arguments politely, but was not swayed. He and his fellow generals believed they knew more about the North Korean threat than the Americans did, and they did not consider it an imminent danger. Indeed, in view of the recently proposed US pullout, it was arguable how much danger the United States actually perceived from the North. As for economic issues, the economy was still in trouble, but it was questionable whether US business leaders seeking profits had clear-cut views on who should lead the country. The generals also sensed correctly that Washington, obsessed by the plight of American diplomats held hostage in Tehran since November 4, felt under great pressure not to push so hard in Seoul that they created “another Iran.”

  In an effort to press Chun and deny him full legitimacy, Gleysteen and Wickham, with Washington’s approval, avoided meeting with him on a regular basis and sought to do as much business as possible through the official channels of the Choi government. The embassy and the State Department pressed Choi to take bolder steps to assert his authority, without success. He was increasingly a figurehead. Nonetheless, Carter sent a personal letter to Choi in early January saying he was “deeply distressed” by the events of December 12 and that any similar actions “would have serious consequences for our close cooperation.” In an unusual gesture, the embassy distributed the letter widely throughout the ROK government and military establishment.

  In a message to Washington at the end of January, Gleysteen summed up the dilemma he felt in accepting “an unprecedentedly activist role” in Korean domestic affairs. “If we don’t do enough, dangerous events could occur; if we try to do too much, we may provoke strong, chauvinist reactions.” This is particularly difficult, he observed, because “most Koreans sense a reduction in the real power of the U.S. and are increasingly concerned over what they perceive as our unwillingness to face up to the Soviet challenge, and they are also somewhat skeptical of our ability to handle Beijing.” Apparently referring to the Iran hostage crisis, Gleysteen added that Koreans “suspect that we may be too preoccupied elsewhere to respond resolutely to difficulties on the peninsula.”

  Nevertheless, he concluded, “All significant po
litical elements seek the image of U.S. support and many seek rather crude U.S. intervention to shore up their weaknesses; ultimately we will therefore be criticized for undue interference in domestic affairs by those who see our support for them as less helpful than desired. Few of them realize that our influence is limited in large part by the fact that we could not pull our powerful security and economic levers without risk of destroying the ROK’s stability.”

  THE KWANGJU UPRISING

  In early 1980, with the economy sagging and the country still under partial martial law, the South Korean government modestly began to relax the repression. Opposition politicians began to speak up, and student demonstrations, traditional in the spring, began on an increasingly large scale to demand that martial law be lifted and an early date be established for a presidential election. Well-known political figures began maneuvering publicly with an election in mind. Chun, operating with the immense power of martial law, was at the same time extending his personal network throughout the armed forces from his post as chief of the Defense Security Command. In mid-April he had Choi name him acting KCIA director, an act that provided him immense new authority and that convinced the US Embassy that he was bent on taking over the presidency. In a gesture of disapproval of Chun’s move, Washington “indefinitely postponed” the annual Security Consultative Meeting (SCM) between the top defense officials of the two countries and informed ROK officers of its reasons for doing so.

  As the number of student demonstrators demanding elections grew to the tens of thousands and spilled off the campuses into the streets, both the civilian and the military sides of the South Korean government raised with American officials the possibility of using military forces to back up the hard-pressed police. On May 8, Gleysteen reported that he would try to defuse “this uncomfortable situation” the following day in separate meetings with Chun and with Choi Kwang Soo, the civilian chief of staff at the Blue House. “In none of our discussions,” he told Washington, “will we in any way suggest that the USG opposes ROKG contingency plans to maintain law and order, if absolutely necessary by reinforcing the police with the army. If I were to suggest any complaint on this score, I believe we would lose all our friends within the civilian and military leadership.” The State Department responded, “We agree that we should not oppose ROK contingency plans to maintain law and order, but you should remind Chun and Choi of the danger of escalation if law enforcement responsibilities are not carried out with care and restraint.”

  In conversation with Gleysteen, Chun blamed the unrest on “a small number” of student radicals, professors, and ambitious politicians. He described the situation as not critical and said military force would be used only as a last resort. Wickham, meeting with the ROK defense minister and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff the same day, emphasized the dangers of escalation if troops were used against civilians. The exchanges left Gleysteen with the impression that the student demonstrations might be handled with moderation, although they were reaching massive proportions and becoming larger by the day.

  On May 13, however, Chun suddenly played the North Korean card, telling Wickham that Pyongyang was the “hidden hand” behind the students and that the decisive moment for a North Korean attack on the South might have arrived. Wickham reported to Washington that Chun’s stress on danger from the North appeared to be a pretext for a move into the Blue House. American scrutiny of its intelligence turned up no sign of preparations for attack, and the State Department, concerned about rumors in Seoul, made a public statement to that effect. Years later a Korean military intelligence officer said he had been ordered by officials close to Chun to fabricate the supposed threat.

  On the night of May 17 and the early-morning hours of May 18, military authorities began widespread arrests of student leaders and senior political figures, including the three most likely candidates for president, the “three Kims”—opposition leaders Kim Dae Jung and Kim Young Sam and former prime minister Kim Jong Pil. All political activity was banned under a declaration of full martial law, a step beyond the partial martial law previously in effect. The National Assembly was closed at bayonet point and heavy censorship reimposed on the Korean press. The army seized control, occupied many campuses, and closed all universities.

  Gleysteen reported to Washington that the actions meant that “the military [has] all but formally taken over the country.” In a “flash” cable, reserved for communications of the highest urgency, he declared that “the military leaders have shown disregard for constituted authority in the ROK—and for us. We have been presented with a fait accompli suggesting that the military leaders either do not know or care about the consequences of treating us in this manner.” The ambassador, presenting sharp protests to President Choi and to the army chief of staff, said the United States found the actions “shocking and astounding.” The CIA station chief in Seoul, Bob Brewster, made a similar protest to Chun. The State Department issued an unusually strong statement about an American ally, saying the United States was “deeply disturbed” and concerned that the use of military force would “exacerbate problems” in Korea.

  One of the most serious issues was the fate of late President Park’s old rival, Kim Dae Jung. Because of his spectacular kidnapping from Tokyo by KCIA agents in 1973 and subsequent persecution by the Park government, the opposition figure and former presidential candidate was better known abroad than any other living South Korean. At home he inspired passionate loyalty, especially in his native Cholla provinces, but also fierce antipathy among conservatives, especially in the military. His release from house arrest and reemergence to prominence after Park’s assassination was considered particularly threatening by those who had been close to Park.

  As the country moved toward elections, it seemed distinctly possible, perhaps likely, that Kim could win a free and fair presidential balloting in light of his popularity, the widespread respect for what he had suffered at the hands of Park, and the strong popular reaction against military rule. As early as mid-March, Gleysteen had observed the inherent contradiction in the emergence of Chun and the reemergence of Kim, and he reported to Washington that this ultimately would have to be resolved, “yet no one knows exactly how and when.”

  As martial law was declared, a large number of soldiers invaded Kim’s house, searched it thoroughly, and took Kim away. Soldiers also arrested several of his secretaries, bodyguards, and close political associates. Just a few hours earlier, as rumors circulated that Kim would be arrested on charges of inciting student demonstrations, Gleysteen had warned Blue House chief of staff Choi that arrests of any politicians amid the growing tension was “ill advised” and that the arrest of Kim Dae Jung could be “incendiary.”

  The ambassador’s prediction proved to be accurate. While troops quickly imposed a sullen order on Seoul, the declaration of martial law and especially the arrest of Kim touched off passionate protests in Kwangju, the capital of Kim’s home region of southwestern Korea. After relatively routine clashes between students and combat police early that Sunday, aggressive black-beret special forces troops arrived to quell the demonstrations. Tim Warnberg, a Peace Corps volunteer, recounted what he saw next:

  The soldiers charged and began swinging their clubs. We ran along with the panicked crowd and I ended up in a small store along with about 15 other people, including one other PCV [Peace Corps volunteer]. A soldier came into the store and proceeded to club everyone over the head with his truncheon until he came to the other volunteer and me. He stopped, startled, hesitated a moment, and then ran out. We went out into the side street and found that the troops had retreated to the main street, leaving behind wounded people everywhere. Most of the injured had suffered serious blows to the head, arms or legs. . . . One young boy, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, told us he had been playing billiards when the paratroopers burst in and beat each person sharply on the head and then withdrew. The others had similar stories—though some were actively demonstrating, many were simply attending
to their business when the troops indiscriminately began to beat them.

  Martha Huntley, a missionary who had lived in Kwangju for nearly fifteen years, reported:

  One man we knew, a businessman about thirty, was pulled off the bus he was riding (along with other youngish-looking people), and was kicked about the head so bad he lost an eye. Another young mother about the same age, thirty or early thirties, was taking her two children to Sunday school, was beaten and left unconscious on the sidewalk—she had to have stitches in her scalp and was incoherent for four months—her husband joined the students Sunday afternoon when they fought with the soldiers. No one knew what was happening or why.

  Early on May 21, after three days of indiscriminate attacks by special forces and increasingly large, passionate, and violent opposition from Kwangju residents, townspeople commandeered military vehicles and raided weapons dumps to seize pistols, rifles, and thousands of rounds of ammunition. After a pitched battle with the soldiers, a group of students set up a machine gun on the roof of a local hospital. When it became clear that their brutal tactics were not succeeding, the troops were withdrawn to the outskirts and sealed off the city.

  The following day, more than thirty thousand Kwangju people gathered in front of the provincial administration building, now controlled by protesters, to cheer demands that the troops stay out of town and that the government release all those in detention and pay compensation for the dead and wounded. Based on information supplied by the government, Gleysteen, in a cable to Washington, called the Kwangju events “a massive insurrection” that is “out of control and poses an alarming situation for the ROK military.”