Recently, the people of South Korea — as a collective — were nominated for the 2026 Nobel Peace Prize for their resistance against the threat of a military regime. It was a “Revolution of Light” as the nominators called it. In the late night of December 3rd, 2024, President Yoon Suk-yeol declared martial law, suspending civil liberties and transferring power to the military. Within hours of that announcement, thousands of ordinary citizens gathered in front of the National Assembly in Seoul to resist soldiers guarding the building, allowing senators to enter and nullify the declaration. What brought them there wasn’t heroism. It was a sense of empathy and the spirit of Non Sibi that stretched across generations, distance, and time.
South Korea’s modern history of three-decade-long military regimes carries deep cultural trauma. For many, “martial law” is not a simple power of the president in times of crises but a vivid memory of soldiers in the streets and a violent suppression of democratic movements, most evidently experienced in the Gwangju Massacre in 1980. The cost of losing democracy is remembered by the public as common knowledge. For many who gathered in the streets that night, their protest meant confronting the possibility that history could repeat itself.
However, the trauma also provoked a sense of responsibility: they were the generation that could stop a second chain of military regimes. Remembrance of the pain of the past gave citizens a sense of duty to prevent their children and grandchildren from living through such oppressive times. This belief fueled courage and let them face authority even under pressure.
Empathy between the citizens and soldiers also changed how the protest unfolded. Without empathy, it wouldn’t have been difficult for the citizens’ sense of threat to turn into anger towards the soldiers ordered to enforce the martial law; when anger begins to flow between protesters and soldiers, the results often result in tragic casualties. Yet that escalation did not occur. Instead of treating the soldiers as enemies, many citizens chose to see them as young men forced to carry out orders given by their superiors. Some protesters who themselves had completed mandatory military service spoke to the special forces standing outside government buildings, reminding them of their responsibility to protect the people. In moments where shouting might have been easier, they chose conversation. In a setting primed for confrontation, they practiced recognition.
Empathy was not only in the streets, but also in acts miles away. As the sun began to set over the East Coast, Korean communities across the United States watched the live news from Seoul. Despite the thirteen-hour gap, Koreans outside their home country began contacting cafés near the Assembly and in Gwanghwamun. They prepaid drinks for strangers standing in the freezing night. What began as dozens of cups quickly grew into hundreds, then thousands. Donations accumulated to the point that most nearby coffee shops were effectively opened for citizens.
After the eventual lifting of the martial law, some policemen and soldiers enforcing the order were seen apologizing to the citizens. The gesture was brief, but it sent a clear message that despite being on the other side of the barricades, they were unified by the cause to maintain democracy and prevent a dictatorship.
This caring for one another for a common goal reminded me of Andover’s value of Non Sibi.
Non Sibi — not for oneself — is often spoken of in classrooms and assemblies as an ideal of service and leadership and a core value of the Andover community. That night in Seoul revealed what the phrase truly means. It is not simply volunteering when convenient or supporting a cause from a distance. It is the discipline to think beyond oneself when fear encourages retreat. It is the ability to see those who stand across from us and recognize their humanity, not with animosity. It is the willingness to act, whether by standing in the cold or by buying a stranger a warm drink, for something larger than personal comfort. In that sense, Non Sibi is easy to say and hard to follow. It was not easy for those in Seoul. It was cold, fearful, and uncertain. Choosing the other person required neglecting the comfort of silence, the safety of the crowd, or the convenience of looking away. They only had the memory of what it meant to lose something precious, and enough empathy to act before it was gone. Perhaps that is why a collective nomination makes sense — not because of the nation’s eventual triumph, but because of how its citizens chose empathy when escalation was easier.
