By Dr Jonghwa Lee
In the early 1970s, my family left the port city of Yeosu and moved to Seongnam—a hastily assembled satellite city outside Seoul, built to relocate those displaced by urban redevelopment. The promise of a “new town” quickly dissolved into the reality of unpaved mud roads, makeshift housing, and water shortages. I still remember waiting in line for hours to fill buckets at public pumps, and watching black-and-white dramas in comic book rental shops.
It was in this backdrop of hardship that I spent my youth, unknowingly sharing a neighbourhood with another boy who would come to symbolise both resilience and reform in South Korean politics—Lee Jae-myung.
Lee moved with his family to the slums of Sanggye-dong in Seongnam in 1976. While I pursued a military career after the loss of my father, Lee was thrust into the workforce as a child labourer in a local factory. Education was a privilege we could hardly imagine in Seongnam then—yet somehow, through the exhaustion of 12-hour shifts, he studied. He passed the national equivalency exam through self-study and was admitted to the law school at Chung-Ang University on a full scholarship. It was not just the triumph of intellect—it was a testament to unyielding will.
What struck me most, though, was his decision to give up that scholarship to pay his brother’s tuition. This wasn’t charity born from success—it was an act of instinctive kindness in the face of shared poverty. And yet, in a cruel turn, it was this very brother’s family who would later malign and betray him. I saw in Lee both the depth of his compassion and the sting of human selfishness.
In 2012, having completed my public service career, I returned to Seongnam and watched Lee Jae-myung’s mayoral tenure up close. There were murmurs of people trying to gain favour through his estranged brother, but none succeeded. Lee evaluated solely on merit, not connections. His administration introduced a culture shock—one based not on loyalty or lineage, but on performance and principle.
I saw that dedication most clearly on snowy nights. Seongnam’s hills are treacherous in winter, yet its roads were always cleared by morning. Why? Because the mayor himself coordinated snow removal throughout the night. He wasn’t just a bureaucrat—he was someone who felt the burdens of the people.
When he declared a municipal debt moratorium immediately upon taking office, I was taken aback. It was a bold, risky move under the Lee Myung-bak government, and he soon became a target. Dozens of raids and investigations followed. None unearthed any wrongdoing. Lee’s political survival depended on remaining not just honest—but unimpeachably so. In that way, he resembled figures like Kim Dae-jung, hardened in the fire of scrutiny and resistance.
Lee speaks often of creating a “real Korea”—a just and equal society not beholden to dynasties or backroom deals. It’s not a campaign slogan. It’s a mission born of lived experience. Today’s Korea faces the structural hangovers of authoritarianism: entrenched elites, patriarchal norms, and stagnant hierarchies. But we’ve also seen people-powered transformation—from Donghak and April 19, to Gwangju and the Candlelight Revolution.
Now, once again, we are at the threshold. And Lee Jae-myung is the one prepared to step through.
His story is not without hardship, nor is it perfect. But it is real. He did not abandon the vulnerable. He did not submit to power. His humanity, competence, and incorruptibility are rare in public life—and sorely needed.
And I, as one who walked those hills and lived that same poverty, have borne witness to every step of his remarkable journey.
Author: Dr Jonghwa Lee,President, Korean Society for Social Safety and Criminology
