SEOUL, South Korea — Yoon Suk Yeol, the former president who tried to impose martial law upon South Korea in December 2024, was sentenced Thursday by the Seoul District Court to life imprisonment for the insurrection.
He denies the charge and has a week to appeal Thursday’s verdict. But judging by past pardons granted to a long line of jailed Korean ex-presidents, the 65-year-old looks unlikely to see out his days behind bars.
Yoon’s backward-looking political maneuver misjudged the mood of the public, of politicians, and even of elite commandos. It raised brief questions over the solidity of Korean democracy — questions which were swiftly answered.
As of now, it has left his conservative People Power Party massively disempowered.
Decimated in the National Assembly, booted from the presidential office — and perhaps fated to lose influence in judicial circles — the PPP’s future is murky.
That grants progressive President Lee Jae-myung and his Democratic Party of Korea a free run for the next two to four years, minimum.
A backward-looking ploy
Yoon was a sitting, elected president when he declared martial law, but justices latched onto the crime of insurrection to judge what is widely considered to be an anti-constitutional auto-coup.
Though prosecutors sought the death penalty, the judge, in a ruling aired live on TV, handed down life imprisonment. He said that Yoon had “resorted to violent means to try to incapacitate the National Assembly and undermine democratic norms.”
The then-president’s extreme tactic was enacted amid dire ratings, a bitter battle against opposition obstructionism and concerns over electoral compromise. On Dec. 3, 2024, Yoon, citing shadowy “anti-state forces” at work, declared martial law on live TV.
Strictures included a halt to political activity and free reporting. Commandos deployed to the National Assembly and the National Electoral Commission.
Their mission at the latter was to jailbreak systems and probe suspicions of election rigging. Their task at the former was to prevent lawmakers rallying, forming a quorum, and voting down martial law.
In robustly democratic South Korea, memories of the pre-1987 days of authoritarian rule, when generals-turned-presidents used martial law as a tool of oppression, were triggered.
Furious crowds massed outside the Assembly, diverting police and troops as lawmakers sought entry. Commandos proved unwilling to fire — or even deploy boots or fists — against citizens; some even apologized.
Inside the chamber, lawmakers — including a handful from Yoon’s own party — voted down martial law within three hours of its issuance.
What is today dubbed the “123 Coup,” after its date, had fizzled.
Yoon officially withdrew martial law after just six hours, stepped down and was impeached. Following a standoff between his security detail and prosecutors and police, he was moved to a detention center in January 2025 to stand trial.
Some say lawmakers and protesters are not the only ones who deserve credit for democracy’s preservation.
“That stupid guy!” said “L,” a 60-something businessman who spoke on condition of anonymity, of Yoon. “Military forces are for defense, for safeguarding, not for attacking the National Assembly.”
As a young man, “L” deployed with special forces to the city of Gwangju in 1980, tasked with suppressing pro-democracy protests. Carnage ensued: Some 200 civilians died in an incident that left a scar on South Korea’s — and “L’s” — consciousness.
“When I was in special forces, only 10% were graduates; today, it’s more like 80%,” he said. “Martial law does not work.”
Quo vadis, Korean conservatism?
Yoon’s conservative PPP is crippled. The liberal DPK, led by President Lee Jae-myung, who won the June 2025 election that Yoon’s impeachment necessitated, holds both the presidency and the chamber.
The next assembly elections are set for 2028, the next presidential election for 2030.
Conservatives fear the DPK aims to expand the Supreme Court with a bench of chosen appointees, taking control of the judiciary as well as the polity.
The PPP is riven, having ejected its former chairman, who voted to overthrow martial law. That points to its vexed relationship with the military regimes of the past.
“Since democratization, the party has never really established a philosophical position for what it represents,” said Michael Breen, author of “The New Koreans.” “The slur against it was that it was the child of dictatorship, and it has not got away from that to establish a clear identity.”
Its polling is dire.
A February poll of polls found the PPP trailing the DPK in all age groups, including the PPP’s traditional support base of persons in their 60s and 70s. The most recent opinion survey by Realmeter found the PPP’s numbers at 36.1% in February, compared to 44.8% for the DPK.
“Korea is considered a standout, feisty democracy, as the opposition often wins presidential elections,” Mr. Breen continued. “This is the kind of situation where the opposition party could be almost permanently demobilized.”
With the party humbled, conservatives, veterans and Christian groups have hit the streets to express support for Mr. Yoon and displeasure with Mr. Lee.
Some were outside Seoul District Court on Thursday, but the mass and energy they displayed in the dramatic weeks following martial law, when Yoon’s impeachment and imprisonment were in play, have shrunk.
However, the author of the party’s misfortunes is unlikely to die in prison.
Since the country democratized in 1987, not a single jailed former president has served his or her full term: All have been granted presidential pardons.
The prosecutor-president who turned the clock back
Yoon was an odd choice for the PPP’s 2022 presidential candidate: He had zero political experience.
A chief prosecutor, he oversaw investigations into former conservative president, Park Geun-hye, who was jailed for over three decades on corruption and abuse-of-power raps.
With that done, the then-liberal administration pivoted to prosecution reform. To some surprise, Yoon resisted strongly, forcing the resignation of two powerful justice ministers.
His warrior ways led the PPP to woo him — successfully. In 2022, Yoon won the presidential election — albeit by just 0.73% — for the party.
In office, to surprise and approval in Tokyo and Washington, he reversed the previous administration’s anti-Japan posture, bogged down in long-held historical animosities.
But at home, declined to communicate with the opposition and was plagued by low ratings.
He faced serious obstruction in the opposition-controlled Assembly, with a record number of impeachments of his appointees, and blocks on his government’s proposed budget.
He deployed his presidential veto to nix assembly probes into his despised wife, Kim Keon-hee, widely believed to be corrupt.
Meanwhile, allegations of electoral interference were gaining traction within South Korea’s hard right — and within Yoon’s mind.
He decided to handle this tranche of problems — belief in electoral malfeasance, frustration at the opposition — with radical action.
His botched martial law attempt left persons other than just Yoon in Mr. Lee’s crosshairs, while giving him the excuse for harsh action.
Mr. Lee has unleashed an unprecedented range of probes into Yoon’s administration, using special prosecutors, prosecutors, police and military police.
In addition to Ms. Kim, the wide net cast has captured figures including Yoon’s defense minister, his prime minister and even a handful of religious leaders.
“I think the DPK is really trying to all-out destroy the opposition,” said Mr. Breen
• Andrew Salmon can be reached at asalmon@washingtontimes.com.
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