The first time I saw a protest in Seoul, I expected chaos. Back home, a protest meant something specific: shouting matches, riot shields, streets that emptied fast. So when I turned a corner near Gwanghwamun on a Saturday afternoon and found myself facing a crowd that filled the square end to end, my first instinct was to leave. Instead, I stayed and watched. Rows of police stood beside the crowd, almost like an escort, not against it. Nobody threw anything. Nobody ran. Families with children stood near the front. I remember thinking: Where is the part I'm supposed to be afraid of? Months later, walking behind the central library on my own campus, I found myself on a path students call "Democratization Road." Halfway along it stands a modest bust I had passed a dozen times without seeing it. It commemorates Park Jong-cheol, a student who was tortured to death by police in 1987. That night, I read everything I could find about him, unable to stop thinking that this quiet stretch of pavement marked a nation's turning point. Weeks after Park's death, another student, Lee Han-yeol, was struc