Dear Curious Minds,
It’s Wednesday, and again; I cannot title this as ‘Curiosity Bites’ as it’s far from a bite-size. I woke up to my birth country of South Korea being on every international headlines. For reasons that seems surreal yet predictable with its dissent towards fascism. Thank you for being here to dive into my thoughts about that turmoil, I appreciate you.
“Shit can always get worse.”
This is my life’s mantra.
If I don’t give you any context, how you gauge my intent behind that phrase might depend on what feels more familiar to you.
Does it feel like Optimism?:
If you’re using this phrase to remind yourself that things haven’t hit rock bottom and there’s still room for gratitude or hope, then yes, it’s a form of optimism. It’s similar to saying, “Hey, at least it’s not the absolute worst-case scenario,” which can help you reframe challenges with resilience.
In behavioural science, this ties to counterfactual thinking, where we compare our current reality to worse outcomes, which makes us feel better about our situation.
Example:
A missed deadline feels less catastrophic when you realise, “Well, at least I’m not being chased by a velociraptor while trying to finish this spreadsheet.”
Does it read like Avoidance?:
If this feels like a way to sidestep processing difficult emotions or addressing a problem directly, it might lean toward avoidance. It’s like slapping a darkly humorous plaster over a bleeding wound that needs hundreds of stitches. In this case, it’s not optimism or pessimism but a kind of deflection; a way to avoid dwelling on pain or vulnerability.
Example:
You know you’re deeply unhappy in your job, but instead of making a change, you think, “Well, it could be worse. I could be unemployed,” and continue in a toxic situation. PSA: Please rescue yourself first. Some environments are too toxic for your rescue, and unless your body is made of plastic or steel, your body and mind will give you a big ‘NO MORE’ at some point.
Are you in ‘Nah, this is Pessimism’ boat?:
If the phrase comes with an underlying belief that bad things are inevitable and it’s futile to expect improvement, then it veers toward pessimism. In this sense, it’s a self-protective mechanism, setting your expectations low so you’re never disappointed. This mindset can sometimes be comforting but might also prevent you from embracing joy or taking risks.
Example:
Someone offers you an exciting opportunity, but you think, “What’s the point? Even if I take it, something will go wrong.”
A Fourth Option: Realism with Humour
Perhaps your mantra isn’t any of these in isolation, but a pragmatic acknowledgment of life’s unpredictability wrapped in humour. Life can always get worse but recognising that truth doesn’t mean you’re resigned to it. It means you’re aware of the spectrum of human experience and can laugh (pretty dryly) at its absurdity. This is my usual intent with that mantra.
Example:
After a rough day, you think, “Well, at least I didn’t accidentally reply-all on that passive-aggressive email.” I believe there is tinge of difference between this and avoidance. It’s balance. You’re bracing for chaos but still standing in the midst of it.
Fear, Memory, and the Unfinished Struggle for Democracy
South Korea went there last night.
A place many considered is beyond the ‘worst possible case scenario’.
The South Korean president’s overnight announcement of martial law feels like a surreal collision of history and the present.
Less than a month after Han Kang won the Nobel Prize in Literature. She is the youngest winner in that category in almost 40 years and a first for South Korea. Her work, including the masterpiece ‘Human Acts’, is consistently inspired or “haunted by” Gwangju Uprising in 1980. 80s was the last time South Koreans lived under martial law.
The spectre of authoritarian violence against democracy once again loomed over South Korea. The announcement was swiftly and unanimously rejected by all 190 parliamentarians under emergency settings, including the president’s own party. The public is igniting calls for the president’s arrest.
The public response is not just a reaction to political overreach but an eruption of unresolved trauma. The 80s life under martial law under dictator Chun Doo-hwan led to the massacre of thousands, including children and pregnant women. Chun wielded fear of communist infiltration as his weapon of choice, using propaganda to justify atrocities while consolidating power. It’s no surprise, then, that this announcement felt like an alarm bell; one resonating deeply within the nation's psyche.
But let’s pull back for a moment. This isn’t just a story about a president’s overreach or a parliament’s rare moment of unified resistance.
It’s a story about fear.
About how fear, deliberately stoked by those in power, can hijack critical thinking. It consolidates control and fracture societies.
It’s also about the long shadow that fear casts across generations, shaping decisions, identities, and loyalties in ways that ripple far beyond a single political moment.
Fear as a Political Lever
Behavioural science teaches us that fear is one of the most potent motivators. It bypasses our perception of ‘rational thinking’ and taps into the most primal parts of our brain.
Survival.
Political leaders throughout history have leveraged this to consolidate power, creating narratives of external or internal threats to justify extraordinary measures and violence. In South Korea’s case, the spectre of “communist spies” has long been a tool to suppress dissent and justify authoritarianism.
Fear thrives in uncertainty. It creates an "Us versus Them" dichotomy, reducing complex social and political issues into simplistic, binary choices. Are you with us or against us? Are you loyal or a traitor? These frames shut down debate, leaving little room for nuance or reflection. When the stakes feel existential (i.e. when the rhetoric suggests that a nation's very survival is at risk), people are more likely to accept the erosion of freedom in exchange for perceived security.
The Long Tail of Trauma
For South Korea, the fear leveraged by Chun Doo-hwan’s regime didn’t end with his departure. He lived into his nineties, wealthy and unrepentant, while the survivors of Gwangju and their descendants carried the weight of what was never fully reckoned with.
Trauma like this doesn’t remain locked in history books; it embeds itself in the cultural and collective consciousness.
As an 80s child with stories of Gwangju whispered in the background and whose decision to hold onto South Korean citizenship really confounds my family in New Zealand, I see this trauma in stark relief.
My grandparents and parents, first-generation migrants to New Zealand, view citizenship as a bulwark against insecurity, a shield against the political tides that could one day render them stateless. Their perspective is shaped by a lifetime of watching systems, excluding those who are not the "flavour of the month."
Their fear is rational, rooted in lived experience. My rationale, perhaps, less ‘rational’. Or at least too idealistic according to them. As South Korea doesn’t allow dual citizenship for the likes of me who migrated to another country after birth, I cling to my South Korean citizenship because of a debt I feel to the teenagers who died demanding democracy. It’s a visceral connection to a right they never fully lived to exercise. To me, being able to vote in Korean elections is not just a civic act; it’s an act of remembrance, a way to honour their sacrifice.
Heck, maybe it’s just my neurospicy brain hyperfixating on that sense of debt far longer than others might deem necessary. But it’s also likely because I feel enough security in belonging to Aotearoa with permanent residency. My job status and level of integration here act as a kind of social armour. Protection that my older family members, shaped by different experiences and vulnerabilities, haven’t had the luxury to rely on.
The Silent Majority and the Danger of Complacency
One of the most haunting lessons from South Korea’s authoritarian past is the complicity of the silent majority.
Behavioural science also sheds light here: people are more likely to conform to the perceived consensus, especially in high-stakes situations. This phenomenon, known as social proof, can explain why so many remained passive as neighbours, classmates, and friends disappeared or were killed.
This is why fear-based politics are so dangerous.
They don’t just provoke action among the fearful; they also paralyse those who might otherwise resist. The silent majority becomes an accomplice, not through malice but through inertia.
A Tale of Two Futures
South Korea's parliament's rejection of martial law across all party lines is a glimmer of hope. It’s a sign that the democratic institutions those teenagers fought for in the 1980s are not entirely hollow. The public’s call for accountability and the collective outrage show that the trauma of Gwangju is still raw. It’s a reminder that democracy is not a destination but an ongoing struggle that requires vigilance, participation, and collective memory.
For those of us in diasporas, straddling nations and identities, these moments force introspection. My decision to remain a South Korean citizen while building a life in New Zealand reflects not just a personal choice but a tension between safety and responsibility, fear and hope.
Perhaps this is the ultimate lesson from both behavioural science and history: fear will always be a part of the human experience. But it’s what we do with that fear. It’s how we resist its pull toward division and channel it into courage that determines the kind of society we create.
In the end, democracy isn’t just a system. It’s a verb. A promise. One that must be kept alive not only in the institutions of government but in the hearts and actions of the people it serves.