On Saturday, an estimated 100,000 people flocked to celebrate Halloween in Itaewon, a popular entertainment district in Seoul. The government loosened crowd limits last November, and this was the first big holiday without face mask requirements.
But the local streets and safety protocols could not handle the crowds. As partygoers struggled to move through the narrow streets, pedestrian bottlenecks became a deadly crush. Local first responders and police could not easily reach those who needed help, or keep up with the sheer number of injured.
As of early Tuesday, authorities had reported 155 deaths and more than 150 injured. Was this tragedy preventable? Why did local authorities seem unequipped to respond to the thousands of revelers on one of Seoul’s busiest party nights of the year?
My research suggests that the district’s history as an enclave for foreigners may have compounded the disorganization. First, Seoul’s programs for immigrant-majority areas focus on short-term social and workplace supports, not long-term integration. And second, the Itaewon district’s history and the huge U.S. military base a few blocks away may have limited the municipal government’s attention to sustained safety and security measures. While the Korean government provides the human capacity and resources for public safety at the national level, local variations in safety protocols and other public services probably intensified the crowding, confusion and lack of coordination.
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Why Itaewon?
It’s particularly significant that the crush unfolded in Itaewon. While Koreans like to visit this area, a sizable number of Itaewon residents are immigrants. The district is popular among foreigners working in South Korea: Americans, Europeans, South Asians, Africans and those from the Middle East. Short- and long-term immigrants, especially unregistered migrants or foreigners who overstay their visas, find Itaewon’s cheap, short-term housing appealing. The most recent (pre-pandemic) census shows foreigners and immigrants comprise 9 percent of the residents of the broader Yongsan District, which includes Itaewon. Nationwide, immigrants comprise just 3 percent of Korean residents.
Government officials and advisers I interviewed noted that the government tends to view immigrants as temporary residents — and this may have created lapses in emergency response preparedness in immigrant neighborhoods like Itaewon. In my analysis of 17 local Global Village Centers across the city of Seoul, I found legal and safety services focus on public welfare and post-incident response, rather than preventative planning for emergencies. According to the local administrators I spoke with, public services in these districts provide translation services, job-finding fairs and cultural events, but focus less on long-term integration or safety programs.
When I worked as a field researcher for the International Organization for Migration Research and Training Center in 2012, the Korean government commissioned research on foreigners’ opinions on public provisions in “ethnic enclaves” across Seoul. My interviews with dozens of Itaewon residents and city employees specifically reported their complaints about public service shortcomings, including social services, information about the law and public safety.
The U.S. military presence in Korea since the 1950s also helped shape how the government allocated public safety and policing in this part of Seoul. Itaewon nightclubs and businesses catered to U.S. military personnel stationed at Yongsan Garrison, which housed around 17,000 U.S. service members as well as U.S. diplomats.
The garrison largely emptied by the end of 2019, when it relocated southwest of Seoul. Nevertheless, Itaewon maintains its historical legacy as a “foreigner entertainment district,” and the three main commercial streets rely on outside shoppers and partygoers. Bars, clubs and shops, along with small local services aimed at immigrants living there, were hard-hit by the pandemic lockdowns.
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These demographic legacies have implications on how local authorities provide for public safety. Until Yongsan Garrison moved, the Korean police and U.S. military police had been in charge of public safety, tasked with making sure U.S. GIs followed local laws and curfews. Rather than address crowd control in the congested, narrow streets packed with bars, the public safety system focused on isolated incidents of visible violence.
The incident is particularly tragic since South Korea has robust protocols in place for crowd control. However, most of these protocols focus on political protest in this vibrant democracy. On any given day in Gwanghwamun Square — the historical locus of political demonstration — hundreds of police and “bus walls” stand vigilant while patrol officers walk in pairs.
Since democratization in 1987, protests in South Korea have been overwhelmingly peaceful. Even the largest and most contentious protests were nonviolent, such as the 2008 demonstrations against the Korea-U. S. Free Trade Agreement or the 2016 multiweek protests that led to the impeachment of President Park Geun-hye. But for social or entertainment spaces, the national and local governments lack clear crowd-control design and assign few public safety officials to monitor and assist. A 2017 Ministry of the Interior and Safety report uncovered insufficient laws, infrastructure or protocols to protect public safety in concert or entertainment spaces, for example.
In Itaewon, the lack of planning for large crowds played out in dramatic fashion. One person on the ground in Itaewon described the situation as “post-apocalyptic,” with civilians — not medical personnel — taking on the responsibilities of first responders.
The public seeks answers
This tragedy is likely to serve as a pivotal moment in which the Korean public will demand government accountability and new measures to confront the cracks in public safety and infrastructure. Saturday’s deadly crush has striking similarities to the “Katrina-like reckoning” when the Sewol passenger ferry sank off the South Korean coast in 2014, killing 300 schoolchildren. After that disaster, public outcries and an organized protest movement instigated deep scrutiny into the lack of oversight of the Korean Coast Guard and the government’s failure to fully investigate the tragedy.
The Itaewon tragedy has already sparked global conversations on Korea’s public safety protocols. As the film “Parasite” brought to international attention, Korean society includes layers of unprotected, even invisible, residents. Korean citizens are likely to demand accountability from the national government, asking why local officials didn’t follow through on implementing existing safety protocols and building regulations.
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The incident will also lead to further investigations into how entertainment and social spaces are regulated. The public will probably call for more thoughtful protocols on public spaces, particularly when it comes to updating and modernizing public infrastructure and planning new construction.
Will deepening partisanship and disapproval of President Yoon Suk-yeol turn the Itaewon catastrophe into a political football, similar to the scenario following the Sewol incident? It’s possible politicians might use this tragedy for political purposes, and scapegoat public officials — rather than prioritizing the necessary policy changes to mitigate future incidents.
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Darcie Draudt, PhD (@darciedraudt) is a postdoctoral research associate at the Princeton School of Public and International Affairs. She also holds nonresident fellowships at George Washington University Institute for Korean Studies, the Korea Economic Institute and the National Bureau of Asian Research.