Service in South Korea, whether in the military or government, is regrettably not the time-honored tradition it once was. But declining interest in military service is not just an issue of recruitment numbers or personnel management. It is a symptom of a far deeper fracture – one that has eroded trust between South Korea’s military and civilian population and now threatens the very cohesion of the nation.
At the heart of this crisis is South Korea’s failure to build a shared civil-military identity, leaving the armed forces an isolated institution rather than an integrated part of national life. The result? A widening chasm between those who serve and those who do not, and a public that increasingly views military service as an obligation to be avoided rather than a duty to be embraced.
This is not just conjecture. A 2018 study found that 82 percent of men in their 20s stated that military service should be avoided, with 74 percent stating that military service results in more losses than gains. Is it any surprise that by 2023, 9,481 officers and non-commissioned officers (NCOs) with over five years of service left the military, a 24 percent increase from the previous year, or that applications for the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) are cratering? South Korea’s civil service has experienced a similar exodus, where early resignations are soaring. In 2021, 3,123 government employees quit in their first year, triple the number in 2018.
But declining enlistment numbers and government resignations are only the symptoms of a deeper issue. At its core, South Korea’s model of military service has failed to act as a bridge between the military and society, instead reinforcing divisions that now threaten political stability itself.
The Widening Divide
From the moment of its creation, the Sixth Republic of South Korea – born out of the tumultuous “June Struggle” of 1987 – was always bound to confront deep and possibly ruinous identity crises. Its foundation rested on fragile ground, shaped by decades of military rule, ideological struggle, and the weight of the five contentious republics that came before it. Geography only compounded these vulnerabilities, placing a divided nation in the shadow of an existential threat.
Over the past 38 years, South Koreans have seen three former presidents imprisoned, and another take his own life to avoid possibly becoming the fourth. The impeachment and arrest of President Yoon Suk-yeol made him the fifth president to spend time behind bars – and the first to be detained while still in office.
The polarization of the country’s civil and military spheres, each entrenched in opposing ideological camps, did not merely predict these crises – it all but ensured them. The imprisonment of nearly two-thirds of the nation’s democratically elected leaders was not an aberration but a symptom of a deeper fracture.
In that context, the sight of military helicopters descending upon the National Assembly last December represented the culmination of the decades-long polarization of the civil and military spheres, each aligned with opposing ideological factions, and the unraveling of civil-military trust.
For a country that has experienced a decades-long decline in the desirability of military service and OECD-record-low levels of societal trust in government institutions, a more nuanced look is needed to understand how the civil and military poles drifted so far apart. The answer may partly lie in examining South Korea’s Cold War-era model of military service, one that clearly differentiates between the reluctant conscript and a mostly Korea Military Academy-dominated officer corps, and the absence of a modern military reserve system to help bridge the civil-military divide.
South Korea’s Malaise Militaire
As it entered its democratic era, South Korea ignored one of the most important aspects of civil-military relations – societal representation and the development of shared values and norms between the military and civilian world. Instead, South Korea’s redress focused on structural top-end changes in command structures, service exemptions, and technological modernization. This was tantamount to renovating a building to give it a sleek, modern look while leaving the crumbling foundation untouched.
Nowhere was this more evident than in South Korea’s rigid, Cold War-era military caste system, where military service was seen as an obligation to endure, not an institution that fostered national unity. What was missing was a model of service that could create meaningful linkages between the civil and military spheres, a system where military experience was not just a burden to be carried but a foundation upon which individuals could build their future. More importantly, it lacked the space for critical reflection on “what is going on” between the military and the society it serves.
Declining ROTC applications tell part of the story. Compared to 2016, when ROTC programs received 16,000 applications, only 5,000 applied in 2023. As for the 2023 exodus of 9,481 officers and NCOs, many were ROTC officers who no longer see a career in the military as worthwhile, especially when upward advancement is limited. This was the result of a deeply entrenched system in which conscripts feel little investment, academy graduates dominate leadership positions, and there is no mechanism to bridge the divide between service and society.
The consequences of this structure are quantifiable. A 2014 study found that Korea Military Academy graduates had a promotion rate to lieutenant colonel of 78 percent, while their ROTC counterparts accounted for just 12 percent over the same period. The authors of the study concluded that “South Korea’s fragmented military education system will increase the likelihood of within-group cooperation at the expense of between-group cooperation.” The same observation could just as easily apply to the nation’s broader civil-military divide.
Fixing Service in South Korea
Other nations have avoided this fate by building strong military reserve models that foster both credible deterrence and civil-military integration. Countries with well-resourced reserve models – where reservists train upwards of 40 days per year – offer not only a credible response at scale in a national crisis but also foster a strong national identity of service.
Singapore is a case in point. Some 98 percent of Singaporeans have a positive perception of National Service (NS), and some 88 percent of Singaporeans would encourage loved ones to serve even if it was not compulsory. Such numbers are unthinkable in South Korea, where military service is not an embedded civic duty, but an isolated obligation divorced from civilian life.
Singapore’s model – and similar systems in Switzerland, Finland, Ukraine, and Israel – demonstrate that to foster a desire to serve, military service must come with both material and symbolic rewards. When service provides convertibility – allowing individuals to translate military experience into meaningful social, educational, or economic benefits – it stops being viewed as a burden and instead becomes a bridge. Reserve-centric military models offer something South Korea lacks – a two-way channel where values flow between the military and civil society. In doing so, they don’t just strengthen deterrence; they fortify the very bonds that make national defense a collective responsibility rather than an isolated duty.
Conclusion
In “The Collapse of the Third Republic: An Inquiry into the Fall of France in 1940,” William Shirer wrote that “an army can rarely be stronger than the country it serves.” Maintaining a strong military and a resilient society will be paramount to South Korea over the coming years. It is a strength predicated on first mending the deep fractures in civil-military relations.
By adopting a system of service that builds trust between its citizens and soldiers, South Korea can make national service the highly sought-after career path it once was and provide the people of South Korea with a better understanding of what is needed to achieve a gukga gaejo or “national overhaul” in civil-military relations.