[K-Pop's Broken Promises: When Idols Break the Hearts of Their Biggest Fans]

Many Koreans grew up with K-pop. While they were gravitating first toward one favorite group and then another, K-pop was expanding into a dominant genre in the global music industry and a cultural juggernaut often mentioned in the context of Korea’s national interest.

However, it remains unclear if people can continue to watch K-pop through such an idealized lens. Record companies prioritize profits, and supporters are tired of being exploited as free labor under the pretense of demonstrating loyalty. Additionally, the genre has faced several controversies and scandals.

In our feature series “K-pop: To Love or Let Go,” we will tackle questions that are as uncomfortable as they are essential and discuss ways to make K-pop more sustainable.

If I were to name the generation I most identify with, I would say that I am part of the “TVXQ-SJ-501” generation, referring to a group of three K-pop boy groups — TVXQ, Super Junior and SS501 — that made their debut in the early-to-mid 2000s and garnered much popularity.

In 2006, I became captivated by K-pop during an era when TVXQ consisted of five members and Super Junior boasted 13. At the elementary school I went to in South Chungcheong Province, many students fervently followed both groups. By sixth grade, I declared myself a dedicated fan of Donghae from Super Junior among my peers. That same year, SM Town—a supergroup featuring artists signed to SM Entertainment—released two studio albums. These remain so dear to me that I’ve often joked about wanting them buried with me upon my passing. Alongside fellow passionate K-pop supporters, we showcased our enthusiasm for Super Junior’s "Miracle" at our final elementary school talent show. It marked those golden years where loving K-pop felt like unrestrained joy—an experience now distant and almost nostalgic.

Investing your affection and effort into something can be quite challenging. Despite having completed a manuscript for a K-pop-focused newsletter recently and now composing an article on K-pop with f(x)'s "Love" playing in the background, I've begun experiencing a subtle pang somewhere deep inside every time I express enthusiasm for K-pop.

During the period when BoA evolved into a director at the same record company that launched her career at age 15, someone transitioned from being a "Jumping BoA" (BoA’s fanclub member) to becoming renowned as SHINee’s Key, watched another individual progress from attending an NCT 127 concert attendee to debuting as NCT Wish’s Ryo; meanwhile, I moved past my days as a starry-eyed elementary schooler obsessed with Donghae.

The youngster, captivated by all that SM Entertainment produced, evolved into a feminist and a worker amidst numerous trials and tribulations. Bearing the weight of life as an exhausted person, even when faced with multiple obstacles hindering my progress, I gained insight into several realities that had escaped me back in 2006.

The inherently exploitative character of the K-pop industry, which constantly urged fans to make hasty buys and lavish spending without restraint, all under false pretenses of stability—coupled with numerous scandals involving those very stars whom countless admirers idolized—I faced an arduous path despite having genuinely dedicated myself to this world. My connection to K-pop brought waves of remorse upon me; every time one of these celebrities fell from grace amid disgraceful revelations, I experienced a loss of liberty, feeling restricted in my ability to freely support anyone I chose.

My intense enthusiasm for K-pop turned into deep disillusionment, frustration, and skepticism. It seemed like a betrayal of the time and affection I had invested in it. This wasn’t just a rare experience for unlucky fans; my friends and I all shared this sinking sentiment as, gradually yet steadily, every one of our favorite artists acted in ways that broke our faith. Whether these incidents weren’t even worth mentioning in headlines or led to widespread unease within fan communities, we couldn’t escape them.

The realm of K-pop was never calm, and claiming to be a fan seemed akin to enduring my personal version of torment. No surprise then that I started viewing idols through indifferent eyes. There were so many groups whose actions I found unacceptable, which led me to stop engaging in my fandom altogether. (Oppa, can you hear me? Please... I implore you... Straighten up your life... Please.)

The Burning Sun scandal cast an enduring shadow over K-pop history; it reverberated through every K-pop fan community globally and beyond. When investigators looked into allegations of assaults at Burning Sun, a nightclub in Seoul’s Gangnam district, they uncovered evidence of drug smuggling, sexual offenses, illegal use of hidden cameras, distribution of non-consensual explicit content, and various other unlawful acts.

The case involved various household names — Seungri of Big Bang, Choi Jong-hoon of F.T. Island and Jung Joon-young of Superstar K fame. Evidence of the violence those men perpetrated against women made the rounds online. While so many people didn’t want to believe that their idols were capable of such monstrous behavior, people caught those same men roaming around the world and enjoying extravagant lives, never once expressing contrition or intent to keep a low profile.

In August 2024, news broke about NCT member Moon Tae-il’s indictment for sexually assaulting a woman who was incapacitated, an offense known as “quasi-rape” in Korea’s criminal code. SM Entertainment swiftly broke ties with him, but fans, who had no legal recourse for the damage they felt, had to live with the shock and despair that the news brought with it. Tae-il disappeared from the public eye without ever apologizing to the fans who had showered him with love and support.

Daily occurrences highlighted the societal disdain towards women in South Korea, even without involving prominent male figures—such as the misogynistic killing at Gangnam Station, the "Nth Room" incident of digital sex crimes, and newer instances of distributing non-consensual deepfakes. We were compelled to address our complex dynamics with male K-pop stars while simultaneously reflecting on coexisting with men as equals. It’s striking how downturns in global affairs often manifest in such painfully particular ways within our local contexts.

The relentless march of time brought sorrow that would never diminish. Certain sorrows intensify with each passing day. Two individuals indelibly imprinted upon me and my memories: Sulli and Goo Hara. These two professional performers faced constant objectification both onstage and offstage, perpetually subjected to the judgments and gazes of others. Bidding farewell to these two people whom I had never spoken to thrust me into an unfamiliar kind of grief. This experience led me to contemplate what it truly means to be a K-pop idol, the burdens associated with this role, and the personal struggles they likely endured. It made me reflect on the lives of those who confronted violence and suppression every single day—far later than when such reflection should have occurred.

Everything I could do was grieve. The burden of guilt feels like it permeates every aspect of who I am and how I live. My misconceptions regarding K-pop stars were shattered when I witnessed two individuals around my own age vanish from existence. In those moments, I recognized reflections of both myself and my peers. False claims and relentless belittlement, unsubstantiated rumors, unjust evaluations, invasive footage captured without permission, verbal mistreatment, sexual attacks, abusive relationships... such horrors that they shouldn’t endure continue to drive countless souls towards despair even now.

I'm still haunted by an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. There's a gnawing guilt within me, as though I played a part in perpetuating how things work in this industry. My thoughts endlessly cycle through scenarios where I wonder if I might have halted specific tragedies—if any fans could have—and if our involvement creates a dynamic where saving each other becomes unattainable. Distrust, irritation, despair, and defeat loom large over me. No one can truly prepare their heart for such occurrences. How many more tragic losses will I bear witness to throughout my life? How many deaths go unnoticed and undocumented? Given the unwelcoming nature of the world, some people even mock these unfortunate fatalities. Having experienced sorrow so profound that it indelibly marked both my psyche and physical being, I feel uncertain about falling into deep adoration for K-pop idols ever again.

Nevertheless, life seldom follows your desired path, and the experience as a devoted fan isn’t something readily erased from memory. What was my genuine wish? Following an extended hiatus from the realm of K-pop, I unexpectedly fell deeply in love again—this time captivated by a band of heroes battling a significant menace.

(Continued in Part 2.)

By Il Seok, a feminist who continues to adore K-pop even though it causes her significant distress, and is also the person behind the My Not-So-Objective K-pop Artist of the Month newsletter.

K-pop: To Love or Let Go is a series presented through the collaboration of The News Pulse with Women With K-pop and Field Fire.

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