At a small temple in a city park in Seoul, South Korea, Chung Soon-doek is the head shaman leading a daylong ritual called a “gut” in Korean.
She’s dressed in elaborate, bright-red silk robes and a tall hat adorned with red flowers. And she’s accompanied by several disciples, all of them shamans-in-training. They are part of an ancient religious tradition.
Mu-dang, the Korean word for female shaman, means “one who dances to the language of the gods.”
Chung said that a shaman is like an intermediary, someone who travels between the human world and the spirit world, and can help solve people’s problems that are created — or at least exacerbated by — the gods, ghosts or ornery ancestors.
“The gods speak through me,” Chung said, explaining that the drums are for waking up the spirit world, while the bells and cymbals are like an invitation to the gods.
For today’s gut ceremony, Chung was hired by a woman whose father-in-law recently had a stroke. The hope is that this ritual will help him recover. Koreans pay thousands of dollars for services like these. But even so, many dismiss shamanic practices and beliefs as superstition.
In fact, South Korea’s president, Yoon Suk-yeol — who has been impeached, imprisoned and indicted after declaring martial law in early December — has been criticized for his association with shamans.
During his presidential campaign, Yoon participated in a televised debate and viewers noticed that on the palm of his left hand was a mark — it was the Chinese character for “king.”
When asked about it, Yoon’s campaign said a supporter he’d met just prior to the debate actually wrote it, and Yoon was unable to wash it off. But the incident just provided fuel for his critics, who accused him of listening to kooky religious figures.
This president is hardly the first South Korean politician to be connected with these ancient polytheistic practices. And the truth is that people’s attitudes today toward shamans are complicated.
“Basically, the Korean people, they don’t want to reveal that they use shamanic services,” said Kim Dong-kyu, a research professor at Sogang University in Seoul.
Kim is an expert on Korean religions. He’s also married to Chung, the shaman who’s leading the gut — or shamanic ritual — here at the temple.
“I think it is because, like, there is an image of Korean shamans and shamanism deep inside Korean people’s mind that they are not trustable. However, in their everyday life, they go to shamans’ shrines and sometimes, they sponsor gut and rituals. So, that’s why I call it kind of an ambivalent aspect of Korean, modern Korean shamanism.”
During certain periods of history, Kim said that shamans were considered to be outcasts. When the Japanese ruled over Korea during the first half of the 20th century, these traditional holy men and women were seen as obstacles to modernization.
But today, shamans can easily be found offering up religious services on Instagram and Facebook. And in South Korean popular culture, shamans are kind of having a moment.
“Exhuma” is a Korean horror film about two young, attractive, modern-day shamans hired by a family to help cure their newborn son of a strange illness. It was South Korea’s top-earning movie last year.
Lee Song-jae said that he is not surprised that shamans are getting all kinds of attention these days.
He said that he heard the voices of gods speaking to him as a young man and he’s been a practicing shaman ever since.
Lee is now the head of an association of shamans with 300,000 members across the country.
Lee said that “the way of the shaman is in the Korean people’s DNA.”
He said that all kinds of people come to ask for his help.
As for the president appearing on TV with the character for king on his palm, Lee said that a more experienced shaman would have suggested being a bit more subtle about inviting godly intervention for political purposes.