Lawmakers gather in front of the National Assembly’s main building on Sept. 3 for an official group photo marking the second half of the 22nd National Assembly. By tradition, lawmakers take group photos twice during each four-year term: after the legislature is organized following a general election and again when the speakership and committee leadership change for the second half. Above the entrance are the words of Article 1, Paragraph 2 of the Constitution: “All state authority shall emanate from the people.”JOINT PRESS CORPS
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Kim Eun-mi
The author is a professor of communications at Seoul National University.
There is a widely known concept in the social sciences called the broken windows theory. If a single broken window in a neighborhood is left unrepaired, it sends a social signal that no one is in charge. People begin to learn that rules can be broken without consequence. According to the theory, when small violations are neglected, they can eventually change social norms about what is permitted and what is not.
Watching the controversy over the qualifications of the justice minister nominee, which drew public attention for several weeks, brought the theory to mind again. The issue cannot simply be considered closed because the nominee withdrew. From the Sung Wan-jong list — a 2015 political scandal sparked by a memo left by the late construction executive naming eight prominent politicians he claimed had received money from him — to lawmakers receiving various favors from agencies they oversee, allegations involving improper solicitation or conflicts of interest have repeatedly surfaced regardless of which party is in power.
The point here is not to determine whether the nominee’s conduct legally constituted improper solicitation. The concern is how lawmakers from the ruling party responded to what emerged. The Act on the Prevention of Corruption and the Establishment and Management of the Anti-Corruption and Civil Rights Commission defines corruption to include a public official abusing his position or authority, or violating laws, to seek benefits for himself or a third party. The nominee said his past conduct merely involved relaying a grievance petition. The ruling party defended it as a public-interest activity given the exceptional circumstances of the Covid-19 pandemic. Even as opposition outweighed support, the party leader publicly defended the nomination, saying it looked better the more he considered it.
One could reasonably argue that there was room to debate whether the conduct amounted to undue pressure, or that disputed facts warranted caution. But actively defining the conduct as serving the public interest is another matter. Protecting one’s own side may be a universal human tendency, but Korean politicians are too forgiving of one another. This is not about this case alone. Repeated controversies across parties show that broken windows can be more damaging when they appear in the National Assembly, among society’s elites, than in crime-prone neighborhoods. Such misplaced tolerance ultimately harms both politicians and the country.
The Improper Solicitation and Graft Act exempts from restrictions elected officials who relay third-party grievance petitions for public-interest purposes. The nominee, a lawyer, invoked that language in his defense. But without a sufficiently clear boundary around what constitutes a public-interest purpose, it is difficult to distinguish legitimate constituent service from improper influence exercised for particular interests.
The exception, written permissively in ways favorable to lawmakers, urgently needs revision. At minimum, criteria are needed to define the boundaries of public interest and legitimate petitioning. It may be impossible to completely prevent people with power or information from using it privately. But when the same pattern continues regardless of changes in government, the answer lies not only in individual morality but in fixing institutions. Yeouido’s broken windows remain unattended while the scope and controls governing solicitation exceptions remain undefined.
Korea also lacks a comprehensive lobbying disclosure law like that of the United States. The U.S. system requires lobbying to be recorded and electronically reported, making it possible to track who lobbied whom. Similar legislation has been considered several times in Korea, but concerns that it would create a legal channel for wealthy and well-connected people to seek favors have prevented its adoption. It is time to ask whether pretending lobbying does not exist simply because the law does not recognize it is really better. Korea should seriously consider bringing lobbying into the broader institutional framework through registration, record-keeping and disclosure requirements.
More important than any statutory provision is the signal society sends. If allegations about public officials are repeatedly obscured by partisan language, then passed over without adequate explanation or accountability, people will learn a formula: This is how one succeeds. If rule-breaking is repeatedly repackaged as public interest when committed by one’s own side, with little consequence, that lesson accumulates socially.
Norms are not learned only through schools or formal instruction. People learn what is rewarded and what is tolerated by watching others and society’s response. A society where bending the rules becomes a credential and a grammar of success is a frightening prospect. How long will we leave Yeouido’s broken windows unrepaired?
This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.
