Why ‘True Education’ strikes a nerve

Ahn Hai-ri

The author is an editorial writer at the JoongAng Ilbo 

Despite its Korean title, “Cham Gyoyuk” — literally meaning “True Education” — Netflix’s "Teach You a Lesson" is not really about education.

That was my conclusion after watching the drama, which has quickly become a global hit. According to FlixPatrol rankings on Tuesday, it rose to No. 3 among global TV shows and No. 1 among non-English-language series shortly after its release on Friday. The series follows inspectors from a fictional Bureau for the Protection of Teachers’ Rights under the Ministry of Education who confront violence, gambling, drugs and other forms of corruption inside and outside schools. Its appeal lies in its direct and often cathartic punishment of wrongdoing.

Yet the drama’s true target is not educational policy. It is the hypocrisy of adults in positions of power who ruin innocent lives in pursuit of their own interests and then respond not with remorse but with excuses and self-pity.

The villains change from episode to episode, but they share a common trait. They are adults who fail to behave like adults.

There is the principal who abandons students in order to protect his position. There is a presidential candidate who seeks to conceal his child’s school violence case while promoting himself as a champion of decency. Another leading candidate shows more interest in political advantage than solving real problems, using rhetoric to obstruct those attempting reform. There are teachers who present themselves as role models while discriminating against students, parents willing to sacrifice young educators for their own children’s benefit and lawyers who transform perpetrators into victims.

The specific characters differ, but the message remains consistent: The greatest threat to children often comes from adults who refuse to take responsibility for their actions.

That theme helps explain why the drama resonates with many young Koreans, particularly those in their 20s and 30s who have recently taken to the streets in the Jamsil area of Songpa District, southern Seoul, following allegations of voting rights violations during the June 3 local elections.

The connection may not seem obvious at first. One is a television drama and the other a political controversy. Yet both reflect anger toward what many younger citizens view as the double standards of older generations.

One scene is especially revealing. A leading presidential candidate faces exposure after attempting to cover up a school violence case involving his son. As additional misconduct comes to light, he confronts Education Minister Choi Kang-seok, the architect of the Bureau for the Protection of Teachers’ Rights.

“We’re in the same party,” he shouts. “Why are you doing this? What did I do that was so wrong? There are people far worse than me.”

The words sound familiar. They echo a pattern often heard whenever powerful figures are held accountable.

Another storyline follows an opposition leader who moves to dismantle the bureau after it punishes a school bully protected by his politically influential father. His real concern is eliminating a potential presidential rival. Yet he frames his campaign as a defense of human rights, arguing that the bureau represents a return to authoritarian methods.

The victim disappears from the discussion. The original wrongdoing fades into the background. What remains is a political argument over abstract principles. The tactic is familiar: Shift attention away from the core issue and turn the debate into something else.

In that sense, the drama draws heavily from situations viewers recognize from real life. Yet it reaches a very different conclusion.

In reality, victims often continue to suffer while perpetrators escape meaningful punishment. In "Teach You a Lesson," wrongdoers eventually face consequences proportional to their actions. That is why many viewers describe the series as fantasy.

Ironically, what felt most unrealistic to me was not the punishment of perpetrators but the confidence displayed by the education minister. Faced with a politician who dismisses evidence of wrongdoing as slander, a real minister might lower his head and avoid confrontation.

The fictional minister does the opposite.

“Aren’t you ashamed?” he asks. “Why do people abandon reason whenever the subject turns to their own children?”

The same critics who often claim to defend justice have attacked the series as glorifying violence. Some argue that it turns the punishment of minors into entertainment or undermines social movements by portraying false accusations. Yet such criticisms often overlook the victims whose suffering forms the foundation of the story.

That is precisely why dramas like this emerge. And perhaps it is also why so many young Koreans have found themselves gathering in Jamsil.