Contradictions of Korean masculinity

Contradictions of Korean masculinity

A young man on a subway engrossed in a smartphone / Courtesy of Khanh Nguyen
By David A. TizzardPublished May 10, 2025 2:30 pm KST


Modern Korean masculinity is caught in a weird tension between pride and pressure. It’s what we might call a double stereotype. Internationally, they are seen by some as ideal partners: loyal, sensitive, stylish, and, of course, ridiculously good looking. At the same time, domestically they are criticized as patriarchal, entitled, emotionally repressed, or worse. The gap between these two exaggerated images is wide, and growing. Many men therefore seem to struggle to locate themselves within it. One student recently told me, “We’re expected to be strong, but also soft. To compete, but also be kind. The modern Korean man is some kind of fantasy.”

Understanding Korean masculinity today requires examining how it has changed over time and adapted to the different political and economic systems of war, dictatorship, democracy, and neoliberalism. In each epoch, Masculinity has been shaped by history, class, and evolving cultural expectations throughout. Never fixed.

The hegemony of the unheard

Raewyn Connell’s concept of hegemonic masculinity helps highlight these evolving demands. It is the idea that there isn’t just one way to “be a man” but instead different versions of masculinity dominate and are held up as the ideal standard to achieve at different periods of history: from the obedient soldier of the authoritarian era, to the breadwinning office worker of state-building, and now, perhaps, the mad-sensitive soft modern man. Of course not all men fit the specific molds. Nor do they benefit from them. Many find themselves excluded, marginalized, or silenced. Their masculinity is seen as “less than”: either too soft, too poor, too emotional, or too manly.

This sense of masculine marginalization is depicted in Park Kwang-su’s 1988 film “Chilsu and Mansu.” The two billboard painters in a rapidly developing Seoul are not the embodiment of patriarchal dominance and Confucian authority society makes us fear. Instead, the film frames them as subjects of a system that refuses to hear them. Their masculinity is not powerful, it is precarious. Sad. And, ultimately, futile.

In the iconic final scene, Chilsu and Mansu climb a Gangnam building and shout their frustrations at the world around them. They are not villains. They are not even rebels in the traditional sense. They are just ordinary men, rendered voiceless in the face of political authoritarianism and economic injustice. However, despite their shouts, the people below, both literally and metaphorically, cannot hear them. They assume they are either suicidal or perhaps even anarchistic. The ultimate violence of the state enacted on the two comes eventually not because they are dangerous, but because they dared to step out-of-line and to express themselves. Their fate becomes a sad lesson in how expressions of masculine vulnerability, confusion, or resistance were punished rather than heard. Like in the writing of Hwang Sok-yong and others, the average man, especially one outside Seoul’s privilege, often finds himself squeezed by forces far beyond his control. He is a man, but not the man that society demands. And therefore his very existence becomes undesirable.

From patriot to provider

The first clear embodiment of hegemonic masculinity in postwar Korea emerged in the 1950s and 1960s, shaped by national trauma and reconstruction. This was the age of the protector. Value was measured not by a man’s words, but by his willingness to serve, whether in uniform or in overalls. He was expected to embody discipline, resilience, and sacrifice. The first to rise, the last to complain. Living not for himself but for the family, the nation, and the future. Masculinity, in this context, was a kind of burden. Glorified, yes, but heavy. Those who didn’t fit, the men who were too soft, too artistic, too different, were rarely seen or celebrated. They lived in the shadows of the national myth, absent from media.

By the 1970s and 80s, the image of the hegemonic Korean man was crystallized in a single figure: the salaryman. He wore a shirt and tie to survive. Disciplined, tireless, and unquestioning. He clocked in early, drank late, and sacrificed weekends. His masculinity was measured by obedience and endurance, not by personal expression or emotional depth. He provided for both the family and the nation one burnt-out day at a time.

In the aftermath of democratization, Korea promised its citizens liberty. But for men, neoliberal freedom then came dressed as a new kind of burden. The salaryman no longer just had to obey, he had to compete. What was once a collective mission now became a battlefield of resumes, language certificates, and unpaid internships. Masculinity became judged by personal branding, entrepreneurial success, and the ability to keep climbing. Men had to have hobbies, to be interested in self-development. Play golf, enjoy classical music. A leader at work, a romantic at home, stylish but stoic. But this new image brought with it a quiet cruelty. Those who couldn’t keep up, those from rural backgrounds or without university degrees, were left behind. Quietly pathologized as failures. The system no longer shouted at them; it simply ignored them.

Mental health and masculinity

These contradictions and changes are not confined to the screen or political rhetoric; they are lived. Despite being portrayed as societal oppressors or recipients of unseen privilege, Korean men are also among the nation’s most vulnerable. Data from Korea’s Ministry of Health and Welfare shows that suicide rates among men are significantly higher than those of women. And, across all age groups. Young men aged 15 to 29 take their lives at more than twice the rate of their female peers. Among those aged 60–69, the rate is 52.2 per 100,000 compared to 23.4 for women; for those over 70, it jumps to a staggering 70.9 compared to 30.3. These are not statistics of dominance but of despair, challenging the assumption that men are always the privileged class in Korea’s gender dynamic.

Many men suffer in silence. Expected to endure without complaint. To be economically successful, emotionally stoic and socially invisible. When they fail to meet these standards, they are not consoled. They are judged, or worse, ignored. These deaths are quiet, often unspoken. They are not just personal tragedies but social indictments. And what’s more damning is that we rarely hear about them. Suicide or mental health is a major selling point of most media these days, but particularly when it’s young women or beautiful and successful celebrities. When it’s middle-aged men run down by a system that no longer values them, the headlines are deafeningly silent.

The hegemony, meanwhile, has shifted again. Today, Korea exports its men to the world. Not in war, but in beauty. K-pop idols and actors in K-dramas now project a soft masculinity: stylish, emotionally expressive and gentle. Cosmetics, fashion and emotional vulnerability are no longer taboo. Soft masculinity is marketable. It sells well overseas. However, it struggles to find refuge domestically. South Korean men are among the world’s highest consumers of skincare products. Yet this is a reflection not necessarily of vanity, but of how self-presentation has become an expected part of male identity. These men, too, must serve. Military enlistment also remains a challenging rite of passage for nearly every Korean male, idol or not. Their youth, the time of exploration and freedom, is cut short and replaced with nearly two years of mandatory isolation, deprivation, and physical and emotional challenges.

In a country divided by external Cold War politics, and with North Korea still a potential threat, a man is expected to succeed, to provide, to protect. This causes a great deal of anxiety and existential terror.

These anxieties often manifest online. Thus some men seek community, vent frustration, and attempt to make sense of a world that feels increasingly hostile to their existence. Anti-feminist communities reveal how many young men feel alienated by recent gender discourse and politicians have capitalized on this by using gender grievances as a strategic wedge to win votes. These young men grew up being told they were the privileged ones. The heirs of a patriarchal system designed in their favor. But when they look around, they don’t feel powerful. They feel anxious. Stressed. Lost.

Beyond hegemony

Most Korean men are not idols. Nor are they criminals. They are commuters on subways, students at hagwons, sons trying to meet expectations. Fathers trying to provide. They live in a system that demands performance at every level (academic, physical, emotional and social), and many struggle in silence.

Masculinity in Korea is changing, as it has done in the past, and it must continue to change. But society must recognize both the privilege and pain of men, not just the former. It means finally listening to those who have too often stood on rooftops, shouting into the void into a society that doesn’t listen to them.