The elderly vendor doesn’t speak English, except for one phrase. “I love Trump,” she says softly, smiling as she points to a row of glossy campaign buttons. Donald Trump’s face gleams beside mugs featuring South Korea’s recently impeached president, Yoon Suk Yeol, cradling puppies.

Nearby, a man in his 30s unfurls an American flag that billows like a sail. Placards reading “Stop the steal!” echo slogans from the January 6 U.S. Capitol riots. When the speaker — a man in his 50s wearing a red cap — ends with a triumphant “Amen,” hands shoot into the air like it’s a Pentecostal revival.

For a moment, it could be hard to tell what country we’re in, were it not for the Korean flags waving just as high as the American ones. We’re in Seoul, specifically the Hongdae area, better known for its progressive crowd and art scene. But on this humid Tuesday in mid-April, one week after Yoon’s impeachment, a blocked-off road near Hongdae’s main roundabout is packed with around 3,000 conservatives: many of them elderly, but joined by younger men livestreaming and young women raising their fists in unison.

Pro-Yoon rallies marked by MAGA hats and American flags have erupted weekly since January, after the former president — who was elected in 2022 by a razor-thin margin — declared martial law in December 2024. Claiming his actions were necessary to thwart a supposed North Korean threat, Yoon deployed troops to block a parliamentary vote. The backlash was swift: He was impeached in April and now awaits trial for inciting insurrection, a charge that still carries the death penalty on paper.

Since then, however, his movement has grown louder — and somehow more American. Just a week after his impeachment, Yoon himself appeared in a red cap that read “Make Korea Great Again.”

On June 3, voters will elect his replacement. There’s no runoff or transition period: The winner takes office immediately. The race pits two opposites against each other: Kim Moon-soo, a Yoon loyalist representing the People Power Party, and Democratic Party of Korea leader Lee Jae-myung.

Lee is likely to win. Just before early voting began Friday, a final poll had him ahead by a wide margin: 49.2 percent to Kim’s 36.8. A Democratic victory would mark a sharp break from Yoon’s hard-line rule and usher in progressive reforms almost overnight.

But still, the demonstrations continue. In Seoul’s plazas, thousands chant “Yoon Again!” every week, even though legally he can’t return to office. For them, this isn’t just about party politics. It’s a crusade: a distinctly Korean version of the MAGA mythos, fueled by stolen-election conspiracies, evangelical zeal, and Cold War-era fears.

Why MAGA?

At another protest on a Saturday afternoon in late May, about 30 die-hard demonstrators — some in military-style outfits — have already gathered on a barricaded stretch of road outside Seoul National University Station. The rally won’t begin for another hour. A giant LED screen is being assembled, and Vivaldi’s “Winter” blares from concert-grade speakers.

A woman in her 70s emerges from the subway wearing beige slacks and a gray sweater. At first glance, she looks like any other Seoul grandmother — until she pauses on the sidewalk, opens her tote bag, and transforms. First, she dons a red cap with “Trump” stitched across the back. Then, a red vest. Finally, a scarf reading “Make Korea Great Again.” Two other women in identical outfits spot her and wave like they’re reuniting at a church picnic. The uniforms aren’t official — but they might as well be. 

Joseph Yi, a political scientist at Hanyang University in Seoul, says that while American flags have long been a fixture at South Korean conservative rallies — symbols of Cold War alliance and trust in U.S. military protection — the adoption of MAGA imagery is new. It’s specifically tied to Yoon’s downfall and reflects a belief that, like Trump, Yoon was removed by progressive elites under illegitimate pretenses.

In a January op-ed, written before Yoon was removed from office, Yi described Trump’s 2024 reelection as a “January 6 resurrection”: a comeback from scandal and legal peril. At the time, many Yoon supporters believed he could follow a similar path. Trump, after all, had survived two impeachments and remained in the political arena. But Yoon’s impeachment actually led to his removal. Still, his supporters fill the streets, insisting he can — and must — return.

Just past the main stage, a man in his 40s grips a 10-foot American flag like a staff. His red cap, slightly too tight, pushes his ears out sideways. “Only Trump can bring Yoon back and save South Korea,” he tells me without hesitation. Even before the impeachment, protesters were appealing directly to Trump to intervene and help Yoon. Trump has yet to respond.

“Many don’t support Trump’s tariff nationalism, but they embrace him culturally,” Yi says. Trump slapped Korean goods with a 25 percent import tax, yet there’s little resentment here.

What draws them in, protesters say, is his tough stance on China. Across the barricaded street, people chant “No China!” in unison as placards with red Xs over Xi Jinping’s face sway above the crowd. A woman presses a button into my hand: “Out with Communism and the CCP.”

That China is South Korea’s largest trading partner doesn’t undercut the protesters’ worldview — it confirms it. To them, Beijing’s economic reach is proof of creeping control.

Past the merch tables, a man in his 30s paces in office slacks. When I ask why he’s here, he barely looks up. “The opposition worked with the Chinese Communist Party to kick Yoon out,” he says. “Just like they made Trump lose in 2020 and helped Biden win. They’re trying to destroy him.”

Nearly every protester echoed this narrative. Though unproven, conspiracies like these flourish on South Korea’s ultra-conservative YouTube channels. Just as Trump’s stolen election lie was amplified by a right-wing media machine that helped fuel the Capitol riot, Yoon’s claim of North Korean interference — used to justify his 2024 martial law attempt — was seized on by K-MAGA streamers. Viewership spiked in December, and many creators raked in thousands through YouTube’s Super Chats: a feature that lets fans pay to highlight messages during livestreams, turning conspiracy into both community and income.

Yoon hasn’t distanced himself from them; he’s embraced them. He invited Lee Bong-gyu, one of the most prominent streamers with nearly 1 million followers, to his 2022 inauguration and still encourages supporters to keep livestreaming.

At the rallies, you see lesser-known streamers in action: mostly men, a few middle-aged women, with selfie sticks raised like antennae. Some narrate like sports commentators. One young man chants into a megaphone with one hand while filming himself with the other. Everyone’s livestreaming, uploading, watching themselves watch.

A Country Split in Two

Toward the barricades, as the speakers blast the South Korean national anthem, an older man in a faded veterans’ cap salutes with shaky precision. His T-shirt says “U.S.-R.O.K Alliance.”

He’s not alone. Just behind him, a gray-haired woman with a cane wipes her eyes. An elderly couple stands side by side, hands to their hearts. He hums along to the anthem; she mouths every word, her eyes closed like she’s in church.

Many here are in their 60s and 70s, shaped by the aftermath of the Korean War. They came of age in a South Korea defined by division: North vs. South, communism vs. democracy, China vs. the U.S. For them, this framework never really faded.

Kim Moon-soo, the conservative candidate, wants stronger national security against North Korean threats by acquiring more retaliatory weapons — such as ballistic missiles. He’s also wary of China, advocating for a tougher stance and closer military ties with the U.S. instead of engagement with Beijing.

The front-runner in the presidential race, Lee Jae-myung, offers a sharp contrast: He wants to repair ties with China, which deteriorated under Yoon’s administration, and restore dialogue with North Korea. But to the crowd here, that isn’t diplomacy. It’s betrayal.

According to Andy Wondong Lee, a political scientist at University of California, Irvine, the tension goes deeper than military threats or diplomacy. “It’s a battle over South Korea’s national identity and founding myth,” he says. That myth, Lee explains, goes back to Rhee Syngman — the country’s first president — who envisioned South Korea as a Christian, anti-communist democracy modeled after the United States. “For his modern-day ideological heirs, progressive forces are not just political opponents — they are seen as historical usurpers, illegitimate inheritors to the nation’s founding.”

This legacy helps explain why American-style MAGA rhetoric resonates so strongly. Both movements are fueled by fears of civilizational collapse and elite betrayal. But in South Korea, it’s less about race or religion and more about reclaiming a Cold War-era narrative of national legitimacy. These groups reject feminism and LGBTQ+ rights, seeing themselves as part of a global conservative front. By adopting American symbols, they align with others who feel left behind by progressive change — a shared sense of victimhood that, as Lee puts it, fuels and justifies their resistance.

Most of Yoon’s hardcore base comes from evangelical circles, where politics and faith are intertwined. At rallies, the religious energy is palpable. Just beyond the crowd, a group of older women form a prayer circle: heads bowed, one reading aloud from a pocket Bible. “Amen,” they murmur in unison. Nearby, teens sing along to gospel ballads blaring from the speakers. A girl in a red ribbon hands out church flyers like she’s evangelizing salvation and state.

“For these groups, this isn’t about policy — it’s about good versus evil,” Lee explains. South Korean evangelicals, like their American counterparts, mobilize entire church networks to campaign for conservative candidates. Elections are framed as spiritual battles.

This worldview has deep roots. Christianity first flourished in northern Korea, and many believers fled south during the Korean War to escape communism. They brought with them a strong anti-communist, pro-American ethos that still animates the right today.

Among their most vocal leaders is Pastor Jeon Kwang-hoon, who praised Yoon’s martial law attempt as “a gift from Godto the Korean church.” In a recently surfaced video, he orders physical punishment for church members who failed to recruit enough attendees for a pro-Kim Moon-soo rally ahead of the June 3 election.

After the Election

Yoon may be out of office, but the movement he sparked isn’t going anywhere. According to Lee, this isn’t just backlash; it’s the start of a deeper transformation on South Korea’s right. Yoon’s People Power Party, or PPP, has struggled to appeal to younger and centrist voters, especially after their leader’s dramatic flame-out. Filling that void is a rising hard-line faction, driven by Christian nationalists like Pastor Jeon and obsessed with cultural grievance over governance.

Some of these die-hard demonstrators formed a splinter group — “Yoon Again” — hoping to carry on his legacy outside the PPP. But Yoon never endorsed the group, frustrating supporters who wanted a louder post-impeachment comeback.

Then on May 17, Yoon reentered the spotlight. Under pressure from PPP officials, Yoon announced his departure from the party. But he didn’t walk away from the cause. In a Facebook post, he called the June 3 election “the last chance to stop a totalitarian dictatorship” and urged supporters to back Kim Moon-soo.

The future now hinges on what happens next. If Kim wins, far-right Christian nationalists may solidify their grip. If he loses, conservatives may splinter between institutional moderates and Stop-the-Steal hard-liners.

But win or lose, the uprising is already underway. The rallies dominating Seoul’s streets aren’t just political. They’re moral.

Above the stage, a towering LED screen plays “The Lord of the Rings” — swords drawn, enemies closing in. Then drone footage of a sea of red caps, American flags, roaring crowds. These aren’t just voters. They see themselves as holy warriors fighting not for a party, but for the soul of a nation.