00. What remains? The mother tongue remains. 2026-06-19

Notice: The original text of this making note was written in Korean.

In 1964, Hannah Arendt stated in an interview with Günter Gaus: “What remains? The mother tongue remains.”

I am currently directing a feature documentary titled The Law War. The film deals with a series of events unfolding in South Korea, yet it is being produced in English. Aside from one specific project I am currently engaged in, I am conducting all my work in English. Why? Because, regrettably, I no longer harbor any expectations for my mother tongue. Arendt, a Jew, stated that her mother tongue, German, ultimately remained with her. Though she continued her writing in English, she insisted that German was her core. I, however, question whether the Korean language is truly my core. This is not to claim that my English is flawless or native-like. Whether it be English, French, or any other foreign language, I wish to sustain my artistic practice in a language other than Korean. Despite being born Korean, I cannot deny the profound alienation and visceral distaste that exist between this country and myself. To have no expectations of my mother tongue is, ultimately, synonymous with having no expectations of my motherland. I expect nothing from this country. That is precisely why, even as I depict the struggle between South Korean citizens and the state's prosecution and police, I am producing this documentary in English.

Why, then, do I contradictorily write this making-note in Korean? Is it because, beneath the hypocritical pretense of loathing this country, there lies a desperate, buried hope that someone might still change?

The documentary asserts that the legal warfare of modern society is not merely an administrative or litigious matter; it is a war to reclaim 'human rights.' They say every human being holds equal value before the law, yet not everyone has equal access to it. Resolving this societal contradiction is an imperative discourse in our highly advanced modern world. My ongoing battle against South Korean public power, which began in March 2026, has torn open a new world for me. Truthfully, I had considered myself quite the 'establishment.' I lectured at a university, worked as a writer for a major corporation, studied art in the US and Europe, and sustained my artistic endeavors with annual grants from the Arts Council and cultural foundations; the world never felt particularly arduous. The only difficulty I knew was the agony of my own artistic creation. I had easy, private access to lawyers and medical professionals, with relatives in those fields. Naturally, I never revered legal or medical practitioners as anything extraordinary. (This is not occupational disparagement; to me, profound professional achievement exists solely within artistic realization. They are merely licensed laborers, not vastly different from ordinary office workers.)

Experiencing this series of events, I recalled my past field trips to the Supreme Prosecutors' Office and the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency. Until then, I had complacently believed that if a legal or administrative issue arose, I could simply purchase an 'expensive, former-judge/prosecutor' lawyer and resolve it effortlessly. Surrounded by media insiders, lawyers, and doctors, I naively assumed I would never suffer disadvantages or irrational treatment at the hands of public authority.

The intricate details will be unspooled in the documentary, but everything was my delusion. Regarding the medical incident at the core of this case, I assumed—quite 'naturally'—that the relevant agencies and police would initiate a proper investigation. The evidence was glaringly undeniable. The reality, however, was entirely different. I was appalled to discover how public power habitually justifies highly irrational and illegal acts. Due to legal constraints prior to the documentary's release, I cannot detail everything in this text, but the actions committed by frontline civil servants are of a magnitude that can never be dismissed as mere bureaucratic custom.

I am not a particularly moral or righteous person. I am aware that my ideology and character, which I have laid bare perhaps too frankly, are not exactly crowd-pleasing. In any case, as situations utterly incomprehensible to my common sense unfolded, my initial thought was: Should I hire a fleet of top-tier law firm attorneys and crush them all? The reason was simple. My ego was bruised. For someone who had lived her entire life believing herself part of the privileged class, the irrational incompetence of mere low-level civil servants was a matter to be approached with condescension—something that required 'a whipping.' (Someday, based on this text, they might frame me as a 'narcissist' once again, but I will address that in another section; what must be said, must be said.) I thought: They are acting this insane because I haven't shown them who I really am.

Simultaneously, another thought crept in: Why should I suffer the financial and physical loss of deploying elite lawyers just to deal with these petty bureaucrats? I was already enraged at having to spend my 'precious' time and resources on them. I naively believed that if I fought, a rational, rule-of-law outcome would naturally emerge. Thus, with the mindset of "surely this will be the last time, surely this agency will resolve it," I did not officially retain a legal team.

I realized the truth when I saw the civil servants explicitly label me a 'hysterical, malicious complainant' in their official documents. Just as I had dismissed them, they had dismissed me. I was certain this fight would ultimately be my victory—and I remain certain—because I will achieve my artistic culmination through the act of documenting this very process. When the explicit justice is mine, what is there to lose? My rage over the physical time and resources spent was easily assuaged when reframed as fuel for creating a work of art. The legislative, judicial, and executive branches—without a single exception, without missing a single beat—perpetrated sophistry and irrational processing at every turn. After the first month, my curiosity shifted to: Just how far can they lie? This, too, cannot be specified right now, but will be laid bare in the documentary. Midway through, I even wondered, What if just one agency, or just one civil servant, suddenly changes their stance and delivers a rational result? Or at least utters the intention to do so? Of course, to this day, no such thing has happened, and thanks to that, my documentary is sailing smoothly.

However, as I conducted research for the film and met citizens who were still fighting, an unconscious transformation began within me. Even when I studied film directing, my ambitions were strictly confined to narrative fiction; I had little interest in the righteousness or public benefit often associated with documentaries. Even if I were to make one, I believed it would undoubtedly be about art—dealing with a concrete social issue was something I swore I would never do, not even in my next life. If ordinary documentary directors begin their work from a place of goodwill and a sense of calling, I am ashamed to admit that I started this feeling as though I had simply stumbled upon a 'content item' while I was at it.

Though necessity forced my eyes away from the 'I' and toward the world, it was then that a new realm finally opened up to me. I realized: I was not actually an ordinary citizen. Of course, the civil servants involved in this case treat me as a malicious complainant, but since I have little interest in the thoughts of those who commit illegal acts, that hardly matters. I possess the power to document and the material conditions to retaliate. If anything, this endeavor is, as I mentioned, my 'professional achievement.'

But true, ordinary citizens were different. They had livelihoods to maintain; they often lacked the background to adequately combat absurdity, and there was even exploitation by legal professionals. Specifically, the third act of this documentary deals with the usurpation of legal rights by lawyers. This stemmed from cases where ordinary citizens were essentially exploited even by the legal professionals they hired paying a rightful fee—those with an explicit occupational duty.

For the first time, I began to feel real rage. This was no longer simply a matter of my pride being hurt. Previously, regarding the incompetence and illegal behavior of investigative agencies, I merely dismissed it as the "incompetence of ignorant low-level bureaucrats," born from the low intelligence required for their jobs. But that was not the truth. The truth is that, even now, because of the complacency and bureaucracy of public authority, some people take their own lives. The Bodo League massacre of 1950 is not the only violence perpetrated by state power. The era where prosecutors and police murdered, tortured, and suppressed pro-democracy activists may have ended. But the prosecution, police, and public authority of 2026 oppress citizens through 'the Law' and 'Administration.'

Are all humans truly equal before the law? Has our society genuinely escaped the absolute dictate of wealth over justice? In the realm of law, only the language of the lawyer is recognized. Can the general public access this language? If all citizens are equal before the law, why does access to legal representation depend on the presence of capital? No matter how legitimate a right may be, if one cannot independently speak the language of the law, that right can only be exercised through the proxy of a lawyer. This is a mockery of the constitutional guarantee of equality; it is violence inflicted by the state, driving its people to the edge to protect the monopolistic status of legal professionals.

Regarding my case, I frequently received feedback that I was reacting too emotionally. 'Legal documents must be cold.' 'Investigative agencies and committee members view submissions with such emotional, everyday language as fundamentally flawed.' But is the 'standardized attitude' demanded of victims by courts and administrative bodies truly for the sake of the victim and the public? Or is it an exclusive exercise of power designed to preempt the status of the lawyer? If the law is equal for all, why is the language of the law not equal for all? Can that truly be called an equal law? The arrogance of a court that demands victims be metaphorically castrated of their natural anger and sorrow, forcing them to fold themselves into the docile, sanitized paperwork the system desires just to be 'reviewed'—this arrogance exists on an entirely different dimension than my own trivial conceit. Because this arrogance holds the lives and human rights of citizens as collateral.

In terms of how the monopoly of legal language and forms equates to the deprivation of human rights, I could not help but be enraged once again at the ongoing discussions to penalize citizens who use AI for legal responses if they submit documents containing false precedents or legal principles. British author Richard Susskind, in his book Online Courts and the Future of Justice, argues for the democratization of law, viewing the advancement of AI and technology as a revolution in access to justice. French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, in his essay The Force of Law, defines the juridical field as a site armed with its own language and rules, utterly incomprehensible to laypeople. Approaching this more fundamentally: the modern judicial system is a glaring manifestation of Michel Foucault’s insight that knowledge (expertise) is not merely a tool for seeking truth, but a core power mechanism used to control and oppress the masses. While fabricating the myth that 'all citizens are protected by the law,' the state simultaneously allows a cartel that monopolizes knowledge and language to legally oppress the sovereignty of the people.

Some will undoubtedly oppose my argument, insisting that the world of law does not operate that way, and that the strict formalization of law is a necessary mechanism to maintain and manage the state. Yet, the very essence of a modern democratic society—though it may seem self-evident—lies in the dismantling of state control and oppression that inherently restrict human sovereignty. While I cannot speak for South Korea, I wish to convey that, at least outside its borders, vigorous discourse and research regarding the chasm between formal equality and substantive equality are already well underway. This is the definitive conclusion I have reached regarding contemporary South Korean society: 'The law is equal for all, but the right to access that law is not.' The structure of the modern legal system is not vastly different from the ancient era, when access to the Bible was exclusively restricted to priests who could speak Latin.

A new era demands new discourse. I was shocked when I recently accessed a specific legal AI in Korea. Only verified lawyers and relevant civil servants were permitted to use it. Is it truly just to penalize citizens who submit documents containing false precedents generated by AI? How many ordinary citizens even know of the existence of precedent search systems, or the fact that AI fabricates precedents, let alone how to verify them? How many citizens can independently judge the logical soundness of a legal principle? In a climate where codified laws fail to resonate with the public, how many citizens can discern the gap between real-world common sense and courtroom logic just by reading a legal document? Even if they knew, could they actually wield highly specialized legal jargon?

Instead of systematically building a framework for citizens to independently access the law to protect their natural human rights, creating punitive regulations is a pathetically one-dimensional approach. While the prosecution's internal AI programs become hyper-advanced, shouldn't the common sense of 2026 South Korea be moving toward realizing the thesis that 'all citizens are equal before the law,' rather than cementing a cartel? The counterargument that the state has fulfilled its duty by providing public defenders and the Korea Legal Aid Corporation is not even worth dismissing. Human beings have the right to pursue and claim their own rights independently, within an equal environment.

I am neither a lawyer nor a sociologist. The issues I have raised should rightfully be debated by the legal professionals of South Korea, not by me. However, if society does not change, then even as a non-expert, exploring this and seeking the truth as a subject who has suffered absurdity is precisely what an artist must do. This documentary is causing a massive delay to my primary project. For me, this delay transcends severe displeasure; it incites rage. A society where the common sense that ought to be practiced is trampled upon threatens the very lives of its individual constituents, and that constituent could be me at any moment.

Returning to Hannah Arendt, she contemplated the importance of 'the right to have rights.' There was an era of barbarism when the state fired tear gas into the eyes of its citizens and threw them into the sea. We survived that era. I am making this documentary in English because I know, in truth, that South Korea possesses almost no will to self-purify.

Yet, perhaps the reason I am writing this making-note in Korean lies right here. A microscopic hope that today, we might also overcome a state that manipulates databases and wields the law and the system as weapons of intangible violence. This hope did not emerge organically. It came from an organization I stumbled upon while preparing the documentary. The solidarity of victims—who, despite being stripped of their human rights by the explicit abuse of state power and judicial agencies, used their compensation money to establish a scholarship foundation—made me feel profound shame for my own arrogance and my purely art-oriented ambitions. At the same time, it gave me hope.

Regarding public authority, which remains unchanged to this day, the sole, fragile hope I have gained through the solidarity of victims far nobler and more sublime than my previously arrogant self—I dare to think this is the very reason I am writing the making-note of a documentary about the struggle for 'the right to have rights' in my mother tongue.