The Untold History of Jeju Special Self-Governing Province: A Volcanic Island’s Struggle and Resilience
Home / Jeju-do history
Jeju Island, often called the "Hawaii of South Korea," is more than just a tourist hotspot. Its history is written in layers of volcanic rock, shaped by eruptions that created Hallasan Mountain—South Korea’s tallest peak. The island’s unique gotjawal forests and lava tubes, now UNESCO World Heritage sites, tell a story of geological violence and natural beauty.
But long before Instagram influencers discovered its photogenic cliffs, Jeju was home to the Tamna Kingdom, an independent maritime state that thrived on trade with China and Japan. The island’s strategic location made it a cultural crossroads, blending Korean, Chinese, and even Southeast Asian influences.
The 20th century brought darker chapters. During Japan’s occupation (1910–1945), Jeju became a pawn in imperial ambitions. The Japanese exploited the island’s resources, forcing locals into harsh labor. Pine trees—symbols of Jeju’s identity—were cut down for war supplies, leaving scars on the landscape.
Resistance simmered. The Haenyeo, Jeju’s iconic female divers, weren’t just free-diving for seafood; they became covert symbols of defiance, preserving Korean culture under oppression. Their legacy now intersects with global debates about gender equality and indigenous rights.
Post-WWII, Jeju was caught in the crossfire of Cold War ideologies. The 1948 April 3 Incident (제주 4·3 사건) saw South Korean military forces brutally suppress a rebellion, killing thousands—many of them civilians. For decades, the massacre was erased from textbooks, a silenced wound.
Only in 2006 did the government issue a formal apology. Today, the Jeju 4·3 Peace Park forces visitors to confront this history, echoing contemporary struggles like Myanmar’s Rohingya crisis or Ukraine’s war trauma. The lesson? Unaddressed historical wounds fuel cycles of conflict.
Now, Jeju faces a new battleground: overtourism. Over 15 million visitors flock here annually, straining ecosystems. The island’s famous tteumb (volcanic cones) are littered with trash, while luxury resorts displace locals. Sound familiar? It’s Bali’s overtourism crisis—but with kimchi.
Activists push back. The Haenyeo are now UNESCO-recognized, their sustainable fishing methods a rebuke to industrial overharvesting. Meanwhile, Jeju’s carbon-neutrality pledge (aiming for 2030) mirrors global climate accords—though skeptics ask if it’s greenwashing.
Beneath the honeymoon resorts, Jeju is militarizing. The Jeju Naval Base, opened in 2016, pivots the island into U.S.-China tensions. Protesters decry environmental damage; strategists call it a necessity against North Korean threats. It’s a microcosm of Asia’s arms race—where peace meets realpolitik.
Jeju’s history is a mirror. From volcanic birth to colonial trauma, from ecological reckoning to geopolitical chessboard, it reflects humanity’s best and worst. As travelers snap sunset pics at Seongsan Ilchulbong, the question lingers: Can Jeju balance progress and preservation?
The answer might lie in its past—a lesson for every nation grappling with identity in a globalized world.