The Pit of South Korea: Cults, Molka, and Burning Sun
In 2019, I embarked on what was supposed to be a three-week solo trip to South Korea. That journey unexpectedly stretched into a three-month whirlwind.
If you've read my previous Substack posts about South Korea, you’d know that, for the most part, I had a positive experience. I even met a "Korean boo" who made my stay much more enjoyable.
But as with any place, the longer you stay, the more you start to see the cracks beneath the surface. For me, these cracks revealed a darker, more unsettling side of South Korea—one that left an indelible mark on my time there.
South Korea is indeed a beautiful, futuristic place—the food is amazing, the fashion is impeccable, and the transport systems are a marvel. But beneath the shiny exterior, there was always a sense of eeriness, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on until I started experiencing some strange, unsettling things.
One of the most striking features of South Korea is the abundance of mega-churches. They’re everywhere—massive, grand structures that look more like stadiums than places of worship. I often wondered who attended these places, and what drew people to them in such large numbers. Having not done much research beforehand, I was experiencing everything with fresh eyes, and these churches added to the sense of mystery that surrounded me.
One day, while exploring the markets in Seoul, two young women approached me. They seemed friendly enough, asking typical tourist questions like, “Where are you from?” and “Do you like it here?” They were excited, almost eager, as if they just wanted to practice their English. Then they asked me, “Do you know what day it is?” I replied, “Oh, it’s Children’s Day.” It’s a public holiday in South Korea, and they were amazed that I knew.
They then invited me to their temple to join a ceremony for Children’s Day. At the time, it seemed harmless enough. I was meeting new people all the time, and these women seemed genuinely nice. In my mind, we were simply going to a temple to observe some sort of traditional ceremony—something I had done plenty of times before in other countries.
When we arrived, they dressed me in a hanbok, a traditional Korean dress, and led me to a room next door. We lined up in four rows, facing a shrine. They asked me to follow their movements—kneeling, standing, bowing—in what turned out to be a ritual that lasted almost 15 minutes. They even threw a piece of paper with my name and birthday into a small fire. The smell of incense was overpowering, and I started to feel light-headed. I was hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable in the heavy fabric. It felt like a fast-paced yoga session.
Afterward, they explained their belief system, which was very karma-based, and I realized that I had been initiated into their religion or church. Then they asked me for a bit of money. I only had about 10 euros on me and no cards, so I told them I needed at least 5 euros to get back home. They took what I offered and, surprisingly, walked me back to the station.
Later that day, I told my friends about the experience. They informed me that I was incredibly lucky because the group I encountered is known to be a notorious cult in South Korea, infamous for extorting people for large sums of money. Fortunately, that didn’t happen to me. I think they went easy on me because I had mentioned my own beliefs about ancestors and karma, which I’d picked up while living in Vietnam. I guess my familiarity with these concepts made them believe I was already aligned with their beliefs. After this experience, I started hearing warnings about these cults almost every week.
After that, my world in South Korea got a little darker. My passport went missing after I took it to a nightclub. I had to wait for a new one, but it was okay because I had time, and I had Sy (my South Korean boo). But it was no longer just a holiday destination—I was pretty much living in South Korea. I had my boo, my friends, and a whole social life.
One evening, I was out getting dinner with one of my friends. She took me to Nampo Myeonok, a small Michelin-starred restaurant known for its cold buckwheat noodles. As we ate, she began to open up about her life, sharing things she hadn’t before. She told me that she sometimes worked as a hostess at karaoke bars. But in South Korea, being a hostess often means doing more than just entertaining—it can involve engaging in sexual acts with customers, depending on how much they pay. It’s a job at the end of the day, and she’s a grown woman, so no judgment.
But her story triggered a memory from when I was 19. The owners and managers of a hostel I was staying at in Cambodia had taken me to a karaoke bar. I remember all these young girls walking in—some of them might have even been underage—and I felt quite sick because, apparently, we were supposed to choose a few to “host” us. Nothing happened that night, but it definitely skewed my perception of what men get up to after hours.
My friend continued to explain how these bars worked and the type of clientele they attracted. It was the first time I’d heard about Molka. Molka is the Korean term for hidden cameras, or miniature spy cameras, that are secretly and illegally installed to capture voyeuristic images and videos. Molka is short for Molrae-kamera, meaning a sneaky camera, used to secretly film victims. She told me that sometimes clients try to take sneaky videos, and some would even pay the girls for candid footage, which would later end up online without their consent.
It was genuinely a bizarre and disturbing concept, but as I spoke to more people, I began to understand the psyche behind it. Women in South Korea often feel powerless, as the police rarely take these cases seriously, and defamation laws are strict. You must choose your words very carefully.
She also told me how VIP clients were drugging some of the women with GHB to get them into these videos, and suddenly, the stories became more horrific by the moment. It was then that I first heard the term "snuff video," referring to a pornographic film that shows the actual murder of one of the performers, often at the end of a sadistic act. These acts could involve things like blood transfusions and other real, horrific events. It was fucking terrifying.
I almost couldn’t believe how nonchalant the whole conversation was. Later that night, we were all planning to go out, and I suggested Gangnam—it’s the more affluent area with designer stores, my favorite spa, and mega clubs. I had already partied in Itaewon, Hongdae, and other busy areas, and I was ready to put on a cute outfit and hit up Gangnam.
But when I mentioned it, the girls were like, “Rez, have you not heard about Burning Sun?” It felt strange because most of the places we were going to were saturated with South Korean rappers. It was kind of hilarious—these guys would invite us to their tables, introduce us to the DJs, the typical boys-in-clubs flex. It was just fun and lighthearted; we’d get a bunch of free drinks, and the guys would feel good about themselves, I guess. But Gangnam was definitely in question.
The Burning Sun scandal, as it’s come to be known, was a seismic event that rattled Seoul, South Korea, in 2019. This wasn’t just any scandal; it dragged some of the nation’s biggest celebrities, including K-pop idols, and even high-ranking police officials into the muck. It all kicked off in January 2019, when MBC Newsdesk reported on an incident from a few months prior—a male clubgoer was allegedly beaten up by a staff member at the Burning Sun nightclub, one of Gangnam’s most famous nightspots. But what started as a straightforward assault case quickly spiraled into something far darker, exposing the club’s alleged involvement in sex trafficking, drug dealing, and deep-rooted corruption within the police force.
What’s even more chilling is that some of the people involved in these scandals were connected to friends of mine. Despite the seriousness of the crimes, the police have largely turned a blind eye—because, after all, in South Korea, they’re just girls.
It felt like this pit just kept getting darker and deeper. Going to places like that was out of the question, especially since I was with these pretty South Korean girls, making us look like an eclectic group that would attract attention. The last thing we needed was to risk being drugged and taken to some club basement.
By the end of my stay, I was over it. I was scared because I was in a fight with the owners of the club who had my passport all along. Every place I stayed at, I had to thoroughly check every part of the room for hidden cameras, even the showerhead. I had to watch my drinks at all times—I had already been spiked twice in the past, and I wasn’t going to let it happen a third time.
I always say that if you stay anywhere longer than two weeks, you start seeing the cracks, and it doesn’t take long to see beneath the plaster. Peeling back layers to expose a reality that is far removed from the initial allure of the place.And in the end, a lot of the suffering tends to be felt by women—from the cults, the molka videos, and the drugging of young, innocent women, to domestic violence. And that’s true anywhere, not just in South Korea. But now I also understand why their horror films and thrillers are so scary—because art imitates life here.
I deeply empathise with the women who face these threats daily. We often live in a society with glossy exteriors, but it only takes a small ripple to reveal the troubling undercurrents beneath the surface. I want to share resources like The Korean Women’s Hotline and the Korea Cyber Sexual Violence Response Center, and continue advocating for legal and policy changes.
The track I’ll leave you with you with today is You're So Vain by Carly Simon.
Love,
Rez