Coronavirus: Fear and anger in South Korea as president and secretive cult blamed for virus outbreak

In historic Daegu, the site of the worst outbreak outside of China, locals are furious at Moon Jae-in for his perceived slow response to the outbreak, finds Donald Kirk

(AFP via Getty Images)

Here at ground zero of the most fearsome disease to strike Korea in modern times, the anger is almost palpable. The liberal president Moon Jae-in largely being blamed – in his apparent bid to appease China, he enabled coronavirus to take root in the Korean republic.

After the infected toll spiked in China, Moon urged everyone not to worry, and not to believe the sensational rumours that Korea could be next.

Now the country has the second-highest number of infected patients after China, with 2,337 having tested positive – 571 new cases were reported on Friday, its biggest daily increase, and 14 people have died.

Coronavirus struck at this historic centre 170 miles southeast of Seoul with the fury and persistence of a plague, diagnosed first two weeks ago among members of a fringe sect called Shincheonji and then endangering everyone in this city of 2.5 million people. More than half of all cases are linked to the church, according to authorities.

Now literally everyone is wearing a face mask, most are staying at home and normally roaring traffic is down to a trickle on broad avenues and once overflowing shops and restaurants are closed.

In the labyrinthine maze of Seomun market, whose antecedents date 500 years into the early days of Korea’s last dynasty, visitors wander among rows of thousands of shops, hundreds nestled along sprawling alleys, over several floors. Once they were full of shoppers, purveying every conceivable item from fine jewelery, to textiles to electronics. Now all are padlocked, tied down with ropes and canvas, boarded up, and no one dares speculate about when they will reopen.

As a team of men in white protective garb sprays the alleys, hopefully killing off whatever dreaded microbes linger on the pavement, in nooks and crannies, Sung Soo-young, checking to see the damage, vents his fury at Moon Jae-in.

“He is president of Korea,” says Sung, describing himself as a typical resident of the city, just looking around. “He has to take care of the safety of the people. He lost time to prevent the spread of the virus. He did not stop the Chinese from coming to Korea.”

In fact, it is difficult to know who angers people here more, Moon’s central government, eager to get along with China, the great power that Korea depends on as its key trading partner and the only power capable of restraining North Korea’s leader Kim Jong-un, or members of the Shincheonji sect, responsible for most of nearly 2,400 cases diagnosed so far.

“Moon Jae-in is a kind man,” says Kim Hyun-su, running an almost empty convenience store nor far from the historic central market.

“But he likes communists, North Korea and China.” Kim tries to be understanding: “China is a big country,” he says. “We rely on China, we depend on them for our exports. It is not easy. We are a very small country.”

But quickly he lapses into the bitterness shared by the few customers who come to the store, selling essentials, including face masks, to beleaguered citizens.

“Two weeks ago Moon said the Chinese can come to Korea. Now people are crazy. Daegu is a conservative city. Moon is progressive. All people hate Moon Jae-in.”

President Moon's approval rating has dropped to its lowest since November, a poll showed on Friday, amid growing criticism of his government's handling of the outbreak.

Realmeter, which surveyed some 1,500 people on Tuesday and Wednesday, said Moon's popularity fell to 44.7 per cent, down from about 50 per cent before the country confirmed its first case of virus infection on 20 January.

Kim’s shop is on a narrow street right behind the 10-story office building that was the “sanctuary” for about 8,000 members of the Shincheonji cult, whose leader, Lee Nam-hee, proclaims himself as the embodiment of Jesus Christ and tells his followers, more than 300,000 throughout Korea, that they will be saved by Christ.

“They used to come here,” says Kim. “They were polite but very secret. We did not know what they were doing.” Now the building is locked up and hundreds of church members are in hospitals here. Authorities are trying to track down everyone in the church, who they blame for spreading the illness among hundreds of further personal contacts.

Church members purportedly are responsible for bringing the virus into the country from Wuhan in China, where the disease was first diagnosed in December. They were praying with members of the church, carrying on furtively as an illicit “house church” in Wuhan, from which the virus has spread to most parts of China and to countries around the world.

Outside the church, I encounter a government medical team, all clad in white, taking samples, they say, to see if the virus exists in the dust and dirt of nearby alleys. A man who identifies himself as a medical doctor warns me to stay away. “It is dangerous here,” he says, refusing to say more about what he is finding.

At one of the hospitals occupied by victims of the virus, a nurse says most of them are members of the church. So far 13 people have died throughout the country, but she believes most of those who have tested positive are going to survive, even though scientists have yet to find a cure for the disease. She is not angry at the church members, just at the government, she says, as they could have prevented the suffering by keeping out travellers from China after the first outbreak of the disease in Wuhan.

“I am very angry about his policy,” he says. ”He sent a lot of masks to China when we needed them here. The price of masks has gone way up.” Across the room another nurse says simply, “I hate him.”

At city hall, a retired ambassador, Lee Sang Deok, who has the title of vice mayor for international relations, adopts a more diplomatic attitude.

“There are a lot of opinions,” he says. “We must find out who are members of Shincheonji. After we find out who are the members, we can take more effective measures.”

He blames “some politicians” – conservatives opposed to the liberal government – for exploiting the suffering. But then, he notes, “Historically Daegu is the city of resistance,” the birthplace of the dictator Park Chung-hee, who ruled for 18 years until his assassination by his intelligence chief in 1979. He notes that Park’s daughter is Park Geun-hye, who was impeached and jailed, enabling Moon to take over in a snap election nearly three years ago.

“This is the time we must be united together,” he says. “I am confident everything will get back to normal. Maybe in one month.”