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Park Jeong-mi, The State’s Sexuality: Prostitution and Postcolonial Nation Building in South Korea. University of California Press, 2024. 290 pgs.

Professor Park Jeong-mi’s The State’s Sexuality, recently published by the University of California Press, challenges the myth that South Korean authorities ever unequivocally outlawed prostitution. Through meticulous archival research, Park offers a critical reassessment of conventional narratives surrounding South Korea’s rapid modernisation, revealing how the state simultaneously condemned, regulated, and profited from the sex trade. By illuminating these contradictions, she not only debunks the illusion of outright prohibition but also reconceptualises prostitution as a state-orchestrated enterprise—one that reinforced patriarchal power structures while serving national interests.

Central to Park’s analysis is the concept of the “toleration-regulation regime”—a framework that elucidates how prostitution was alternately criminalised or sanctioned in accordance with shifting national priorities, from economic reconstruction to military security and tourism development. While sex workers were denied full citizenship, their bodies were systematically instrumentalised to generate foreign revenue and reinforce the U.S.-ROK military alliance. By tracing the continuities between Japanese colonial policies and postcolonial military-led regulations, Park demonstrates how marginalised women remained subject to exploitation under authoritarian rule—despite official assertions of prohibition.

Although the Yullak Prevention Act (1961–2004) ostensibly banned prostitution—casting sex workers as social deviants—Park highlights how legal loopholes and bureaucratic classifications ensured that the trade remained both illicit and tightly regulated. So-called “abnormal” women were subjected to systemic restrictions on their personal freedoms, from invasive medical surveillance to arbitrary policing, while the state selectively enforced laws to retain authority over the industry. These contradictions, she argues, expose the South Korean government’s enduring complicity in the exploitation of sex workers.

Extending this critique, Park invokes Agamben’s concept of homo sacer to frame “comfort women” as individuals placed under state control yet stripped of legal protections. Neither the South Korean government nor the U.S. military upheld these women’s constitutional rights; instead, they subjected them to draconian policing and institutional neglect. Yet, Park refuses to reduce them to mere victims, acknowledging the agency of those who resisted this systemic injustice.

Among the most distinctive manifestations of the toleration-regulation regime were military prostitution—commonly known as camptown prostitution—and kisaeng tourism, or prostitution tourism. The former was a state-managed system designed to maintain the morale of U.S. soldiers and ensure their operational readiness. Under the guise of national security, women in this system were subjected to stringent medical surveillance—a measure ostensibly intended to preserve the Cold War alliance between South Korea and the United States while curbing the spread of sexually transmitted infections (STIs). These policies disproportionately targeted women, who endured frequent and often coercive venereal disease examinations. Those diagnosed with an infection were forcibly quarantined in prison-like facilities and administered penicillin—often in dangerously high doses that heightened the risk of fatal anaphylaxis. Meanwhile, male soldiers faced minimal scrutiny; instead, they were provided with free condoms and prophylactics, reinforcing a stark gendered double standard. Doctors overseeing treatment were preemptively absolved of responsibility, further entrenching the systemic disregard for the well-being of these women.

Readers familiar with Professor Katharine Moon’s Sex Among Allies (Columbia University Press, 1997) will find The State’s Sexuality equally compelling, as it builds upon and extends the discourse on prostitution surrounding U.S. military bases, offering fresh insights and perspectives. While Moon situates her study within the framework of the U.S.–South Korea alliance—focusing on military occupation and its impact on local economies and gender dynamics—Park shifts the lens towards the state and the institutional structures that orchestrated and regulated the lives of women in prostitution. Rather than centring on individual relationships between U.S. soldiers and Korean women, Park interrogates how state policies engineered a broader system of sex work—one that not only facilitated economic exploitation within camptowns but also extended beyond them.

Park’s use of the term “comfort women” is particularly significant in this context. While she highlights its official use by the South Korean government—most notably in the Infectious Disease Prevention Act to refer to women who served U.S. troops—her deployment of the term within the text underscores the persistence of state-sanctioned sexual exploitation across historical periods. Although “comfort women” is most commonly associated with Japan’s wartime system of sexual slavery, Park situates it within a broader continuum of state control, tracing its links from colonial-era policies to postcolonial military and economic strategies. In doing so, she challenges dominant historical narratives that have compartmentalised these systems, instead exposing their deep interconnections. Yet this approach inevitably invites controversy. Unveiling the hidden—often deemed “unspeakable”—history of camptown prostitution remains highly sensitive, entangled as it is with national memory and the complexities of diplomatic relations.

In 2022, survivors, feminist activists, researchers, and pro bono lawyers secured a landmark legal victory against the South Korean government, with the Supreme Court formally recognising the state’s role in violating the survivors’ human rights. Park, serving as an expert witness, played a crucial role in establishing this accountability. While the ruling compelled some Koreans to confront an uncomfortable past, resistance to acknowledging camptown women as “comfort women” remains widespread—despite clear historical evidence of the term’s official use by the South Korean government and media. Instead, many continue to draw a sharp distinction between camptown women and Japanese military comfort women, the latter widely regarded as victims of forced sexual slavery, while the former are frequently dismissed as voluntary prostitutes.

Many of these women migrated to cities in search of employment, only to be deceived or trafficked into prostitution by civilian recruiters. While Japan’s Imperial Army directly conscripted comfort women, the recruitment of camptown women was fuelled by coercion, deceptive practices, and economic desperation. Yet this distinction in recruitment methods does not justify the severe control and exploitation they endured. Challenging deeply entrenched misconceptions remains a formidable task, but history offers precedent. Before Kim Hak-soon’s groundbreaking testimony in 1991, Japanese military comfort women were often dismissed or fetishised. It was only through the courage of survivors, sustained feminist advocacy, and rigorous academic research that their suffering came to be was recognised as a human rights violation.

With regard to kisaeng tourism, the Park Chung-hee regime readily adopted recommendations from U.S. advisors, who viewed international tourism as both an engine of economic growth and a bulwark against communist influence. As a result, kisaeng tourism was actively promoted in key sightseeing areas, where women—rebranded as “patriotic” cultural ambassadors—were commodified as both entertainers and sexual companions for elite foreign male visitors, particularly Japanese businessmen nostalgic for their colonial-era encounters with kisaeng.

Historically, kisaeng were lower-class women in the Chosŏn dynasty who served upper-class men as musicians, dancers, and performers—often becoming concubines. Under Japanese colonial rule, however, the distinction between kisaeng and professional prostitutes became increasingly blurred, as they were assimilated into the regulated sex industry alongside Japanese geishas and barmaids (chakpu). Some resisted state-mandated STI examinations, leveraging the protection of influential patrons. In the postcolonial era, registered kisaeng were required to carry identification cards and undergo state-led training programmes that emphasised etiquette and national duty. Though they were spared the carceral conditions imposed on camptown women, their sexual labour remained a vital source of foreign currency for South Korea’s military dictatorship.

Beyond these state-sanctioned forms, domestic prostitution flourished, extending well beyond military bases and foreign clients to cater to Korean men in government-designated red-light districts—so-called “special zones”—as well as in more covert venues such as room salons, barbershops, and massage parlours. However, in the wake of periodic crackdowns, some women were reframed as requiring “protection,” a narrative that stripped them of agency and subjected them to social engineering initiatives. These ranged from detention in reformatories to coerced marriages with vagrants, all under the guise of state-led “rehabilitation” efforts.

Even after the passage of the 2004 Special Act on the Prevention of Prostitution, the industry continued to evolve—particularly through internet-based platforms. Park highlights the inherent limitations of prohibitionist policies, exposing how the hierarchical power dynamics between female sex workers and their male clients remain largely unaltered. Moreover, she reveals how lawmakers have persistently obstructed activists’ efforts to decriminalise all women in prostitution. In doing so, she lays bare the deeply entrenched gender and class hierarchies that have underpinned South Korea’s modernisation.

Ultimately, Park’s work exposes the South Korean state’s systematic regulation and exploitation of women’s bodies, even as it outwardly condemned the sex industry. Through a meticulous analysis of historical and legal records, The State’s Sexuality dismantles the illusion of prohibition, revealing prostitution not as an illicit underworld but as a state-orchestrated enterprise—one that reinforced patriarchal power structures while serving national interests. This reframing carries significant implications for how we discuss and commemorate this history. Indeed, Park compels readers to reconsider the ways in which language shapes historical memory and political discourse, particularly in the context of justice and redress for affected women. By positioning sex workers as political subjects rather than passive victims, she challenges conventional portrayals, foregrounding their agency and resistance. In doing so, she demands a more nuanced understanding of historical injustice and its enduring legacies.

The struggle for these women is even more complex than that of Japanese military comfort women, as it implicates not only Koreans but also their closest ally—the United States. Koreans can no longer direct blame solely at a former coloniser, the perennial antagonist of historical discourse; instead, they must reckon with the complicity of their own government and military. While sustained survivor advocacy, legal victories, and academic research remain vital in challenging entrenched misconceptions, formidable obstacles continue to hinder meaningful progress.

Some former camptown women remain in the sex industry, yet the landscape of the Korean sex trade has shifted, with an increasing number of foreign women entering the profession—posing an ongoing challenge for the state. When red-light districts are shuttered, these women often find themselves with little institutional support to transition into other careers. Age, immigration status, and financial precarity frequently limit their ability to acquire new skills or pursue alternative livelihoods. However, these women and their advocates resist being cast solely as victims. Many increasingly seek recognition not only for their suffering but also for their place in national history. Their struggle extends beyond the pursuit of justice and redress; it is also a fight for the acknowledgment of their agency and historical roles. This battle transcends mere economic survival, reaching into the realm of national identity, as they work to preserve the physical remnants of their past. Efforts to erase these uncomfortable histories—such as the ongoing push to demolish the former VD Detention Center at Mount Soyo in Dongducheon, Gyeonggi Province—reflect a broader campaign to obscure the contributions and sacrifices of these women. The patriarchy continues to seek the erasure of such historical markers, yet their fight to preserve them remains integral to the struggle for justice, recognition, and historical truth.

As Park shared in an interview with me, “Weaving prostitution into the narrative of the nation-state” is not merely about rewriting history—it is about recognising the role of women, including those engaged in prostitution, in shaping the national story. “While the nation-state’s historical narrative often celebrates kings, generals, and intellectuals—predominantly men—this book challenges that exclusion.” Indeed, The State’s Sexuality foregrounds the contributions of women who have long been marginalised, including those deemed the most degraded by society. Civil society activists fighting to preserve historical memory share this objective: to ensure that these women’s suffering and sacrifices are not erased, but rather integrated into the national narrative, preventing history from repeating its tragedies. Park’s work unravels the contradictions of the toleration-regulation regime, offering a paradigm shift for both civil society and policymakers. It compels them to confront the uncomfortable truths of the past and to acknowledge the contributions of all citizens—irrespective of their social standing.

How to cite: Greenberg, Jack. “Confronting Uncomfortable Truths—Park, Jeong-mi’s The State’s Sexuality: Prostitution and Postcolonial Nation Building in South Korea.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 18 Mar. 2025, chajournal.blog/2025/03/18/sexuality.

Jack Greenberg is a freelance writer, independent researcher, and consultant. His current work focuses on heritage and conservation issues, historical memory debates, truth-seeking and reconciliation, and civilian massacres during the 1950–53 Korean War. A recipient of the Global Korea Scholarship, Jack earned a Master’s in International Studies from Korea University. He is also an alumnus of McGill University. His work appears regularly in The Korea Times and KoreaPro, among other publications. Follow him on Substack at ggachi.substack.com or on social media under the handle @jackwgreenberg. [All contributions by Jack Greenberg.]