[WHY] 4,000 years later, why are Koreans still visiting shamans?

Why is Korean shamanism, historically stigmatized and discounted by many as the stuff of superstition, still thriving in the 21st century? It has to do with the answers it provides to people's innermost desires.

Shaman Kim Jung-hee steps onto a jakdu, or straw cutter, as part of the Jakdugeori, a segment in a gut (Korean shamanistic ritual) wherein the shaman rides knives while possessed by the Jakdu general to prevent misfortune. [KIM JUNG-HEE]

Joo Sun-yi was going through a bitter divorce, and knee-deep in lawsuits, when she visited a mudang, or Korean shaman, in the winter of 2011.

She asked the shaman, Kim Jung-hee, to perform a gut — a ritual, including offerings and sacrifices to the gods, believed to bring a change in fortune — to help her win her case. Kim refused. The deities, Kim said, had already determined that Joo would lose everything in the battle.

That wasn’t what Joo wanted to hear. She found another shaman in Daejeon who was willing to perform the ritual several times, though it cost her 80 million won ($60,000). It appeared, however, that the gods had not been swayed: Joo lost all of her assets in an auction.

Joo is who many Korean shamans describe as their average client: a middle-aged woman who likely has family to care for and, above all, a problem that needs fixing.

“Every one of my clients is either at a crossroad in their life or, at least to some extent, desperate to get out of a difficult situation,” shaman Kim told the Korea JoongAng Daily in an interview in her living room, next to the shrine where she prays to the gods and receives clients. “People who are satisfied with their current situation don’t visit shamans.”

Shaman Kim Jung-hee prays at her shindang, or shrine, inside her home in Seoul. [KIM JU-YEON]

Those people appear in all walks of life.

Sitting president Yoon Suk Yeol is said to have sought out shamans during his election campaigns. Min Hee-jin, prominent K-pop producer and former CEO of the label ADOR, reportedly involved one in her management decisions. First lady Kim Keon Hee alleged that several high-profile politicians had gut performed for them in leaked phone calls.

Burning of talismans to ward off samjae, or three ill-fated years [TVING]

It is difficult to find a concrete count of people who have visited shamans in recent years, but folklorist Hong Tea-han found that more than 50,000 gut had been performed in the greater Seoul metropolitan area in 2017. The Korea Culture and Tourism Institute estimated that more than 400,000 shamans existed in 2013.

The more shamans appear in mass media, the more these numbers grow, according to researchers and shamans who spoke to the JoongAng Daily. In any case, with its cultural roots and continued demand, the millennium-old practice is a fixture in Korean society.

Why is shamanism, historically stigmatized and discounted by many as the stuff of superstition, still thriving in the 21st century? It has to do with the answers it provides to people's innermost desires.

The three walls surrounding shaman Park Sung-mi's shindang in Gyeonggi are completely covered with paintings of the deities she has received as more than 20 years of being a mudang. Such gods include generals, royals, seonnyeo (female angels), scholars and children. Park's story of life as a shaman, and her friendship with French shaman Collette, is documented in documentary film "Shaman Road" (2018). [KIM JU-YEON]

Communicating with gods

A hundred eyes stare down from the paintings hung on shaman Park Sung-mi'sshindang, or shrine. Each picture holds a different deity — generals, seonnyeo (female angels), royals, scholars and even children — that Park has received in more than 20 years of being a shaman since being initiated in 2004. Offerings of rice and gleaming knives are placed on the altar. A strong smell of incense permeates the air.

When a client visits, Park sits them down at a table near the altar and asks for their name and date of birth.

She then shakes coins in the palm of her hand — they make a metallic clinking sound, said to summon the gods — and throws them onto the table. The patterns, she explains, gives insight into the future.

Now possessed by a god, Park states what her client's current problem is before looking at their past that might have led up to it and events that might follow in the future. She might call upon several deities, depending on the client and the problems they face, her voice and speech changing with every god that enters.

In most cases, the client will return to their house after being told of their fortune, hopefully with some insight or solace to their problem. In others, Park might create a talisman that will protect the client from harm or bring better luck. In more serious situations, she may suggest they hold a gut — wherein she will dance and sing to the gods, who will possess her body to speak — and make their demands. The gut has theatrical elements: Park changes clothes with every god who possesses her and shows off their prowess through physical might, such as dancing on sharp blades when receiving a powerful general.

Shaman Park Sung-mi performs Jakdugeori, a segment for the jakdu general, as part of a gut wishing for peace held in South Gyeongsang in May 2018. [PARK SUNG-MI]

Park is a gangshinmu, a term coined by academics for shamans who receive ordination after coming in contact with a god — as someone “chosen.” After experiencing a traumatic shinbyeong — a period of pain inflicted by gods — they undergo an initiation ceremony in order to become a shaman. They are currently more common in number and widely known to the public than saeseupmu, whose abilities are hereditary through family bloodline, and do not necessarily require possession to perform rites.

Korean shamans are thought to date back to Korea’s tribal ages, with their oldest existing record tracing back to the “Memorabilia of the Three Kingdoms” from 1281.

They are further categorized by region and the type of gut they perform — such as ssitgimgut, which comforts souls to depart to the afterlife; michingut, which heals a person’s mental illness; or jaesugut, which is said to bring welfare and blessings.

Changing times, changing desires

Korean shamanism was once a collective practice. Shamans commonly brought the whole town together to ask for communal harmony and good health, or perhaps a bountiful catch of fish and safe wishes for fishermen in seaside villages.

Seohaean Baeyeonsingut and Daedonggut (Fishing Ritual of the West Coast) [KOREA HERITAGE SERVICE]

But as Korea exploded onto the global economic stage, so has its shamanism. Shamans started to demand more expensive offerings and cater more to the needs of those who can afford them. The practice in the 21st century is marked by commoditization and capitalization, more focused on business prosperity and predicting market volatility. One-on-one consultations have replaced village-wide ceremonies, and gut rituals have been truncated to accommodate increasingly packed schedules.

The change is notably evident in the primary customer base of women.

Before the 1990s, homemakers primarily requested that shamans cure illnesses or appease restless spirits, as was expected of their role of managing the household’s peace, anthropologist Laurel Kendall observed in her extensive fieldwork on the practice. In addition to the psychotherapeutic functions they served, the loud and colorful gut rituals also provided a cathartic and escapist form of entertainment in a monotonous village life.

That tracks with shaman Kim's experience. “Women in the past would first ask about their husband’s, then their children’s fortunes and ask about their own last,” she said of the customers she met around the late '90s and early 2000s.

During that time, Kim recalls, female clients would often ask her to perform rituals for their families first — for their husbands to succeed in their jobs or to ensure their ancestors would go to heaven. These days, it's different. “They ask about their own careers first,” Kim says. “They ask if their divorce will end well — when, in the past, they would ask for gut to reconcile with their husbands.”

A funeral procession is carried out after Jindo Ssitgimgut, a ritual traditionally held in Jindo, South Jeolla, to pray that the spirit of the dead may forget all grudges and go to heaven in peace. [KOREA HERITAGE SERVICE]

There’s also a much more diverse audience now. It’s not just middle-aged women who are coming — it’s young people too.

The appearance of the practice in media — including blockbuster films “Exhuma” and “The Wailing” (2016), Netflix series “The Glory” (2022) and even shamans’ personal YouTube channels — has spread its mystical appeal to a more youthful and casual audience, according to shaman Kwon Soo-jin, who told the JoongAng Daily that the number of clients who come to her out of curiosity, or desire for a “fun activity,” has increased tenfold from a decade ago. Such customers, who tend to be in their 20s or 30s, have a casual attitude and few prepared questions, seeking instead the “thrill” of hearing Kwon discuss their personal lives.

Technology has also made it much easier for clients to cancel reservations made through text or online, adding to the practice's casual feel.

A shaman pierces a pig as part of gununggeori, a gut segment for worshipping martial commander gods to drive out evil spirits. [NATIONAL RESEARCH INSTITUTE OF CULTURAL HERITAGE]

This applies to other issues previously considered taboo. Every shaman consulted for this story mentioned a recent influx of clients hoping to discuss sexuality and gender identity, a topic they say was not mentioned decades ago.

Shamans like Hong Kali — who identifies as vegan, queer and feminist — have emerged, carving a new niche in a sector traditionally associated with the slaughtering of livestock as a ritual sacrifice and a Confucian, patriarchal ideology.

And now, they are in the public eye in a way they never were before.

A practice fit for modern capitalism

“Can I not have a shaman as a friend?” a tearful Min Hee-jin pleaded to reporters, and to the world, during a news conference on April 25.

Just minutes before the widely publicized event's scheduled start, the multinational K-pop conglomerate HYBE had sent a news release to news outlets alleging that Min had been coached by a shaman during her tenure as CEO of its subsidiary label ADOR and held gut rituals in the hopes that boy band BTS would be sent to the military.

“I talked to [a shaman] because I was just so curious,” Min sobbed onstage, with her concerned lawyers looking on. “How were we to plan our steps if the company’s ace team was going to the military or not? She was someone I knew who happened to be a shaman.”

Shaman Kwon Soo-jin lights candles and writes talismans for her clients at her shrine. Kwon's life as a shaman and as an ordinary girl was filmed over seven years in documentary movie "A Girl Who Dreams About Time" (2023). [KIM JU-YEON]

Shaman Park was not involved in producer Min's situation, but she believes that a proper shaman would never have harmed HYBE or BTS’s prospects.

Park emphasizes that shamans work on the principle of wishing good fortune without harming others. That is, a shaman can, and should, bring prosperity to a business without ruining the prospects of another.

“It would make no sense for the shaman to hurt the parent company, as its performance influences its subsidiary,” she told the JoongAng Daily.

Business owners and merchants, unsurprisingly, make up the large majority of clients who request gut. Jaesugut for such customers make up 70 to 80 percent of the rituals the shamans in this story perform.

Despite the average gut in Seoul costing a minimum of 7 million won, with those in the range of tens of millions of won also not uncommon, the rituals are in high demand, according to the practitioners. As shaman Kwon puts it, “They’re desperate enough to try anything out.”

The late shaman Kim Bong-soon performs Jaeseokgeori, as part of a regional Gyeongsagut that wishes a household's good luck practiced in Yangju, Gyeonggi. [KOREA HERITAGE SERVICE]

Despite Park's sentiment, records from the Japanese colonial period and the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1910) show that shamans did participate in practices that claimed to bring misfortune upon others. And even when they are not intentional, their actions can harm their clients.

There’s a financial aspect, for one. Many shamans are paid in cash — making them untraceable and untaxed. And some clients’ desperation makes them unstable, easy to sway and eager to grab any solution offered.

“Whether they are in a self-induced trance state or actually possessed by a deity, shamans give out definitive and direct answers without hesitation. There must be a sense of calm that people feel when they meet someone who gives out advice with such confidence,” said Lee Chang-ik, a professor of religious studies at Korea University.

“I’ve been doing this for 30 years and faced numerous people,” shaman Kim said. " You think I don’t know how to push their buttons to make them more frightened and make them want to do gut?”

“A shaman's words are like a dagger — they must be responsible with what they say,” shaman Park said, a sentiment shamans Kim and Kwon echoed.

Red and white flags are displayed on top of a shaman's shindang in Seoul. Korean shamans' shrines are often indicated through flags hung outside their doors. While there are many different interpretations for the flags' colors, a white flag usually indicates that the shaman is able to tell clients' fortune, while the red flag says the shaman can also perform gut. [KIM JU-YEON]

More than 1,000 criminal sentences have been handed down to shamans since 2019, and fraud was the most common charge. That figure does not include many additional cases in which shamans and clients reach private settlements after a gut's promised effects don't take place. One practitioner, shaman Kwon recalls, returned half a 70 million won fee they'd received after a customer threatened to sue.

Shamans, too, can be victims of fraud — especially those in training.

Flashy demonstrations of wealth that shamans demonstrate on social media, especially YouTube, have piqued public curiosity about the shaman lifestyle, the practitioners consulted for this story all agreed. People who come across the practice on social media are quick to accept that they have been “chosen” to become a shaman and dive in, often without knowing much about the practice.

But becoming a shaman is not cheap. For gangshinmu, it requires undergoing a naerimgut, or initiation ritual, which costs an average of 30 to 50 million won. But the aftermath is often a letdown, with many newly initiated shamans complaining that they can't “hear what the gods say” as the internet promised they would. The vulnerable state allows more experienced practitioners to sell them costly solutions: more rituals and more initiations.

Searching shamanism related keywords on YouTube yields thousands of results. A new business model wherein production companies will professionally film and edit shaman-related content has emerged. [SCREEN CAPTURE]

“It’s an endless cycle: They get initiated, then visit other shamans because they can’t perform as a shaman and get into more debt to get initiated again,” shaman Kwon said.

The prospect of a potential change in fortune, nevertheless, is an attractive one that draws customers from opposite ends of the spectrum — both those with nothing and those with much to lose.

Shamans offer answers Korea’s historically hypercompetitive society with high expectations has long made fortunetelling practices, such as saju (the four pillars of destiny), tarot and gwansang (physiognomy) — which a shaman might also utilize — a popular pastime to alleviate uncertainty. More than 40 percent of respondents to a Hankook Research survey said they had consulted a fortuneteller between 2017 and 2022.

Clients usually come in the lead-up to consequential events in their lives, such as when they’re taking exams, considering marriage or changing jobs, shamans say.

But unlike other fortunetellers, shamans also claim to have the power to alter, or actualize, the client’s fortune through divine intervention, according to Kim Dong-kyu, a researcher at the Academic Center for K-Religions at Sogang University.

And rather than dismissing or oppressing the client’s desires, like some organized religions might, Korean shamanism unabashedly encourages them.

“Shamans consider the desire for a good life to be very reasonable. When issues arise because of intimate or seemingly minor desires, shamans remove the client’s guilt by saying, ‘that’s not your problem,” he said.

Shaman Kwon Soo-jin asks her clients for their name and birthdate and examines their hands when fortune-telling. She will sometimes use bells, or a fan, to call upon deities. [KIM JU-YEON]

The predictions and advice are also much more personally tailored for the client, according to shaman Kwon.

“All saju places will tell you the same thing because their fortunetelling is based on the same book,” Kwon said. They can tell you when your fortune will change but can’t pinpoint exactly what or how. People come to shamans because they want to hear something new.”

And whether advising a fishing village or a YouTube fandom, a harried homemaker or a weeping K-pop executive, that “something new” has kept shamans at the center of the Korean zeitgeist, and has kept customers flocking to their shrines, despite a prevalent stigma. The story of shamanism, like the story of Korean society, is one of adaptation. The practice shifts with the needs of the nation, but the drive at its core hasn’t wavered: It tells people, of all walks of life, the things they want to hear.

Joo, now 68 years old, looks back on her divorce with a mix of fondness and hurt.

Though she “lived like a beggar for a year” after losing her property, she did, as shaman Kim had predicted, soon start her real estate business anew. She was able to purchase homes for herself and her children within five years.

“To be honest, I was really disappointed with the gods back then,” she said. “I thought I had done everything they asked me to. But now that I'm doing better, I think they were right.”

BY KIM JU-YEON [kim.juyeon2@joongang.co.kr]