The spark that set Korea ablaze in the final decade of the nineteenth century began not with a foreign invasion, but with a local tyrant.
In the spring of 1894, the peasants of southern Korea did something remarkable with a sheet of paper: they signed their names in a circle. This was the Sabal Tongmun, a circular petition designed so that no single name sat at the head of the list, rendering the ringleader invisible to the retribution of the state. For decades, the Joseon Dynasty had been fraying under the weight of systemic corruption, insupportable taxation, and the unsettling encroachment of foreign powers. In the county of Gobu-gun, the local magistrate, Jo Byeong-gap, had pushed his subjects to the precipice of ruin. He had forced them to construct an unnecessary reservoir, only to tax them for its water; he had seized cleared wasteland under false promises of tax exemption; and he had extorted vast fortunes from the wealthy under fabricated charges of "infidelity" and "needless talents." When a thousand furious farmers finally descended on the local government offices on January 10, shattering the gates and forcing Jo to flee for his life, they were not merely rioting over rice or reservoirs. They were acting under the influence of a radical, home-grown faith that promised to turn their world upside down.
At the heart of this uprising was Donghak, or "Eastern Learning." Founded in 1860 by Choe Je-u, a visionary who claimed to have received a mystical talisman from the supreme deity, Hanulnim, Donghak was a theological tapestry woven from threads of Neo-Confucianism, shamanic animism, and, ironically, the very Western Christianity it sought to repel. Choe’s teachings were egalitarian and deeply destabilizing to the highly stratified Joseon social order. He declared that "All humans are Hanulnim"—that the divine resided within every individual, regardless of their caste, gender, or wealth. He spoke of a cosmic cycle of five thousand years that was drawing to a close, preparing to give birth to a new world. Though the state had executed Choe in 1864 for "tricking and lying to the foolish people," his faith did not die. Organized into local networks called Jeob and Po, the religion went underground, spreading quietly through the southern provinces of Chungcheong and Jeolla. By the late nineteenth century, as the country groaned under the influence of foreign merchants and the heavy hand of royal tax collectors, Donghak transformed from a marginalized spiritual sect into a formidable political vehicle.
By late 1892, the movement’s leaders had initiated the Gyojo Shinwon campaign, a series of mass petitions demanding the posthumous exoneration of their martyred founder. But under the leadership of Jeon Bong-jun, the Jeobju of Gobu, the petitions grew increasingly revolutionary. In the spring of 1893, tens of thousands of believers converged on the market of Boeun, wearing blue clothes with red gloves and constructing an earthen fortress. Their demands had transcended religious toleration; they called for the expulsion of Western missionaries and Japanese merchants, the cessation of illegal taxation, and the ban of the inflation-causing Dangojeon coin. Though the conservative Northern faction of the Donghak leadership, fearing a bloody government crackdown, managed to quell the Boeun assembly after three days, the revolutionary spark had been struck. When the abuse of Magistrate Jo in Gobu drove the local population to revolt in early 1894, Jeon Bong-jun did not see a localized riot; he saw the beginning of a holy war.
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The initial Gobu uprising was temporarily pacified when the government replaced the corrupt magistrate with a conciliatory official who persuaded the rebels to disperse. However, the peace was brief. Government investigators soon arrived to punish the participants, forcing Jeon and his co-conspirator, Kim Gae-nam, to flee south to Mujang. There, they allied with Son Hwa-jung, another powerful Donghak leader. On March 20, 1894, they issued a call to arms. Gathering thousands of followers on the slopes of Mount Baek, the rebel army marched back into Gobu in April, launching a full-scale insurrection. The peasant army, though poorly equipped, was fueled by religious zeal and a desperate hunger for justice. They routing government forces at the Battle of Hwangtojae and again at the Hwangryong River, capturing the historic provincial capital of Jeonju Fortress by May. Terrified by the rapid collapse of his armies, King Gojong’s court made a fateful decision: they appealed to China’s Qing Dynasty for military assistance.
The arrival of 2,700 Chinese soldiers on Korean soil triggered a geopolitical avalanche. Japan, watchfully waiting for an opportunity to assert its dominance over the peninsula, claimed that China had violated the Convention of Tientsin by failing to notify Tokyo before deploying troops. In response, Japan dispatched its own army, seizing the royal palace in Hanseong and instigating the First Sino-Japanese War. Back in Jeonju, shocked by the sudden arrival of foreign armies on their shores, the rebel leaders and government forces quickly signed the Treaty of Jeonju in May, agreeing to a temporary truce. The peasants dispersed to their fields, hoping to implement local administrative reforms through their own self-governing councils, while the two East Asian empires turned the Korean Peninsula into a bloody theater of war.
As the summer of 1894 waned, Japanese forces drove the Chinese out of the peninsula and tightened their grip on the Joseon court. The realization that their homeland was slipping into foreign subjugation reawakened the dormant peasant army. In October, the Northern and Southern factions of Donghak set aside their theological and tactical differences, assembling a massive coalition force of tens of thousands of fighters at Samrye. Jeon Bong-jun led this army north toward Seoul, determined to expel the Japanese invaders and the puppet officials they had installed. But the world had changed since their spring victories. At the Battle of Ugeumchi in late November, the poorly armed peasants, carrying little more than bamboo spears and antiquated matchlock muskets, confronted a combined force of government troops and Japanese regular infantry equipped with modern artillery and Gatling guns. The result was a slaughter. Charging uphill into a wall of mechanized fire, the rebel ranks were systematically obliterated.
The defeat at Ugeumchi broke the spine of the revolution. A final, desperate stand at the Battle of Taein failed to turn the tide, and by the winter of 1894, the remnants of the peasant army were hunted down across the snow-covered hills of the Honam region. Jeon Bong-jun and the other principal leaders of the uprising were betrayed, captured, and brought to Seoul in chains. In March 1895, they were executed by mass hanging. The Donghak Peasant Revolution had ended in ruin, its fields soaked in the blood of its believers, leaving the Joseon Dynasty fragile and completely exposed to the imperial designs of Japan. Yet, the memory of the circular signatures of the Sabal Tongmun and the vision of a world where all humans were divine survived, remaining a potent symbol of popular resistance and national sovereignty for the century of foreign occupation and civil strife that lay ahead.