On February 19, 2026, South Korea found itself at the center of extraordinary national tension as the first trial sentencing for former President Yoon Seok-yeol and seven high-ranking military and police officials took place at Seoul Central District Court. The charges? Nothing less than leading an internal rebellion—the infamous December 3, 2024, martial law declaration that has since shaken the country’s political and legal foundations.
The day began under a heavy shroud of anticipation. According to Yonhap News, police barricades encircled the courthouse, with 1,000 riot police from 16 units deployed to keep order. The security was so tight that, since February 13, only one entrance remained open, and everyone—whether court staff, media, or attorneys—was subject to rigorous ID checks. The court had even banned general vehicle access, allowing only essential and accredited media vehicles through. The message was clear: this was no ordinary trial.
Outside the courthouse, the atmosphere was electric and deeply divided. About 100 Yoon supporters, waving South Korean and U.S. flags, chanted “Yoon Again” and “Free President Yoon.” Some had camped out overnight, undeterred by the cold or the gravity of the charges facing their former leader. Hardline conservative groups, including Shin Jayu Yeondae and the Election Fraud Prevention Corps, had planned a rally of over 4,300 participants, their voices swelling as the afternoon approached. On the other side of the street, progressive activists and YouTubers demanded Yoon receive the death penalty, holding banners that read, “Even after a year, the rebellion isn’t over.”
The tension between these groups occasionally boiled over into shouting matches, but thanks to the heavy police presence, physical confrontations were avoided. Meanwhile, at Gwanghwamun Square, the National People’s Action group held a press conference at 10 AM, reiterating their call for the harshest punishment. Song Hae-jin, whose son died in the Itaewon tragedy, spoke passionately: “For someone who shattered the constitutional order and shirked responsibility for the deaths of 159 people, only the most severe punishment as prescribed by law is appropriate.”
The stakes inside the courthouse were just as high. The sentencing, scheduled for 3 PM and broadcast live by YTN, marked exactly 443 days since Yoon’s controversial martial law declaration. Presiding Judge Ji Gwi-yeon, already a figure of controversy for previously denying Yoon’s arrest warrant, was at the center of attention. As YTN reported, the court would first read the charges, then deliver verdicts and sentencing for all eight defendants in a single session, given the complexity and scale of the case.
The prosecution’s stance was unambiguous. They had requested the death penalty for Yoon, arguing that the December 3 martial law was not just unconstitutional but a calculated attempt to monopolize power. The prosecution compared Yoon’s actions to those of past military dictators Chun Doo-hwan and Roh Tae-woo, asserting that “an even harsher punishment is necessary.” They emphasized that, while the death penalty is rarely carried out in practice, its symbolic weight was crucial for upholding the rule of law and deterring future coups. “There is no reason to grant leniency,” the prosecution insisted, “and the sentence must demonstrate society’s resolve against such crimes.”
Yoon’s defense, for its part, maintained that the martial law was intended as a warning, not an actual coup. They argued that military and police deployments were meant to maintain order, not to subvert democracy, and continued to cite allegations of anti-state forces and election fraud as justification for the emergency measures. However, as YTN noted, these arguments had already been rejected in related trials, with courts consistently ruling that the December 3 martial law amounted to a rebellion aimed at undermining the constitutional order.
The legal issues at stake were complex. The court had to decide whether the martial law declaration truly constituted an insurrection, especially given the military and police deployments to the National Assembly and the National Election Commission, the operation of arrest squads targeting politicians, and orders to cut power and water to media outlets. The procedural legality of the declaration—whether proper cabinet and parliamentary notifications had been made—was also under scrutiny.
Political reactions ran the gamut, reflecting the deep divisions in South Korean society. Justice Minister Jeong Seong-ho, according to Kyeonggi Ilbo, expressed hope for “a stern and appropriate judgment in line with the weight of history.” He shared a column criticizing the leniency shown to former presidents Chun and Roh, suggesting that this case should be different: “Only resolute punishment can break the chain of rebellion in our constitutional history.”
Progressive groups were even more forceful. In a joint statement issued by the National People’s Action and the Korean Confederation of Trade Unions, they argued, “The judiciary must sentence Yoon Seok-yeol, the ringleader of the December 3 rebellion, to the highest legal penalty. The reality of the rebellion has already been confirmed by law—Yoon cannot escape.” They referenced previous convictions: Han Deok-soo, former Prime Minister, received 23 years for participating in the unconstitutional martial law and tampering with documents, while Lee Sang-min, former Interior Minister, was sentenced to 7 years for ordering power and water cuts to media outlets. “If the hands and feet are punished, the head cannot be spared,” the statement declared. “Only severe punishment can restore constitutional order and prevent future rebellions.”
On the other side, the conservative People Power Party (PPP) was more circumspect. Party leader Jang Dong-hyuk refrained from commenting before the verdict, stating he would make his position known afterward. However, some supreme council members voiced skepticism about the internal rebellion charges, warning against “legal leaps and political interpretations.” As quoted in The Hankyoreh, Supreme Council member Kim Min-soo said, “It is essential to ensure that criminal procedures are not swayed by political motives.” Others echoed concerns about judicial independence, suggesting that excessive emotion and political pressure were distorting the process. Jang himself hinted that the party’s focus should be on “agenda transformation” rather than dwelling on the past, a stance likely aimed at maintaining unity among conservatives and appealing to centrist voters.
As 3 PM approached, the dueling rallies outside the court grew in size and intensity. Candlelight Action, a progressive group, was set to hold a 5,000-strong rally demanding Yoon’s conviction, while pro-Yoon demonstrators doubled down on calls for his acquittal. The entire nation, it seemed, was holding its breath, waiting for the verdict that would not only determine Yoon Seok-yeol’s fate but also set a precedent for how South Korea confronts threats to its democracy.
With live cameras rolling and the world watching, South Korea’s judiciary faced a historic test—one that would resonate far beyond the walls of courtroom 417.