In Seoul, conservatism equals pro-Americanism... still

In American conservative politics, support for Israel has long been treated not as a matter of strategic judgment but of moral identity. To be pro-Israel is to be patriotic. To criticize Israel—even mildly—is to risk accusations of anti-Semitism, disloyalty, or worse. This alliance, forged in Cold War realism, has since hardened into a bipartisan dogma, but it is on the American right that it takes on an almost theological character: Israel as a civilizational ally, a spiritual partner, and a permanent victim-hero.

The implications of this are far-reaching. In certain quarters, it is believed that U.S. foreign policy is now premised not on U.S. national interest, but on preserving Israel’s—often to the detriment of American credibility and global standing. Washington vetoes at the UN, military aid packages immune to oversight, and diplomatic cover for Israeli military actions are all justified under the banner of shared values. Yet, this unwavering support has begun to fracture.

With Israel’s actions in Gaza, Syria, and Iran, some American voters, journalists, and even lawmakers—particularly younger and more progressive voices—have begun to ask: Is this really in America’s interest?

That question was once taboo. But now it echoes through Congress, academia, and even elements of the security establishment. The idea that U.S. national interest and Israeli interest are always aligned is no longer taken for granted. The pro-Israel orthodoxy of the past is being challenged—not discarded, but finally scrutinized. And this, in turn, opens a broader question: What happens when strategy becomes ideological dogma? And who pays the price when that dogma hardens into reflex?

This is not just an American story. In South Korea, conservative politics has developed a parallel—arguably even more rigid—reflex: that to be patriotic is to be pro-American.

In South Korea, to question the alliance is to risk being labeled ungrateful, naïve, or even sympathetic to North Korea. The alliance with the United States is treated not as one option among many, but as the only option—indispensable, infallible, beyond debate.

South Korea’s conservatives trace their legitimacy to the Cold War era, when the U.S. served as protector, patron, and model. America was the savior in the Korean War, the sponsor of postwar modernization, and the guarantor of deterrence against the North. That legacy has become foundational. For many on the right, pro-Americanism is not a policy—it is a litmus test for national loyalty.

But like the U.S.–Israel relationship, the U.S.–Korea alliance has evolved. And with that evolution has come friction. U.S. export controls on semiconductor technology, pressure to align with Washington in a future Taiwan conflict, and tensions over defense cost-sharing all reveal that American and Korean interests can—and do—diverge. Yet conservative voices in Seoul often refuse to entertain this possibility. To question the alliance is to question the Republic itself.

This ideological fusion of national interest and alliance loyalty stifles debate. It infantilizes policymaking. Diplomats tread carefully to avoid being labeled “anti-alliance.” Journalists and academics who raise critical questions are often smeared as subversive. In many ways, the conservative imagination in Korea has not moved beyond 1953. The world has changed, but the reflex remains.

And so the question arises: If American foreign policy thinkers can begin to challenge pro-Israel orthodoxy, will Korean foreign policy thinkers soon do the same with pro-Americanism?

The conditions are ripe. A younger generation of Korean strategists, less shaped by war trauma and more by global complexity, increasingly recognizes that alliances must serve evolving national interests—not the other way around. They see that blind loyalty to Washington has not always produced dividends. They understand that being a good ally does not mean being a permanent junior partner.

Already, some voices in Korean academia and media have begun to draw this out. They question the wisdom of automatically aligning with U.S. efforts to contain China. They worry about being pulled into U.S.-led conflicts with no clear benefit to Korea. They note that Washington’s “America First” instincts—on tariffs, industrial policy, and supply chain reshoring—are transactional, not fraternal. These are the stirrings of strategic independence. Not anti-Americanism, but post-Americanism: a willingness to see the alliance not as destiny, but as a choice.

The American example offers a useful lesson. For decades, U.S. conservatives equated support for Israel with national virtue. But now, as the costs of that support become harder to ignore, some are beginning to see the danger of moralized foreign policy. Loyalty, when it replaces strategy, makes a country predictable, exploitable, and ultimately vulnerable to manipulation.

South Korea faces the same risk. As long as pro-Americanism remains fused to national identity, strategic innovation will remain politically dangerous. But if that fusion is broken—if national interest can be discussed on its own terms—Korea may find a new kind of freedom: the freedom to choose, to say no, to shape its future on its own terms.

Despite this, conservative reform in South Korea is very difficult. There are two reasons.

First, Korean conservatism functions less as a coherent ideology and more as a reactive movement. Unlike Western conservatism, which is grounded in philosophical principles like limited government and individual liberty, Korean conservatism is driven by historical trauma, anti-communist reflexes, loyalty to authority, and emotional backlash against progressive politics. It lacks a consistent intellectual foundation and instead thrives on symbols, slogans, and grievance—mobilizing support through fear of the North, distrust of labor and youth movements, and veneration of U.S. protection and developmental-era elites.

This movement-based approach has significant consequences. It produces weak party structures, fosters personality-driven politics, and encourages top-down mobilization rather than internal deliberation or institutional renewal. Leadership changes often bring abrupt shifts in tone or strategy, with little continuity or policy depth, reinforcing a cycle of short-term populism and long-term stagnation.

Second, South Korea is one of the most rapidly aging societies in the world, and Korean conservatism is heavily dependent on older voters. This shrinking demographic cannot sustain electoral dominance indefinitely. Younger generations, who lean more progressive on social issues, increasingly reject the hierarchy, nationalism, and anti-feminism embedded in conservative rhetoric. The right has not found a way to speak to this generation without resorting to culture war tactics or reactionary gender politics.

This is a feature of Korean conservatism, which often defines itself by what it opposes—feminism, unions, progressivism, and perceived “anti-national” attitudes. But its cultural posture, especially on gender, LGBTQ+ rights, and education, is increasingly out of step with a modern, urbanized electorate. The attempt to weaponize backlash—particularly among disaffected young men—will yield temporary wins, but it hardens polarization and deepens generational alienation.

So, is change coming to Korean conservatism? Perhaps, but for now, it remains insulated by age, trauma, and inertia. As its foundations erode—from below, from within, and from without—even the most rigid reflexes can crack. Whether that leads to collapse, reinvention, or something in between remains Korea’s next political question.