As political violence escalates, the solution lies within the U.S.

When people imagine a failing democracy, they picture tanks on the streets or constitutions torn to pieces. But the real danger often arrives in suits and legal memos. It’s not always about military coups or civil war—it’s about elected leaders slowly twisting the system to serve their will. And few stories capture this creeping decay as vividly as the presidency of Syngman Rhee.

In postwar South Korea, Rhee rose to power under the banner of democracy, backed by Western allies. But what followed was a years-long descent into authoritarian rule. Law enforcement became an extension of executive power. Opposition politicians faced arrest—or worse. Judges and journalists were harassed. Rhee didn’t need to suspend the constitution; he simply hollowed it out.

This isn’t ancient history. It’s a vivid case study in how autocracy takes root not by accident, but by design—and with the silent consent of institutions that should have resisted.

After the Japanese occupation ended in 1945, the Korean Peninsula was split into two ideological halves. In the South, Syngman Rhee emerged as the face of anti-communist nationalism—US-educated, politically savvy, and keen to model his state after the American system. But the democracy he built was brittle from the start.

Following South Korea’s formal statehood in 1948 and the devastation of the Korean War (1950–1953), Rhee leaned into authoritarianism. Citing national security threats and internal sabotage, he declared emergency powers, crushed leftist dissent, and passed laws allowing police to arrest “subversive” actors—broadly defined.

Political opposition wasn’t just discouraged—it was dismantled. In the lead-up to elections, opposition figures were jailed or disqualified. In some cases, they were assassinated. The police and military operated as tools of domestic control rather than public safety. It was a grim irony: a president committed to fighting communism ended up mimicking its tactics.

What’s most chilling about Rhee’s regime isn’t the overt violence—it’s the use of institutional mechanisms to entrench illegitimate power. The courts still functioned. Elections were held. Parliament existed. But these democratic structures were compromised from within.

Rhee regularly amended the constitution to keep himself in office. In 1952, he switched the presidential election method from indirect to direct—arming himself with the populist legitimacy of a public vote. In 1954, he scrapped term limits altogether. When he was reelected in 1960 through blatant electoral fraud, public outrage spilled into the streets.

But by then, the damage was done. Rhee’s grip had already reshaped governance into a personalized regime. The longer institutions cooperate with authoritarian tactics, the harder it becomes to walk democracy back.

It’s tempting to view Rhee’s Korea as a distant lesson from a different time. But the tactics he used remain startlingly familiar in today’s political landscape.

• Legalistic repression: Instead of banning dissent outright, Rhee used vague national security laws to arrest rivals and intimidate civil society. In many democracies today, “anti-terror” or “anti-fake news” statutes serve a similar function.
• Judicial capture: The president’s loyalists were appointed to key judicial roles, ensuring court rulings aligned with executive preferences. This erosion of independence made contesting unlawful arrests nearly impossible.
• Party discipline through fear: Ruling party members who questioned Rhee’s decisions often found themselves sidelined—or worse. The lack of internal dissent gave the illusion of national consensus.

These aren’t relics of the Cold War—they’re recurring tactics in places where democracy is under stress. From Hungary to Turkey to even mature democracies facing populist waves, the same structural compromises play out in subtler forms.

Syngman Rhee didn’t rule alone. He was enabled by a web of silent collaborators—cabinet officials, police commanders, party operatives—who chose career over conscience. Most weren’t ideologues. They simply feared losing their jobs or influence. Some even convinced themselves they were protecting the nation’s future.

That’s the uncomfortable truth behind many democratic collapses: it’s not usually orchestrated by fanatics but by functionaries who convince themselves to look away. When courts refuse to challenge illegal actions, when lawmakers justify overreach for “stability,” when media figures dismiss rising authoritarianism as overreaction—those aren’t outliers. They’re symptoms of institutional self-preservation. History isn’t just about villains. It’s about the silence of the supposedly neutral.

In April 1960, after widespread student-led protests over rigged elections and police killings of demonstrators, Syngman Rhee finally resigned and fled to Hawaii. The April Revolution had succeeded in toppling a president—but at great social cost.

By then, the South Korean public had learned a hard lesson: without robust democratic norms and accountability mechanisms, no constitution can protect against tyranny. Rhee’s resignation didn’t erase the years of fear and control. It took decades—and another military dictatorship—before South Korea would reestablish itself as a functioning liberal democracy. The echoes of Rhee’s tactics remained in the political DNA of the country long after he stepped down.

Democracy, as political theorist Juan Linz once noted, “is not only a system of rules—it is also a system of mutual forbearance and trust.” Syngman Rhee’s presidency is a stark reminder that once that trust breaks, rules are easy to bend. The damage done by institutional cowardice can last a generation.

Rhee’s South Korea shows how easily democratic forms can coexist with undemocratic practices. Today’s political leaders—whether in Washington, Warsaw, or New Delhi—should recognize the warning signs before they metastasize. When courts defer, when law enforcement takes sides, and when political rivals become enemies of the state, the slide away from democracy has already begun.

You don’t need a coup to lose a republic. Sometimes, all it takes is silence—and a pen. The broader lesson is that strongmen don’t always rise through force. They often ascend through bureaucracy, legitimized by elections and emboldened by passive institutions. Once they capture the narrative, the courts, and the coercive arm of the state, opposition becomes not just risky—but structurally futile.

That’s why vigilance must extend beyond charismatic leaders. The real defense of democracy lies in strengthening the connective tissue: independent media, courageous judges, informed citizens, and institutional norms that refuse to yield—even under pressure. Democracy erodes gradually, then suddenly. Rhee’s story shows how easily that erosion can become irreversible.