Understanding Arirang: A Milwaukee photojournalist at the BTS concert in Seoul’s Gwanghwamun Square

I found myself in South Korea on assignment for “Milwaukee Independent” as BTS turned the historic Gwanghwamun Square in downtown Seoul into the center of a global comeback event with Netflix.

The photojournalism project was an expansion of my award-winning 2024 series, EXPLORING KOREA: Stories from Milwaukee to the DMZ and across a divided peninsula. The album “ARIRANG” and the “BTS World Tour ARIRANG” were announced just prior to my leaving Milwaukee in January.

The BTS THE COMEBACK LIVE | ARIRANG event for Netflix at Gwanghwamun Square was not made public until weeks later. I was already in Japan by then with my schedule in place, but timing and logistics allowed me some flexibility.

I was originally set to arrive in Seoul from Daegu on March 20. It was the day the “ARIRANG” album would go on sale, and a day before the Netflix live event monopolized the city. With all the hype surrounding the first BTS concert since 2022, and the first performance after all members had completed their mandatory military service, I knew I would be walking into a mess.

So, before I left Hakata, Japan for South Korea, I cancelled my week of plans in Daegu. I decided to go directly to Seoul after Busan and get there early. Even though news reports and online booking sites claimed it was sold out, I managed to book a room at the Koreana Hotel. It was the closest place I could stay to Gwanghwamun Square, and within the BTS concert venue, which enveloped the area with a 1,200-meter footprint.

Gwanghwamun Square sits directly in front of Gyeongbokgung Palace, the main royal palace of the Joseon Dynasty, and is anchored by Gwanghwamun Gate, the palace’s primary entrance. The space forms a historic axis that runs through central Seoul, lined with national symbols including the statues of Admiral Yi Sun-sin and King Sejong.

Once a wide traffic corridor, the area was gradually reconfigured into a pedestrian plaza and fully redesigned in 2022 to function as a major civic space for public gatherings. The space was layered with monarchy, occupation, protest, and democratic memory.

That context was central to why BTS sought permission to perform there. Staging the concert at Gwanghwamun Square placed a global cultural event in front of Korea’s most recognizable historic site, linking contemporary pop culture with the country’s political and royal heritage in a setting regularly used for national events, protests, and public ceremonies.

When I arrived in Gwanghwamun Square on March 14, it was full of tourists and in no way resembled a concert venue. BTS signage was just starting to appear, physically on steps and digitally on the giant TV screens that lined the avenue.

Over the course of six days, I watched the space turn into a one-of-a-kind performance space as I criss-crossed the city in my travels. The preparations for BTS had started quietly. By March 17, all the elements for the stage had been delivered, and construction was underway in earnest.

Promotional banners began to appear with the metal barricades that defined the footprint of the stage and the ticketed audience area. Press crews began arriving early to document construction progress. Police presence increased, though movement remained mostly unrestricted.

As the stage rose, so did the composition of the crowd. Early in the week, most of the foot traffic was local, consisting of commuters, tourists moving between historic sites, and small groups curious about the build.

By March 19, the crowds and languages I overheard were far more diverse, and the foot traffic felt like a swollen river. The locations I had been using to document the stage’s construction progress began to burst at the seams with “ARMY” faithful taking keepsake selfies.

ARMY, an acronym for “Adorable Representative M.C. for Youth,” was coined early in BTS’s rise, and is the name of the group’s global fan community. I only interacted directly with a small number of ARMY, but that still represented an incredible amount of diversity.

On a rooftop vantage point that morning overlooking the Square, while I took photos of the final stage configuration, I met a young woman from Dnipro, Ukraine. When I greeted her in solidarity, saying “Slava Ukraini” (Glory to Ukraine), she smiled with recognition of the patriotic national salute and answered with an acknowledging reply. I also pointed to the patch I had on my jacket from Milwaukee’s sister city of Irpin, given to me by the city’s mayor after the Russian occupation in April 2022, to show my connection.

Wearing a traditional Korean Hanbok dress, she told me that she had fled her country in 2014 during the first invasion by Russia and settled in Europe, returned home later, and then left again in 2022 after the full-scale invasion. She came directly to South Korea, where she has lived alone since. She told me she was eager to watch the concert, and I helped her film an Instagram video. I later saw her interviewed in a news clip, as the Korean media had taken to swarming around her.

As I navigated the square over those days leading up to the concert, it was like watching an increasing gravitational force. By March 20, the Gwanghwamun area was no longer a public square in any practical sense. It was a controlled environment with defined entry points and blockades designed to restrict movement.

It had been transformed while retaining its physical shape. Fortified and unmoving, the space was a breakwater for waves of people. And finally, the moment arrived when all the work and waiting would go into use at once for the BTS performance.

On the morning of March 21, a small group of ARMY had already staked out their spots around the perimeter barriers. Admission to the concert itself was free, but access was limited. Entry to designated viewing zones required advance online registration, and the tickets for those spaces were snapped up instantly weeks before.

Other areas of Gwanghwamun Square remained technically open to the public until capacity limits were reached, after which gates were closed. There was the expected confusion, bottlenecks, and inconveniences to the general public.

The ultimate result of the venue’s design was a layered crowd, staggered inside secured sections with guaranteed proximity, to prevent a tight concentration of too many people. Meanwhile, others navigated the outer perimeters in the hope of finding a line of sight to the stage not obstructed by the video screens.

Even with all the security restrictions, in attempting to reach a forward zone I had previously scouted, I somehow bypassed all the barriers and found myself walking across the restricted concert venue space unchallenged.

I made it to the East gate closest to the stage and talked with ARMY for a while. I then went on to photograph other areas to show the locations and the flow of people. I had gotten all the visuals I needed by midday and returned to my hotel. My plan was to stay in and watch the concert on Netflix. But after lunch, I decided to head back out to get more environmental photos of the crowds.

By the time I returned in the afternoon, the situation had shifted from my calm morning experience. Entry points that had been open earlier were now restricted. The E1 gate was closed entirely, and access was limited along the perimeter. I approached the E2 gate and saw a group of journalists enter ahead of me. I could not reach the checkpoint fast enough to go in with them. But I showed my press credentials and was allowed in after I presented my passport.

No members of the press were given access to the inside of the concert space. But a media area was set up at the perimeter. TV cameras were concentrated there in a row, much to the annoyance of ARMY, who thought it was a good idea to establish themselves behind a row of visual obstructions.

Once I was in the media area on the east side, I was a bit stuck because of how the barriers intersected to give us a bubble. I had only intended to reconnect with the ARMY I spoke with in the morning, to see if they had been able to stay. There was concern that they would get pushed out right before the concert, which the police had originally intended to do. I did later learn they had been allowed to remain.

So I found myself in a place that did not have the best vantage point, but was still too nice to leave. And it was likely the best spot I would be able to manage. The biggest incentive for staying was the crash barriers that separated us from the crowd in the rear. They were constructed with cross sections that made for comfortable seating. So I basically had a private place to sit for 6 hours.

I had no mobility to go outside our bubble, but no press other cameramen could either. The spot provided a place to rest and work. Leaving would mean losing the position entirely, and there would be no getting back in. So it seemed as if I had decided to stay.

As the sun set, the crowd behind the barrier continued to build, filling in every available nook. ARMY who had been waiting since 7:00 a.m. that morning held onto their positions. Others pressed forward where they could, trying to improve their view by small margins.

The stadium-sized video screens mounted on nearby buildings became a primary point of focus for much of the audience. For anyone not directly in front of the stage in Section A, the screens seemed to be the only consistent way for many who had tickets to follow the performance.

The venue was really designed for broadcast, one big theatrical location used for its history as a background. Beyond the stage area, Sections B and C were mostly obstructed from the ground. I had a good, direct view of the full stage from my vantage point. The setup was great for Netflix to film, and maybe the 20,000 ARMY who had premium tickets.

For the other tens of thousands inside the venue further back and outside around its edges, it seemed like a disappointment. But there were many in the crowd who were just happy to hear the music live, while still trying to improve their position.

“Arirang” is one of Korea’s most enduring cultural symbols, a traditional folk song with roots that stretch back centuries. It has variations that exist across the divided peninsula. Often described as an unofficial national anthem, its melody is simple and adaptable, but its meaning is layered. It is associated with separation, longing, resilience, and identity.

The version most widely recognized internationally was actually recorded in America. In 1896, seven Korean students studying in Washington DC, were enrolled at Howard University, a historically Black College and University (HBCU) founded in 1867 to educate African Americans who had been excluded from most U.S. universities after the Civil War.

The seven students became known locally for singing Korean songs at campus gatherings, including the traditional Korean folk song “Arirang.” That year, American ethnologist Alice Cunningham Fletcher recorded several of them singing the song on wax-cylinder phonograph equipment, producing what is widely considered the earliest known audio recording of “Arirang.” The moment was documented in a 1896 newspaper article titled “Seven Koreans at Howard.”

That recording helped introduce “Arirang” to a broader audience outside Korea, placing it within a global archive of cultural preservation. By invoking “Arirang” for their comeback, BTS drew on that deeper history, connecting a modern global performance to a song long associated with the Korean experience itself.

When the concert began, the energy across Gwanghwamun Square was infectious. I held my camera as high as I could manage to clear the sea of heads in front of me for the good part of an hour, and I took what photos I could.

The crowd behind me remained protective of every inch they had for viewing. When I shifted position, complaints followed. Another photographer next to me with a ladder often stood to get his shots and blocked the view of a chunk of ARMY, raising a considerable amount of ire. I tried to be accommodating while I did my job. He just ignored the noise.

It was actually a fun experience for me, more than I expected. And I was a part of a historical event. I have listened to K-pop since the 1990s, before it was commonly known as K-pop. BTS was not my favorite K-pop group, as boy band visuals in general are not designed for my taste. I like most of the popular BTS songs and immensely respect what they have accomplished, including their position in the global entertainment industry.

The experience was not wasted on me, even with my mild indifference. Visually documenting the concert in still images and without emotional investment clarified my role. I was not there to celebrate or participate, but to observe how meaning was constructed around an event at scale.

ARMY carried a personal connection to BTS that shaped their experience in ways I could not replicate. What I could do was record the structure around them, in the space, the movement, the constraints, and the behavior that emerged when thousands of people converged with a shared purpose.

The emotional distance was not a limitation. It was the condition that made the work possible. It was a privilege to stand where I did, and I showed the corresponding respect for the situation. But I was not unaware that the amazing access I had would have better served more than 75% of the diehard fans around me.

Scheduled for only one hour, the concert felt especially short considering the preparations and waiting involved. The performance had played out across the city on outdoor screens as much as on stage or on TV.

When BTS said their farewells and left the stage, the massive crowds quickly began to disperse. The police managed the flow of humanity, if overly zealous most of the time, to keep people moving so no clusters could form.

Throughout the evening, there had been an underlying tension between those attending the concert and the safety apparatus surrounding it. Since the 2022 Halloween crowd crush in Itaewon, South Korean authorities have treated large gatherings with heightened caution, and the police presence around Gwanghwamun Square reflected that reality.

The U.S. Embassy in Seoul had issued a “Security Alert” on March 21:

Caution Issued by the Republic of Korea for Large Public Event at Gwanghwamun Square, Seoul

A large-scale public concert is scheduled to take place at Gwanghwamun Square on Saturday, March 21, 2026, from 8 to 9 PM, Korea Standard Time. Gwanghwamun Square is located directly in front of Gyeongbokgung Palace, just north of the U.S. Embassy’s Chancery building, along Sejong-daero. The event may draw upwards of 250,000 spectators, resulting in enhanced security, road closures, and impacts to public transportation in central Seoul. The Republic of Korea has issued a “caution” level crisis alert, classifying the event as increasing the risk of a “Mass Gathering Crowd Disaster.”

There was an abundance of caution and overreaction on the side of safety. Entry points were sealed around the concert’s perimeter long before those zones came close to reaching capacity. The entire perimeter, from layered gates to segmented holding areas, was designed to prevent a surge from turning into a deadly crush. It was also a major reason why only 50,000 of the expected 250,000 people attended. People were disenfranchised from attending.

As soon as I got back to my hotel, which was not as difficult a trek as I had expected, I watched the Netflix re-broadcast of the live concert. Aesthetically, it was clearly the best view of the concert and the most comfortable seat. But I still treasured my experience of being on the ground when it was performed in real-time.

At the same time, back home in Milwaukee, my diehard BTS loving friends had been watching the Netflix concert livestream and were overjoyed. For them, the concert existed as a broadcast that was framed, edited, and elevated. For me on the ground, it was an unintended encounter with popular culture in Korea that I was privileged to witness.

The concert did not exist as a single shared experience. It was split into parallel versions depending on where someone stood to watch it. I was aware that a version of the moment seen in Milwaukee would not resemble the one in front of me.

From the ground at Gwanghwamun Square, the experience was shaped by barriers, distance, and constant negotiation for position. Back home, the same performance arrived as a complete broadcast, uninterrupted and fully framed.

The difference was not just visual, but experiential. One was defined by access and limitation, the other by clarity and control. Moving between those perspectives, I was not documenting a single event, but how the same moment can take on different meanings depending on where it is seen.

The story of my BTS experience did not include a spiraling pilgrimage full of symbolism. But it was not only about the music. It was the opportunity to spend days photographing the scale of a global event in the center of an ancient capital city.

Despite the physical barriers, the security gates, the jostling for positions, the hours of waiting, the concert was something people had come a long way to be part of. Not to watch from a perfect angle, but to be there with their feet on the ground and to share with others.

The stage at Gwanghwamun Square offered a focal point, whether seen up close or on a flat screen across an ocean, for fans to gather and embrace their long-beloved music idols. It was a place, both historic and modern, and served as the host of a special moment in time.