In Seoul’s Gwanghwamun Square, one of the city’s most famous public spaces, stands a giant statue of King Sejong, the 15th-century monarch beloved as much for his governance as for giving his people a written language of their own.
Hangeul, the Korean alphabet, was created under his reign. King Sejong wanted the writing system designed so that ordinary people could read, write and express themselves with ease. Centuries later, it is impossible to miss. Hangul moves through the square in protest placards, cafe menus and metro signs, ingrained in the city’s daily rhythms rather than preserved as heritage.
Behind Sejong’s statue, Gyeongbokgung Palace stretches outward in low tiled roofs and courtyards. Built more than six centuries ago and spread across 41 hectares, it is the largest of Seoul’s five grand palaces – and one of the city’s most visited landmarks. Hangeul was created within these walls, before travelling far beyond them.
For anyone who travels because they love language, Gwanghwamun Square is the right place to start. I happen to be there during Hangeul Hanmadang, a week-long celebration of the Korean script that culminates in Hangeul Day on October 9. Flowers are laid at Sejong’s statue in gratitude, while performances, exhibitions and workshops spill across the plaza.
Hanmadang is a pure Korean term meaning a shared festival or open gathering.
At the event, Oh Kang-suk, deputy director of the Korean Language Policy Division, tells me Hangeul is so embedded in daily life that Koreans sometimes forget its value. “It’s like air,” he says – always there, rarely noticed. Hangeul Hanmadang exists to bring that awareness back, not only for Koreans but also for foreigners increasingly drawn to the language through culture, travel and curiosity.
“Hangeul was created so people could express themselves,” he adds. “Its humanism lies in use.”
I also meet Professor Mark Peterson, an American scholar being honoured at the festival for his contributions to the study and promotion of Hangeul. He has spent decades teaching Korean history, literature and language, and has lived in South Korea on and off for more than 15 years.
“Hangeul is the only alphabet in the world that has its own national holiday,” he says. “No other nation celebrates its alphabet that way. That alone tells you something about how Koreans value Hangeul.”
Peterson first came to Korea in 1965 as a 19-year-old Mormon missionary, an experience that sparked a lifelong engagement with the country, its language and its literature. Today, he is often referred to in South Korea as an “evangelist of Korean history”.
“When I first came to Korea, almost all signage was in Chinese characters,” he says. “Gradually, South Korea made a concerted effort to move to pure Hangeul, which shows a great deal of confidence and pride in the language.”
In addition to his work as professor emeritus at Brigham Young University in Utah, Peterson runs a YouTube channel, The Frog Outside the Well – a Korean idiom – where he offers an outsider’s perspective and challenges distorted views of Korean history and culture.
“You can learn Hangeul in about 30 minutes,” he says, half-jokingly. “Each letter is a picture of how the sound is made. Once you understand that, you can start reading signs all over the city.
“I’ve taken complete beginners and taught them enough Hangeul to read basic signs in a very short time.”
Part of Hangeul’s appeal is visual. Even before you understand what you are looking at, there is a sense of order: blocks, lines and curves that feel purposeful rather than decorative. Letters are shaped around how sounds are produced in the mouth, and King Sejong intended the script to be learnt easily, giving ordinary people access to literacy at a time when writing was dominated by classical Chinese characters.
But as I explore Seoul, it soon dawns on me that I will need far more than Professor Peterson’s 30 minutes. Still, that promise sparks a thrill each time a cafe menu is handed to me or I find myself in a train station, sounding out syllables before eventually turning to Google Translate.
Seoul is a hyper-modern city, but Hangeul anchors it firmly. The script is everywhere, from shopfronts to snack packaging. While English appears often, it rarely replaces Hangeul.
That dominance does not feel nationalistic: it feels organic – a quiet signal that Seoul does not translate itself away for visitors. Instead, it invites them in.
A brief detour in Sejong City
About a two-hour drive from Seoul lies Sejong City, South Korea’s administrative capital, named after King Sejong himself. The city is intentional by design, with Hangeul as one of its guiding principles.
One of its landmarks is the Geumgang Pedestrian Bridge, a two-storey structure spanning Geumgang Lake. Split into levels for pedestrians and cyclists, locals also call it the Ieung Bridge, after the circular Korean consonant ㅇ.
Still growing and largely inhabited by government employees, Sejong City offers limited attractions for tourists. One exception is the world’s largest rooftop garden at the Government Complex Sejong. Certified by Guinness World Records in 2016, the green space stretches 3.6 kilometres across 15 buildings, linking themed gardens and vine-covered walkways.
Halfway between Sejong City and Seoul lies Yeoju, home to Yeongneung, the royal tomb complex of the Joseon Dynasty that includes King Sejong.
Visitors enter through a red-spiked gate and follow a long, straight path flanked by trees and low stone markers. At the centre sits Sejong’s burial mound, a grass-covered hill set against a wooded backdrop, flanked by carved stone officials and animals placed according to Confucian tradition.
Designated a Unesco World Heritage site, Yeongneung is a place of remarkable stillness. Standing at Sejong’s modest grave, I think of how Hangeul has become his most enduring monument. Today, propelled by the global rise of Korean culture – from K-pop to K-dramas – it is a script with influence far beyond the man or the country that created it. King Sejong’s authority ended centuries ago. His alphabet has not.
