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Remembering Korean Shamanism:
A Personal Journey Through Faith, Silence, and Ancestral Memory

By Graciela Hahn Villagrán
Great-granddaughter of Lee Geon-se and granddaughter of Han Jong-weon, honored heroes of Korea’s Independence Movement.

Why doesn't our family go to church, mommy?

When I was a child, I didn’t understand why we didn’t go to church. I didn’t yet know about Korean spiritual traditions—about how faith can live quietly in the body, not in a building.

She didn’t hesitate. “We carry God in our heart,” she said.

It sounded like an answer. But it felt like the beginning of a mystery.

Years later, I asked one of my Korean aunts what religion she followed.
“We’re Catholic,” she said.
But that didn’t sit right. I had never seen Koreans in our neighborhood churches.

She paused, glanced away.
“We were Buddhist when we arrived in Mexico. But then…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

I would spend years trying to understand what came after that “but then.”

A Quiet Faith: Korean Shamanism Beneath the Surface

As an adult, I traced my family’s journey—through records, through whispered stories, through the heavy silence that surrounds pain. I learned that the first Korean immigrants who worked the henequén plantations in Yucatán were pressured—perhaps even forced—to convert. Catholicism was expected. Resistance meant social exclusion—or worse.

And yet, beneath all that—beneath the new saints, the new rituals—something older remained.
Something unnamed, but felt.

It wasn’t until I saw a Korean film—a woman in brilliant robes spinning, calling out to the dead—that I recognized it.
Shamanism.

It didn’t feel foreign. It felt… familiar. Not frightening, but tender. A way to speak to those we’ve lost.
And maybe, just maybe, a way to be heard in return.

This story is not a study—it’s a personal excavation. A journey into the beliefs that survived colonization, conversion, and forgetting. It’s about Korea, yes. But also about what it means to carry ancestral memory in your body, even when no one names it out loud.

The Roots of Korean Shamanism: From Myth to Margins

Long before books were written and borders drawn, before kings ruled from stone palaces, there was a mountain god, a bear, and a dream of becoming human.

That’s how the story goes.

According to Korean legend, it all began in 2333 BCE, when Dangun Wanggeom—descendant of heaven and born of a bear-woman—founded the first Korean kingdom.
He wasn’t just a king. He was a bridge. A being who could move between worlds—the seen and the unseen. He spoke to spirits, to gods, to ancestors. He was the first in a long line of shamans.

In Dangun’s world, the veil between life and the spirit realm was thin.
His story holds something deeper—an origin myth where humans and spirits are never fully apart.

But the world changed.

During the Goryeo dynasty, it was Buddhism that shaped everyday life. Temples lined the mountains, monks studied ancient texts, and prayers filled the air.
Still, shamanism lived on—in homes, in back alleys, in mountain shrines—quietly, stubbornly, like a root that refuses to die.

Then came the Joseon dynasty, and with it, Confucianism.

This new philosophy didn’t look kindly on spirit talk.
Confucian scholars believed in order. In hierarchy. In rules.
They called shamanic rites eumsa—improper, vulgar.
Rituals, they argued, were not meant to call down spirits or rewrite fate. They were about preserving the fabric of society—who bows to whom, who speaks when, who matters.

Shamans were pushed to the margins—both physically and socially.
They were banished from the capital, taxed unfairly, stripped of status.
Women, especially, bore the brunt of this scorn—those who danced and chanted and opened themselves to the spirit world were dismissed as mad, unclean, or worse.

Still, they persisted.

Because people still mourned, still feared, still hoped,
still turned to Korean shamans for answers.

And no scholar or official could offer what a mudang could: a way to speak to the other side.

Then came the Japanese.

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, Japan claimed a shared cultural ancestry with Korea as justification for colonization. Their scholars documented Korean shamanism not to preserve it—but to strip it of uniqueness. To say:
See? We are the same. Korea belongs to us.

At the same time, Japanese officials tried to erase Korea’s voice—its language, its history, its identity.
But Korean intellectuals, like Ch’oe Nam-seon and Yi Nŭng-hwa, fought back.

They turned to shamanism.

It became a symbol of resistance—proof that Korea was different, ancient, alive.
Yi argued that shamanism was Korea’s only indigenous religion.
That to understand Korea, you had to understand the spirits.

Because buried in those chants, those dances, those trembling voices, was the soul of a people who refused to forget who they were.

Whispers, Not Scriptures: How Korean Shamanism Is Passed Down

The old stories never arrive in books. They arrive in whispers. In songs passed down at dusk. In the quiet rituals of women who remember what others tried to forget.

For thousands of years, Korea’s shamanic traditions have survived like that—threaded through generations, reshaped by war, migration, empire, and silence. These rituals and tales adapted as needed: some remained simple, passed quietly from mother to daughter; others blended with Buddhism or Confucianism, hiding behind new gods; and some transformed into something else entirely, sublimated into the background of daily life, waiting to be remembered.

Who Is the Mudang? The Role of the Korean Shaman

At the center of it all is the mudang—or, more respectfully, the manshin.

She is not a magician. Not a saint. She doesn’t command the spirits—she listens to them. She speaks with them. Her power lies in her ability to become a vessel, a bridge, a voice.

The vast majority of Korean shamans are women. And most of their clients are women too—mothers, widows, daughters—those left holding the weight of grief and unanswered questions.

They come to the manshin for many reasons:

To find healing, to speak with a lost loved one.

To ask for a blessing,.

To understand a string of misfortunes.

The ritual they seek is called a gut (굿)—a powerful ceremony that is less performance and more negotiation between worlds.

What Happens in a Gut? The Korean Shamanic Ritual

Drums echo like thunder. Gongs shimmer. The flute carries a melody older than memory. The shaman sings the muga—sacred songs—while shifting voice, posture, and tone to signal which spirit has come through.

She may speak as a grandfather, a war widow, a mountain god.

One moment she’s weeping.
The next, she’s dancing.
Then—utter stillness.

It is not pretend.
It is the spirit taking shape.

Becoming a Korean Shaman: Inheritance or Initiation

There are two ways to become a mudang in Korea.

1. By Inheritance

Passed from mother to daughter like a secret lineage.
These shamans are called seseummu and are deeply tied to local communities. On Jeju Island, they’re called shimbang—and here, unlike elsewhere in Korea, many shamans are men.

2. By Possession (Spirit Calling)

In the North, many are chosen by the spirits—not by blood.
This journey begins with shinbyeong (신병)—“spirit sickness.”

It starts as illness. Nightmares, seizures, depression, visions.
No doctor can cure it. No priest can explain it.
It only stops when the person accepts the call.

Once they surrender, the sickness lifts—and training begins under a senior mudang.

The Tools of a Shaman: Spirit Shrines and Sacred Objects

Most shamans begin with nothing:
No robes. No drums. No altar.

Over time, their patrons offer what they can:
a costume here, a sacred bell there, a bronze mirror, a wooden altar.

Eventually, she acquires enough to host her own gut.

The ritual may take place in her shindang (home shrine), or in a kuttang—a rented ritual hall nestled near the mountains. These places are humble but sacred, often stocked with incense, soju, cigarettes, and food for the spirits.

Types of Korean Shamanic Rituals (Gut)

Every gut is different.
Each client brings a different sorrow, a different hope.

Some major types include:

Byeonggut (병굿): for healing the sick when doctors

cannot help

Chinogi / Ogu-gut (진오기 / 오구굿): for guiding the dead

to the afterlife

Dodanggut (도당굿): for protecting entire villages

from misfortune

Naerimgut (내림굿): the initiation ritual when a new

shaman accepts her calling

Sikkim-gut (씻김굿): the cleansing ritual for the newly

departed whose spirits linger

The sikkim-gut, especially, is beautiful and painful—

a final goodbye for souls tied to this world by sorrow,

confusion, or rage.

What Makes a True Shaman?

Yŏnghŏm and Nunchi

To become a shaman is one thing.

To remain one—to truly carry the spirits—is something else entirely.

It requires:

Yŏnghŏm (영험): Spiritual power. Clairvoyance. A presence that enters before the words.
Nunchi (눈치): Deep intuition. The art of knowing what is not said. Sensing grief behind a smile, or fear behind a polite request.

Yŏnghŏm connects the shaman to the spirit world.
Nunchi roots her in this one.

Because a gut is not just about gods—it’s about people.
Their grief. Their guilt. Their longing.

Everyday Rituals: The Quiet Work of the Manshin

A gut is not routine. It’s not weekly mass. It’s rare, expensive, sacred.

Most days, the manshin works quietly:

Choosing a baby’s name
Blessing a new business
Writing bujeok (부적)—charms with prayers folded into wallets or hung behind doors
Praying for safe pregnancy, marriage, money, or healing

But when a gut is called—everything changes.

Each gut has a purpose. Each region of Korea has its own rhythm, its own gods, its own sacred songs.

Some rituals are for healing: the byeonggut, performed when no doctor can explain an illness.
Some are for the dead: the chinogi gut or ogu gut, guiding lost souls safely to the next world.
Some are for protection: the dodanggut, a community ritual that shields a whole village from misfortune.
Some are for the shaman herself: the naerimgut, a powerful initiation rite, marking the moment she’s fully embraced by the spirits.

And then there is the sikkim-gut (씻김굿)—the cleansing ritual.

It is beautiful. It is painful.
It is for those who died suddenly, bitterly, or without closure. For those whose spirits cannot let go.

The manshin becomes their voice. She sings their grief. Dances their story. Speaks the truths they could not.
Because in Korean belief, it’s not only the living who suffer.

The dead can suffer too.
And when they do, their sorrow lingers—casting shadows over the living in the form of bad luck, chronic illness, or misfortune that can’t be explained.

This is why the living must help the dead move on.
And sometimes, only a shaman can do that.

The Gut as Healing: Where Ritual Meets Emotion

A gut is not superstition.

It’s not theater.

It’s the oldest kind of healing—a conversation between worlds.

But not all healing comes from the spirits.

Some comes from the heart—the aching, heavy, silenced heart of the living.

Sit through a gut, and you’ll notice something:

A flicker in someone’s eyes. A tear. A sudden laugh. The grief begins to move—like a knot loosening.

This is emotional transformation.

Not clinical therapy.
But a raw, embodied, ancestral form of healing.

On Jeju Island, shamans sometimes burst into laughter while channeling the dead—not to mock, but to shift sorrow into something lighter. The grief is honored. Then gently reshaped.

At its heart, this is what a gut offers: catharsis.

Anthropologists have long noted two things are necessary for a ritual to truly work:

A release of deep, unspoken emotion.
A shared belief that the shaman can do what she claims to do.

Without belief, it’s performance.
With belief, it’s healing.

In Confucian Korean society, where hierarchy often silences emotion, a gut offers something radical: permission.
To cry. To scream. To speak to the dead. To hope.

It is spiritual, yes.
But it is also psychological.

This is why scholars call it the Transformation Thesis: the idea that gut rituals are not only about spirit work, but emotional and mental release. That people seek out shamans not just for divine intervention—but to feel whole again.

Shamanism in Modern Korea: Finding Light in "Hell Joseon"

Today, South Korea is one of the most technologically advanced nations on earth.
But it is also a place many young people call “Hell Joseon.”

The term describes a modern reality shaped by:

crushing academic pressure
job market inequality
stagnant mobility
overwhelming societal expectations

Therapy exists, but stigma remains.
Mental health is whispered about, if at all.

But a shaman?
A shaman is someone you can cry in front of. Someone who won’t diagnose you—but will listen, see you, speak for you.

That’s why, in this wired world, people still take off their shoes, bow low, and whisper to the spirits.

Because sometimes, we don’t need a cure.
We just need to believe that someone—god, spirit, ancestor—is listening.

Shamanism and Christianity: Not Enemies, But Echoes

Unlike in many parts of the world, Korean shamanism never had to fight other religions to survive.

It didn’t retreat. It didn’t clash.
It simply adapted.
Like water, it flowed around the rocks.

In Korea, faith is rarely exclusive. A person might visit a shaman on Tuesday and attend church on Sunday—without a flicker of contradiction. Spirituality here is layered: ancestral, practical, intimate.

So when Christianity arrived on the peninsula, it didn’t erase the old ways.
It absorbed them.

To be accepted, Christianity had to speak a spiritual language Koreans already understood—one shaped by mountain gods, ancestor veneration, and divine intermediaries. It had to echo the spiritual instincts etched into the Korean soul.

And it did.

The Christian God became Hananim—“God in Heaven”—the same term shamans used for the highest deity in the cosmos.
Stories of miracles and healing felt familiar to a people raised on tales of spirits who could be moved through ritual and prayer.

Christianity didn’t feel foreign.
It felt... familiar.

A Korean Faith: Layered, Adaptable, Deep

Over time, a uniquely Korean Christianity took shape. One that could coexist with the spirit world. One that didn’t just offer salvation—but something more urgent:

✨ Hope.
✨ Healing.
✨ Prosperity.

These promises mattered in a society shaped by colonization, war, poverty, and dictatorship.

Protestant and Catholic churches built hospitals, schools, and universities. They stood for human rights and democracy.
By 1945, after Japanese occupation ended, one-third of Korea’s political leaders were Christian—even though Christians made up only 4% of the population.

Today, the President of South Korea, Yoon Suk-yeol, is Roman Catholic.
Faith still runs deep.

But so does the old belief.

The Echo of Offerings: Shamanism Within the Church

Modern Korean Christians, like their ancestors, pray for protection, success, and peace.
They give sowonhongeum—offerings tied to a wish or petition.
They give gamsahongeum—thanks in the form of monetary gifts after prayers are answered.

These gestures echo the shamanic practice of leaving fruit, rice, or soju for the spirits during a gut.

Even in Seoul’s Yoido Full Gospel Church—the largest church in the world—some call the message a “theology of prosperity.”
Health. Wealth. Salvation.

A familiar trinity.
A shamanic one.

Misfortune is sometimes seen as the result of sin, spiritual impurity, or broken relationship with the divine—just as a shaman might attribute it to a restless ancestor or offended god.

In both traditions, healing requires a sacred transaction.
Not just faith—but ritual.
Not just belief—but participation.

Spiritual Needs in Modern Korea

Anthropologist Laurel Kendall, who studied Korean shamans in the 1970s, noticed a shift:
In the past, gut were mostly for healing or helping the dead find peace.

But today, they are more often about something else:
Good fortune.

Because in modern Korea—a country defined by fierce competition, sky-high pressure, and precarious hope—wealth, success, and advancement have become spiritual needs.

And so, whether in a glittering megachurch or a candle-lit kuttang nestled near a sacred mountain, people still ask the same questions:

Will my child pass the exam?
Will my business survive?
Will I recover?
Am I protected?

In this way, Christianity and shamanism are not adversaries.
They are parallel paths.
Two different roads toward the same longing:

To feel seen by something greater.
To know someone is listening.
To believe we are not alone.

Finding My Way Back

Today, Korean shamanism lives not just in remote villages or quiet shrines, but online.

A visit to neomudang.com opens a world once hidden:

Profiles of manshin, each one offering their gifts—ancestor blessings, love fortunes, real estate advice, even reunion rituals after heartbreak.

Their bios read like quiet confessions:
“It has been 10 years since I was possessed by a spirit… I’ve led people to heaven… I will work hard as your staff.”

The rituals are still sacred.
But now, they stream in HD.

The spirits haven’t left.
They’ve just evolved.
Like always.

Even the most sincere shamans must adapt. They need websites, reviews, and loyal clients. They must become part mystic, part performer—able to persuade, connect, comfort.

As anthropologist Laurel Kendall once observed, a shaman must do more than summon the gods.
She must convince her clients that misfortune can be transformed.

That destiny is not fixed.
That hope is still possible.

And me?

I was once that little girl who asked too many questions:

Why don’t we go to church?
What religion are we?
Is it okay if we have none?

I didn’t know then what I know now—that we did have something.
Not a religion with pews or incense or sermons.
But something older.
Something felt.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the silence of my mother… the vague answers of my aunt…
They weren’t voids.
They were thresholds.
The quiet start of a long, winding search.

And now, after years of reading, remembering, and walking the path back through ritual—I feel it:

A quiet warmth.
A presence behind me.
Not fear. Not doctrine.
But comfort.

When I see a gut on screen—drums pounding, voices rising, spirits arriving one by one—I don’t feel superstition.
I feel home.

Because somewhere inside me, I know:

✨ My ancestors are still watching.
✨ They are the reason I carry stories I’ve never been told.
✨ They are the reason I ask the questions I do.
✨ They are the reason shamanism doesn’t frighten me—but calms me.

Korea, in its own quiet, mysterious way, tells me something I didn’t know I needed to hear:

That it’s okay to find peace here.
That belief doesn’t need a name.
That lineage is a kind of prayer.
That the past is never gone—it just waits for us to listen.

I no longer ask “Do I belong to a religion?”

I ask instead:

Who walks with me when I’m afraid?
Who listens when no one else can?
Who do I speak to when I light a candle in the dark?

And I know the answer.

I feel it in my bones.
They are still here.
And they are listening.

By Graciela Hahn Villagrán, who walks accompanied by

my eomma Graciela Villagrán Olvera

and

my appa Felipe Hahn Lee

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