The streets and alleys in the sometimes raucous, occasionally brawling Itaewon district near the historic former American military base at Seoul tell a tale of South Korea’s rising from the Korean War with massive American aid to a free-wheeling, hard-driving society where freedom rings.

When I first strolled those streets well before the 1988 Seoul Olympics, American GIs were everywhere, crowding the bars, chasing the bargirls, buying cheaply tailored suits and souvenirs.  Koreans, other than those eager to make money off the free-spending Americans, stayed away. Itaewon was low-life, and viewed with contempt by many Koreans.

All that changed, though, when the American command, sensitive to all the criticism of the profligate ways of GI’s on passes from the nearby base, decided in 2004 that GI’s buying the favors of Korean women was bad for our image and also led to crimes of one sort or another. Cases of murder and rape made headlines.

The precipitous drop in the number of American troops in Korea also contributed to what first was a slow shift in the character of what had become, soon after the Korean War ended in 1953, one of the world’s most notorious camptowns for GI’s taking a break from sometimes tough duty.

From more than 70,000, the numbers fell by stages until finally today a mere 28,500 GI’s are in Korea, and most of them at major bases elsewhere, including Camp Humphreys, 40 miles south of Seoul, to which the American command moved its headquarters four years ago.

The mood of Koreans, especially those in their 20s and 30s shifted shortly after, and Itaewon became a magnet for drinking, fine dining, and all-around fun. Establishments on what was known as Hooker Hill, where GIs could find hostesses for the evening, turned into higher-priced clubs for the moneyed elite and the hostesses were often college women hiding their affiliations.

It was logical, then, that 100,000 or so lively celebrants descended on Itaewon for the first Halloween blow-out since authorities shut down what had become increasingly crowded, dangerous annual blasts. The risk of Covid isn’t over, but the demand to be free of constraints had become overwhelming. 

This year marked the first such Halloween in Korea since 2019, and fun-loving Koreans turned out in their most garish costumes, anything from monsters to angels, from skeletons to Jack-O-Lanterns. Shops displayed bizarre souvenirs matching the holiday, pumpkins, real and cardboard, were everywhere, and musical groups blared out K-pop and foreign numbers, the louder the better, the crowds weaving and dancing, singing and shouting.

“It is that time of year again when scary ghosts, zombies, vampires and witches compete with beautiful princesses, heroic characters of modern lore and cute whimsical creatures lifted from the pages of comic books for treats and praise,” wrote Robert Neff, author of books on Korean history and culture, in the Korean Times. 

Halloween in Korea, said Neff, “is generally believed to be a recently introduced event ― perhaps as recent as the 1980s, when it first became possible for the average Korean to travel abroad for pleasure.”

Some were still dancing when shrieks for help echoed from the narrowest alley linking the main drag to a lane with brightly-lit clubs and eateries. More crowds filled the alleys, so densely packed that breathing was difficult and, finally, impossible. As ambulances arrived, medics realized the destination for many would be not the hospital but the morgue.