During my college years, I found myself deeply moved by Professor Yo-Han Cho’s lectures on Introduction to Philosophy and History of Western Philosophy, and later his course on Greek Philosophy at the university research institute. These were not just academic classes—they were moments that planted enduring questions in my mind. One question in particular stayed with me: Socrates’ stance in Plato’s Crito. His refusal to escape a death sentence imposed by an unjust court stirred something profound within me. “Is an unjust law still a law?”—this was no longer just a theoretical inquiry. It became a real and urgent dilemma, one that would gradually permeate my life and shape my civic engagement.

At the time, South Korea was under the authoritarian rule of the Chun Doo-hwan military regime. The enforcement of oppressive laws had become normalized, and the gap between law and justice felt like a sharp blade cutting through public conscience. Could laws that suppress citizens be considered legitimate? What choices are left to ordinary people when justice is missing from the law? Should we obey unjust laws? These were no longer abstract philosophical musings—they became ethical challenges that demanded action.

These questions remain painfully relevant today. In the wake of President Yoon Suk Yeol’s outrageous emergency martial law plan, the question resurfaces: Who is the law really for? That’s why, throughout last winter, I stood shoulder to shoulder with fellow citizens in Pyeongtaek, Yeouido, and Gwanghwamun. nearly every week last winter, we called for impeachment—not just as a political act, but as a civic response to the abuse of constitutional power. These gatherings were more than protests — they were acts of lived philosophy. For me, they represented a personal answer to the enduring question: What is the law?

The phrase “Even unjust laws are still laws” is widely attributed to Socrates, but strictly speaking, it originates from Plato’s Crito. In this dialogue, Socrates is sentenced to death by an Athenian jury but chooses not to escape, even though it was a feasible option at the time.

His friend Crito atuploadts to persuade him to flee, but Socrates refuses, stating:

“I was born and raised in this city, and I have lived under the protection of its laws. It would not be right for me to unilaterally break that contract just because the law now acts against me.”

Socrates held a profound sense of responsibility for the continuity of communal order and the legal system. What’s crucial here is not that he saw the law as inherently good, but rather that he believed keeping one’s public commitment to the law was a form of just living. This was not blind obedience to authority—it was an ethical practice rooted in civic responsibility. Unlike utilitarianism, which judges actions by outcomes, Socrates approached the law from the standpoint of mutual promise and responsibility toward the society he belonged to.

In stark contrast to Socrates' choice, Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., the American civil rights leader, walked a different path. He famously declared, “An unjust law is no law at all,” powerfully affirming the legitimacy of civil disobedience. In his 1963 Letter from Birmingham Jail, King wrote:

“A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. Hence, disobedience to an unjust law is not only justified — it is a moral obligation.”

King focused not on the form of law, but on its content and consequences. Racial segregation, voter suppression, and systemic discrimination — though wrapped in the appearance of legality — were, to him, moral injustices that violated the dignity of human beings. He resisted these laws through lawful, nonviolent means within the system, asserting that when the spirit of the law diverges from its reality, the conscience of the citizen must intervene. His defiance was not mere rebellion, but a principled act of faith — a declaration that law without justice is tyranny disguised in legal robes.

Socrates emphasized the preservation of communal order and legal continuity, while Martin Luther King Jr. championed substantive justice and human dignity. Their approaches diverged, yet both men remained committed to honoring the spirit of the law. Socrates chose death over breaking his city’s covenant, while King took to the streets to reject laws devoid of justice. For both, the law was not merely a command of power but a moral contract with humanity. They demonstrated, through their lives, that law must be rooted in justice before it can claim authority.

Where do we stand today? While the law may appear formally sound, the deeper questions — who writes it, who enforces it, and whom it serves — are often left unasked. Meanwhile, in the real world, justice is too often silent, and the rights of the marginalized are routinely ignored. If the law is truly just, why have so many citizens had to take to the streets? The question “Is an unjust law still a law?” remains pressing. It is not merely a matter of legal interpretation, but of the society we aspire to build. In the face of regimes like President Yoon Suk-yeol’s so-called “prosecutorial republic” — a system that silences dissent under the guise of legality — the active conscience of citizens extends beyond the mere letter of the law, reaching toward a higher standard of justice. Even if a law is passed through formal procedures, if it is weaponized to oppress and silence the marginalized, we must ask: Do we need Socrates' sense of order, or King’s moral courage? In today's Korea, perhaps it is the latter we need more than ever.