1987: When the Day Comes

History doesn’t always arrive in a textbook. Sometimes, it comes in the form of a film you didn’t mean to watch—but couldn’t look away from.

1987: When the Day Comes official poster

I’m not the kind of person who follows the crowd when it comes to movies. In fact, when a film is being heavily promoted—trending everywhere, hyped up by media, discussed non-stop on social platforms—I tend to feel the opposite of curious. I lose interest. Not because I think popular things are bad, but because I find comfort in discovery. I like stumbling upon stories, unexpectedly, without prior noise or expectations. That’s how I ended up watching 1987: When the Day Comes—a film I had never planned to see, but ended up watching not once, not twice, but three times. And each time, it left a deeper impression on me.

I’ve always had a soft spot for history. When I was a student, history felt like a doorway to another time. Reading about past events gave me a strange comfort—as if time wasn't so distant after all. But growing up, I began to realize something: most of the history I learned in school came from textbooks approved by the government. And when history is filtered like that, what we get is not always the full truth. We get what’s allowed, what’s curated, what’s safe to remember.

That realization didn’t make me stop loving history. It just made me search harder—for stories from different angles, for pieces that felt more human than official. And sometimes, I find them in films. But of course, movies aren’t pure history either. They are written, directed, acted. They are still stories shaped by choices. So when I watched 1987: When the Day Comes, I tried to remind myself of that. 

Still… this film was different.

At the end of the film, it shows real footage—black-and-white clips of the protests, the faces of students, the crowds, the mourning, the fire in people’s eyes. And I paused. I sat there, quietly, wondering: How much of this was real? How much was changed for the sake of storytelling?

I didn’t know much about South Korean history at the time. I didn’t know who Park Jong-chul was. I wasn’t familiar with the movement, the leaders, or the tragedy that inspired the film. But I wanted to understand. I needed to know what had actually happened. One viewing wasn’t enough.

So I watched it again. And again. And I read. Articles. Wikipedia entries. News clippings. I looked at photos of protests in Seoul in the 1980s, and tried to match them with the scenes I had just watched. I found myself going deeper into a story I had never heard of, from a country far away, but one that somehow felt familiar in the ache it left behind. Watching 1987 was not just about learning history. It was about feeling it.

It was about the questions it left me with: Who decides what truth gets told? What would I have done if I had lived in that time? Would I have had the courage to resist, to speak, to not look away?

This is not a film review. I’m not here to recommend or rate anything. I’m just writing this as a quiet note to anyone who, like me, finds meaning in stories that were never meant to be found, but somehow found us. Stories that make us want to listen more closely, ask harder questions, and maybe—just maybe—become a little more awake to the world we live in.

What I Felt While Watching

It’s hard to put into words how this film made me feel. All I know is, from the very beginning until the very end, I couldn’t look away. The cinematography pulled me in—it wasn’t flashy or overly artistic, but it felt intentional. Every frame had weight. The dialogues were sharp, filled with tension and meaning, yet never forced. And while I didn’t fully grasp the historical timeline behind it, I could follow the film’s story. The emotions. The risks. The silences. The fear that lingered in the air of every scene.

Not once did I pause or skip ahead. It was one of those rare films that held me completely.

There was one scene that haunted me more than the others. It was when the uncle of the victim—a quiet, middle-aged man—was asked to examine the body of his nephew. You could see how crushed he was. How conflicted. In the cold, sterile room, he didn’t dare say anything. He couldn’t. You could almost hear his heart breaking just by looking at his eyes.

But then—just as he left the room, surrounded by journalists and cameras—he suddenly cried out, full of grief and rage, that his nephew had been tortured to death by the police. That moment sent chills down my spine. It wasn’t just the scream. It was the weight of silence before it. My feelings were mixed. I was angry. I was frustrated. I was devastated. But I was also full of doubt.

If I had been there—if I had lived in that time—would I have had the courage to speak? To shout the truth when everything around me said “stay quiet”? Watching these characters wrestle with fear and conscience made me wonder about myself. About the limits of bravery. About how far a person can be pushed before they decide to stop being afraid. That’s what made this film unforgettable for me. 

It may not be the greatest historical film out there, but it quietly stole my attention—and stayed with me.

If you ever feel lost while watching 1987: When the Day Comes, you’re not alone. I felt the same. But maybe one way to understand it more deeply is by seeing how similar stories have happened in other parts of the world. In Indonesia, we had the student movement in 1998, where young people stood up against a decades-long regime. In the Philippines, people rose peacefully in the 1986 People Power Revolution. In Chile, Taiwan, and other places, the fight for truth and democracy often started with one person daring to speak.

When you look at it that way, 1987 is not just a film about Korea—it’s a reminder of how ordinary people, in any country, at any time, can become part of something bigger when they choose not to stay silent.

1987 is a Window, not a Lesson

I don’t see films like 1987 as history teachers. They’re not here to give us facts or dates to memorize. They don’t hand us clear answers or tell us what to believe. But they do something else—something maybe even more powerful. They sit beside us, quietly, and ask questions.

They show us what it feels like to live in fear. What it means to speak the truth when no one wants to hear it. They ask, not with force but with feeling: Would you stay silent? Would you walk away? Would you dare to care?

What moved me most about 1987 was not just the injustice, but the courage that rose in unexpected places. From people often seen as powerless—students, reporters, everyday workers—came the voices that exposed the truth. They had no real position, no weapons, no protection. And yet, they made history shift.

It reminds me that sometimes, the people who seem the weakest are the ones who carry the loudest truths. And all it takes is one voice, followed by another, to crack open the silence. 1987 is a mirror. It holds up the struggles of others so that we might reflect on our own. It’s a window that opens, gently, to stories we’ve never known—but somehow, still recognize.