Editor’s Note:

The South Korean Rider Union—a division of the Korean Public Transportation Union—organises over 10,000 members from a much larger pool of 300,000 to 400,000 delivery platform workers. Despite their growing presence, most riders remain outside formal labour protections due to their classification as independent contractors. The sector is also marked by serious safety concerns, with over half of all delivery riders experiencing at least one accident each year.

In response, the Rider Union has been at the forefront of advocacy for stronger social protections. Their demands include mandatory training and certification for riders, comprehensive safety programs, and access to paid insurance. They’ve also set up a mutual aid fund to support members facing legal issues, medical expenses, or vehicle repairs and are pushing for a publicly managed insurance system to lower financial burdens.

In this extended interview, Kriangsak Teerakowitkajorn spoke with Kim Ji-su, the Secretary General of the South Korean Rider Union, who offers a deeply personal and political account of how South Korea’s platform workers are organised. His story charts a journey from garment district delivery rider to political candidate and from activist to elected leader of the Rider Union. Along the way, he reflects on class identity, intergenerational solidarity, masculinity in labour unions, and the challenges of organising in an industry built to isolate.

What makes Rider Union unique, Kim argues, is not only its democratic structure and its roots in South Korea’s rich social movement history but also its openness to experiment: forging alliances with the self-employed, building new local connections, and embracing diversity as an organizational strength. His critique of the traditional labour movement in Korea is sharp yet constructive, calling for deeper ties with communities and renewed commitment to solidarity—not just as a tactic but as a practice.

As gig workers across Asia face the dual pressures of technological control and economic marginalization, Kim Ji-su’s reflections are a powerful reminder that real change often begins in the cracks—among the most precarious, the most excluded, and the most committed to building something new.

This interview marks the first in a new series of interviews with organisers in Asia’s gig economy conducted by ALR’s new contributing editor, Kriangsak Teerakowitkajorn. The series aims to foster a deeper understanding of labour organising’s limitations and strengths among platform-based workers. It also seeks to spark more nuanced conversations about what organising actually looks like from the perspective of rank-and-file workers, whose experiences shape how they understand their relationships with formal, organised labour, the broader labour movement, and their communities.

Kriangsak Teerakowitkajorn (“Kriangsak”): I’m really curious to know who you are. Could you tell us a bit about yourself and your background, especially how you became a rider?

Kim Ji-su (“Kim”): I started working as a delivery rider in 2014 when I was living in Dongdaemun, a district in Seoul known for its garment industry. It’s close to Dongdaemun Market, and near there is a bridge called the Jeon Tae-il Bridge, named after a well-known labour activist from the 1980s.

The area is famous for its textile industry and as a historical site for labour activism. I began by delivering clothes in that area while also trying to pursue a career as an aspiring writer. But I had to earn a living while preparing for that path, so I worked not just as a rider but also in various other service jobs.

Kriangsak: I know of Jeon Tae-il too. A Thai activist translated his diary into Thai, and I read it a long time ago. I also visited his statue in the Dongdaemun area when I was in Seoul. I’m curious—since you were doing delivery work around there, were you already aware of that labor history at the time? Or was there a particular moment when it became meaningful for you?

Kim: When I worked in Dongdaemun, I didn’t have a deep understanding of Korea’s labour history. I had just graduated from high school and immediately began working.

I just knew Chun Tae-il was a labour activist who had done many great things. What struck me most was that he was about my age. I started working in Dongdaemun when I was younger than he was, and by the time I left, I was older than him. That thought stayed with me.

I passed his statue in Dongdaemun almost every day. A lot of riders go past it, too. That routine—seeing it again and again—made me start thinking more seriously about what he stood for and what kind of legacy he left behind. So even after 10 years, I still have that memory—recognizing myself in him—just a fellow worker, a young guy who worked the same streets. That really stuck with me.

Although I feel differently now, back then, I often thought, “Chun Tae-il did so many incredible things. But what am I doing? Just this kind of work?” That sense of shame or inadequacy was probably the strongest feeling I had at the time.

Kriangsak: You are also doing incredible things right now. I think you should feel proud. During that time, was delivery your main job?

Kim: From 2014 to 2018, I had about 10 to 12 different jobs to support my livelihood. Delivery work was the main one, but I also worked at places like pizza shops and McDonald’s. I also worked for a political party for about a year and did my mandatory military service between 2016 and 2018.

Kriangsak: What happened after that?

Kim: In 2018, I got involved with a progressive political party called the Justice Party. I felt that it represented the views of my generation and my class. That’s when I began my activism in earnest, engaging in labour advocacy at both the local and national levels. I even ran as a candidate for the National Assembly and for local council elections.

Kriangsak: Did you still have to work while being a candidate?

Kim: Although there was support from the party during my political career, I still had to work to support myself. In 2019, I started working full-time for the party, and for about a year—from 2019 to 2020—I was financially supported by the party. After the 2020 election, I ran in a local race to build a grassroots base. It’s very difficult for a progressive party to win seats in Korea because of the two-party dominant system. It’s rare for a progressive candidate to be elected.

I couldn’t continue working in the party’s main office, so I felt the need to return to my community. That’s when I went back to my original job as a rider. But this time, in 2020, I entered the platform delivery industry. It was a shift from the traditional delivery work I used to do—like delivering clothing in the garment district—to something more tech-driven and precarious.

Kriangsak: How did you get involved with the union?

Kim: Because I already had a lot of knowledge about this kind of labour and was familiar with unions through my activism, it felt natural to connect with the rider union. I basically looked it up and joined.

Kriangsak: Do you consider yourself part of the working class in Korea?

Kim: Totally, yes. I’ve never not considered myself part of the working class. I became interested in progressive politics because I was very concerned about the reality of my own life. I had a dream I wanted to pursue, but I couldn’t follow it because I had to work all the time just to survive. A lot of people join labour unions first and then move into politics. But for me, it was the other way around—I started with politics and then got involved in labour organising. I think that’s rare, but it’s also part of what shaped me.

Many people in the political party don’t really identify as working class. But I do. My life experiences and the kind of work I’ve done have always made me feel grounded in the working class.

Kriangsak: Let’s go back to 2020 and 2022. You mentioned you were running in elections while also working. Could you tell us more about the issues you were running on?

Kim: Before I go into the details, I want to clarify something. Right now, I’m keeping some distance from political party activities because, within the union, we haven’t made a collective decision on whether we want to support a particular party. But between 2020 and 2022, there wasn’t much discussion about this, and I wasn’t in an elected union position yet. So, I did both during that time—I ran for office while working with the union.

After the 2020 election, I became more active in local politics rather than national-level party work. I was based in a district in Seoul called Jungnang. There, I worked both as a rider and a local activist, organising around neighbourhood issues and platform labour concerns and meeting people face to face.

Kriangsak: How did your experience as a rider influence your politics?

Kim: When I participated in local politics, I introduced myself using multiple identities. But my experience as a rider definitely shaped the kinds of issues I focused on. I tried to advocate for alternatives to exploitative forms of labour that are emerging in today’s economy.

Because it was local politics, I also worked on issues like traffic safety and local regulations. I dealt with road safety concerns for riders and noise complaints and tried to find ways for platform workers and residents to coexist. But it was not easy. Labor-focused politics doesn’t have much traction in local communities in Korea.

Kriangsak: Earlier, you mentioned multiple identities. What were the others you brought into politics?

Kim: Progressive parties focus a lot on marginalized groups—youth, people with disabilities, and others excluded from mainstream politics. I also tried to build relationships with those communities and represent their interests.

For example, I participated in a campaign for universal access to menstrual products for teenagers. I also advocated for disabled people’s right to live independently outside of institutions. Using my experience as a rider, I joined the Jungnang District Coalition for Children’s Traffic Safety.

Looking back, I realize I leaned heavily into the role of a local activist—a local community organiser who focused on minority issues. It was a tough strategy to pursue, and I didn’t break through in a big way.

Kriangsak: Now let’s turn to your roles in the Rider Union. When were you elected to be a union leader?

Kim: I got more involved in union activities after the 2020 local elections and became the vice chairperson of the union. That’s when I decided to stop my formal political activities and focus fully on union organising. At that point, I started to feel the limits of progressive politics in Korea. It seemed like that space was collapsing, and we needed a different path. For me, labour unions felt like that path—just like in Korea’s past, when worker-led parties played a big role in pushing for change.

Around that time, I also had a serious accident while working as a platform rider. It left me with motorcycle trauma, and for a while, I thought about giving up. But ultimately, it motivated me to commit even more to the union.

Kriangsak: What was your experience with the Rider Union?

Kim: When I first joined, I was a bit unsure. Korean labor unions can be really male-dominated—very macho. I wasn’t sure if I’d be comfortable in that kind of environment or if I could build meaningful relationships. But over time, I realized that many of us, as fellow riders, share a deep and genuine concern for each other’s well-being. That sense of solidarity really helped me stay.

Kriangsak: In a video you shared with me, many riders seem older than you. The average age for delivery workers might be around 35 or more—how do you relate to that generation? And lastly, could you speak to how decisions are made within the union? How democratic is it?

Kim: I’m in my early 30s, but many of the members who’ve joined the union are in their 40s, although a lot of riders are younger than me. There’s a generational gap—young men in Korea tend to avoid unions and leftist movements. But I’ve found that collecting local cases and building relationships in the community has helped us organise effectively. My background in local politics also helped—I was able to connect those experiences with what the Rider Union needed at the time.

Kriangsak: How are you and your colleagues recruiting new members?

Kim: At the beginning of 2025, Rider Union experienced significant growth in its organisational size.
During negotiations with platform companies, the membership was confirmed to be 7,815 by March,
and by April, it has expanded further to over 10,000 members.

As for organising younger riders—it’s not easy. Many of them don’t see this as a long-term job. They’re here to make quick money, then move on to a different career or start a business. So, it’s hard to convince them to fight for better rights in a job they don’t plan to stay in. Still, we try. We’ve diversified our outreach strategies—for example, we run a YouTube channel to reach a broader audience. And it’s working. Slowly but surely, we’re reaching more people.

Kriangsak: What was the internal dynamic like?

Kim: For me, becoming a union leader felt like a natural step. What makes Rider Union unique is its diversity. Our executive committee includes people from different political backgrounds—even parties that were once on opposite sides. Some members have experience in other social movements, like disability rights, rather than traditional labour organising. That’s been both a challenge and a strength—it forced us to be flexible and build new models for organising.

In the early days, most of us were activists. But today, the executive committee also includes riders who started out on the streets and became leaders through their own experiences. That’s really important.

Another strength of our union is that everyone—activists and leaders alike—still works as a rider. We’re out there doing deliveries. That keeps us grounded and responsive. Of course, some do it for financial reasons, but it also allows us to stay connected to what’s happening in real-time, in the streets and on the platforms.

Kriangsak: Do you and your colleagues feel like you’re part of the broader labour movement in Korea?

Kim: Rider Union started as an independent union, but in 2023–24, we joined the Korean Confederation of Trade Union (KCTU). We saw opportunities to align on issues and collaborate on campaigns. Personally, I’m still learning about the larger labour movement and building those connections. Among riders in general, many don’t feel much connection to it. But among the core activists—and some older members—there is more awareness of our role in the broader labour struggle.

Kriangsak: How would you evaluate the strengths and limitations of the Korean labour movement?

Kim:  First, the good part—I think there are areas in the current labor movement where we do work well with other trade unions. For example, we collaborate with the Public Service and Transport Workers’ Union. We even share the same office floor. There are issues, like fare-related laws, that are tied to the same logistics service bills, so we fight for legal changes together. Also, within the platform labour sector, there’s a council that brings together different platform workers so we can work in solidarity across different groups.

But in general, I think the sense of solidarity—the idea of different unions or workers coming together to create change—is weaker than it used to be.

Especially when some union members feel that they’ve already achieved something with their activism, they start thinking there’s no longer a need to continue fighting alongside others. Once their struggle sees some results, the urgency fades. That makes it hard to build momentum, especially when rank-and-file members don’t really feel convinced about why we need to keep going.

That’s why I think it’s important for organizations like Rider Union to continue building that kind of power—to put cracks in the dominant structures so people can come together and influence other parts of the labour movement and other industries.

Another issue I want to raise is that the Korean labour movement today has very weak connections at the local level. Regional headquarters often aren’t strong, and there’s a big gap between local communities and labour unions. In contrast, Rider Union has been trying to build those local ties. We collaborate with local governments, we do volunteer work in neighbourhoods, and we try to be present in community spaces. I think the broader labour movement needs to do more of this because building real connections with people where they live is just as important as organising at the workplace.

Listen to Kim’s interview except: “But in general, I think the sense of solidarity—the idea of different unions or workers coming together to create change—is weaker than it used to be. Especially when some union members feel that they’ve already achieved something with their activism, they start thinking there’s no longer a need to continue fighting alongside others. Once their struggle sees some results, the urgency fades. That makes it hard to build momentum, especially when rank-and-file members don’t really feel convinced about why we need to keep going.”

Kriangsak: I’m especially interested in how the Rider Union fits into broader social movements and alliances and in your reflections on the union’s political role.

Kim: I agree that South Korea has a deep history of labour and social movements, and that’s an advantage. But I also believe it’s important to create new cracks in that tradition—to find fresh ways to move forward. Personally, I’m more inspired by the young women factory workers of the 1970s than by the big democracy movements of 1987. I think it’s always been the most marginalized people who sparked real change.

In some small way, I think Rider Union is continuing that legacy. We’re not making explosive changes right now, but we’re building the groundwork for something bigger—creating small cracks that could one day shift the economy and society more deeply.

Kriangsak: Are there any things you see as achievements?

Kim: I’m especially proud that we’re the only labour union in Korea that organises together with the self-employed. We’ve done sit-ins and protests together, especially in response to big platforms. That kind of solidarity across categories of labour is rare.

Korea is going through many political changes right now. With the president recently impeached, there’s more space for social dialogue. One of the major delivery platforms even proposed holding public discussions between riders, the self-employed, and local communities, including Democratic Party committees. These tectonic shifts create opportunities for us to speak up and be heard.

Special thanks to Kim Ji-su and Haley Baek who volunteered to be an interpreter for this interview.