THAAD boycotts versus Trump tariffs

In the film Cool Hand Luke, there’s a scene where a prison guard tells Luke he’s sorry for putting him in the box. Luke, bloodied and unbroken, replies: “Saying sorry don’t make it right.” The moment cuts to the heart of power, communication, and the emptiness of regret when the system remains unchanged.

South Korea might understand the feeling. Nearly a decade after it was economically punished by China for hosting the U.S.-made THAAD missile defense system, Seoul now finds itself under pressure once again—only this time, the coercion comes not from Beijing, but from Washington.

While the rhetoric has shifted, the reality remains the same: a major power leveraging its economic weight to dictate South Korea’s sovereign choices. Both China and the United States claim higher purpose, but for Seoul, the experience feels hauntingly familiar. Saying it’s different doesn’t make it so.

When South Korea installed the U.S.-made THAAD missile defense system in 2016, China responded with sweeping economic retaliation. South Korea now finds itself under economic pressure again—this time from its own ally, the United States.

While Washington frames its actions as lawful and alliance-consistent, the structural similarity with Beijing’s earlier pressure is hard to ignore. The distinction between the two is largely semantic. In reality, major powers—whether authoritarian like China or democratic like the United States—resort to remarkably similar behavior when their strategic interests are involved.

The difference lies not in intent or outcome, but in the way the coercion is packaged. To understand this, we can break down the comparison into four categories: the trigger of coercion, the method used, the objective pursued, and the narrative used to justify the pressure.

First, the trigger. China’s coercion was reactive. It came swiftly in response to South Korea’s sovereign decision to deploy THAAD, which Beijing saw as a direct threat to its own strategic deterrent. The retaliation was designed to punish Seoul and deter similar decisions in the future—particularly any deeper security cooperation with the United States.

By contrast, the U.S. pressure is more preemptive, but no less strategic. Washington is using trade tools—tariffs, discriminatory subsidy regimes, and regulatory threats—to compel South Korea to align with its broader economic and strategic goals. These include reconfiguring supply chains away from China, supporting U.S. industrial priorities like electric vehicles and semiconductors, and increasing defense spending.

Both actions were triggered by shifts in South Korea’s alignment—but where China punished a past decision, the U.S. seeks to shape future ones. In both cases, economic leverage is deployed to produce geopolitical compliance.

Second, the method. China used informal, often opaque tactics: orchestrated consumer boycotts, regulatory harassment of Korean firms like Lotte, and bans on K-pop exports and Korean tourism. The pressure was obvious but officially unacknowledged—designed to create fear without legal liability.

The United States, in contrast, relies on formal, bureaucratic mechanisms: Section 232 and 301 tariffs, the Inflation Reduction Act’s protectionist clauses, and direct diplomatic arm-twisting. This was made less formal by the on-again, off-again, personal nature of decision-making. The case of Trump’s imposition of higher tariffs on Brazil is a case in point.

President Trump unveiled a sweeping 50% tariff on all Brazilian imports effective August 1, explicitly linking the measure to the domestic political trial of his ally, former President Jair Bolsonaro—whom he labeled a victim of a “witch hunt” and demanded the proceedings be dropped.

Trump’s move diverged sharply from conventional trade logic: the U.S. actually runs a multi‑billion‑dollar trade surplus with Brazil, yet Trump’s decision is not driven by commercial imbalance but by personal and ideological solidarity with Bolsonaro, as well as retaliation for what he perceives as Brazil’s censorship of U.S. social media platforms like X.

In letters sent directly to President Lula da Silva, Trump framed the tariffs less as economic policy than as punitive diplomacy—rooted in personal grievance and political alignment—and the tone was markedly more intemperate than his typical tariff announcements.

As a result, the core logic is the same—create economic pain to induce political compliance. While the formality of U.S. tools would not make them less coercive and merely cloak the pressure in the language of rules and due process—with Trump, even this formality has eroded. In both cases, South Korea is economically punished unless it adjusts its policies in line with the major power’s strategic preferences.

Third, the objective is also broadly similar: to reshape South Korea’s sovereign defense and economic policy.

In the Chinese case, the objective was explicit: to pressure South Korea into reversing the deployment of the THAAD missile defense system and to deter any further alignment with U.S. military architecture. China viewed THAAD not simply as a local defensive measure against North Korea, but as a strategic intrusion into its own security environment.

The core concern was the AN/TPY-2 radar system that accompanies THAAD. While the official deployment mode in South Korea was the “terminal” configuration—optimized for tracking missiles in their final stage—Beijing feared that it could be switched to the “forward-based mode,” which extends its surveillance range to over 2,000 kilometers.

In that mode, the radar could peer deep into Chinese territory, giving the United States critical early warning and tracking data on Chinese missile launches, degrading the credibility of China’s second-strike nuclear deterrent. In other words,

THAAD threatened to shift the strategic balance—not by intercepting Chinese missiles directly, but by enhancing U.S. surveillance and targeting capabilities. From Beijing’s perspective, this was not a marginal deployment but a structural challenge to its national defense posture.

The retaliatory pressure on South Korea was designed not only to punish but to establish a clear precedent: countries that facilitate the U.S. regional missile defense architecture will face concrete economic and political consequences.

In the U.S. case, the objective is more layered but equally interventionist. Washington is pushing Seoul to raise defense spending, purchase American arms, force South Korea to favor American firms, repatriate supply chains, curb cooperation with Chinese tech firms, and align South Korea within the U.S.-led regional architectures, and prepare—explicitly or implicitly—for a Taiwan conflict.

This pressure has remained remarkably consistent across administrations, with the Biden White House quietly deepening trilateral security cooperation and missile defense integration, while the Trump Administration—despite its rhetorical aversion to “endless wars”—laid much of the groundwork by framing allies as freeloaders who must pay up or step aside.

The continuity exposes the hollowness of Trump’s supposed anti-war credentials: behind the bluster, his administration demanded increased military spending, advanced interoperability, and deeper entrenchment in U.S.-centric security frameworks, all under the threat of diplomatic or economic consequences.

Far from disengaging from East Asia, both administrations have escalated demands on South Korea—not to defend itself independently, but to function as a forward platform for future conflict with China. Under both administrations, South Korea’s room for independent strategic or industrial decision-making is being actively constrained.

Finally, the narrative China and the U.S. use to justify their actions differ—but only superficially.

China made no secret of its displeasure. It framed THAAD not as a defensive move by South Korea, but as a national insult—part of a broader U.S. strategy to contain China and undermine its sovereignty. The official narrative cast South Korea as complicit in this encirclement, stoking public anger with language rooted in historical grievance and national pride. THAAD was portrayed as a betrayal, not just geopolitically but emotionally—an affront to China’s rightful place in the region. Economic retaliation, in this narrative, wasn’t coercion but justified resistance.

The United States, by contrast, couches its coercion in the language of partnership, rules, and values. South Korea is told it must bear more of the “shared burden,” align with democratic supply chains, and help maintain “regional stability.” Yet the transactional reality is hard to miss. Economic pain is being used to elicit behavior change. In this sense, the U.S. has simply refined the tools of coercion, not avoided them. The alliance may soften the tone, but not the impact.

The last major difference is who’s coming to help. When China exerted pressure over THAAD, South Korea had the United States—a superpower ally—to lean on, both economically and diplomatically. But now, as the U.S. itself applies pressure, there is no greater power to intervene, no external guarantor to shield Seoul from the consequences.

In this instance, the coercion comes from the very state that once claimed to offer protection, leaving South Korea with fewer options and harsher choices. The irony is stark: when China punished Seoul, Washington offered support; when Washington punishes Seoul, no one comes.

In the end, the difference between Chinese and American coercion is one of style, not substance. Both powers demand compliance. Both punish defiance. And both are willing to override South Korea’s sovereign choices to secure their own strategic interests. That one acts through consumer boycotts and the other (ostensibly) through legislative instruments is irrelevant to the country being pressured.

In both the Chinese and American cases, the message to South Korea is blunt: comply, or be punished. The language may differ—resentment versus responsibility, grievance versus rules—but the demand is the same.

And for all the talk of values, allies, and shared burdens, there’s a deeper disconnect at play. It brings to mind another line from Cool Hand Luke, when the prison warden strikes Luke and then offers a cold explanation to other prisoners:

“What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”

The line has become iconic not because it reflects a lack of words—but because it exposes how power often dresses up coercion as conversation. In Cool Hand Luke, the “communication” is a baton. In international politics, it’s tariffs, threats, and terms dressed in the language of partnership.

South Korea is basically on a chain gang, and the logic is disturbingly familiar. Like Luke in Cool Hand Luke, it’s ordered to dig a hole only to fill it back in—and then dig it again—not for any purpose, but as punishment and domination, Seoul is being pushed and pulled by major powers who care less about outcomes than obedience.

The demands change—more defense spending, fewer ties with China, deeper supply chain integration—but the message stays the same: keep digging.

Whether the pressure comes from Beijing or Washington, the intent is not partnership, but compliance. And no matter how it’s dressed up—in alliance language or nationalist rhetoric—it’s still punishment for refusing to play the role assigned.