Performance by ATEEZ, California (2022) | Sam the Leigh, Shutterstock / Editorial Use
As a child, I engaged in religious rituals out of obligation. Over time, the black thread tied around my ankle came off, the excitement of choosing a clay Ganesh and decorating its shrine slowly dulled, the prayers that I had spent hundreds of hours memorizing evaporated from my memory, and the sounds of dhol-tasha (a musical group drumming procession) became unbearable. I grew disillusioned with organized religion, perceiving its macro-level manifestations as breeding grounds for discrimination, extremism, and hierarchical power structures. My favorite Ramayana film only remained a favorite because of its animation style. And in this period of self-discovery, I began listening to K-Pop. What I didn’t expect was that it had something to teach me.
At first, I saw my choice of music as an act of defiance against patriarchal norms in Indian society. Groups like BTS, Seventeen, Stray Kids, and Ateez—some of the most globally influential K-Pop boy groups—redefine what it means to be masculine in ways that feel radical to me, as someone who comes from a culture with rigid gender norms. These idols confidently embrace their delicate features, which are often dismissed as unmasculine. They wear makeup as an extension of their self-expression. Their bold experimentation with hair, clothing, and jewelry transcends traditional gender constructs. Their fluid and unapologetic presentation offers an alternative to the strict and linear masculinity presented in most patriarchal societies. It’s not just a style—it’s a statement. And for fans like me, it’s deeply empowering.
In abandoning religion, I began to explore ideologies such as anti-casteism, anti-capitalism, and socialism, confronting and unlearning deeply ingrained biases, and peeling back layers of unexamined privilege. Once I started listening seriously, I realized that BTS, short for Bangtan Sonyeondan (Bulletproof Boy Scouts), were on a similar mission. Their music addresses themes such as societal norms and burdens, the educational system, materialism, hierarchy, privilege, socioeconomic inequality, misplaced anger, and false idolization—all while they dance to difficult choreographies, and looks divine doing it. They led me to the solo work of Agust D, the alias of Suga from BTS, whose lyrics delve into mental health, identity crisis, and political polarization. Listening to his music, I felt an overwhelming sense of connection akin to the spiritual resonance religion aims to inspire, but for me, never delivered.
Over the past decade, Korean pop music has transformed from a regional musical genre into a global cultural phenomenon. The artists, often referred to as idols, typically belong to groups that craft distinct musical styles, blending elements of pop, hip-hop, R&B, and other genres. Some groups also develop unique origin stories, designed to resonate with the fanbase. This approach offers fans countless opportunities to form personal connections with their idols, bolstered through photocards and other symbolic merchandise.
The photocard phenomenon can be traced back to Generation Two of K-Pop in the early 2000s. SM Entertainment, recognized as the pioneering K-Pop agency, introduced photocards—a collectible picture of a group member, roughly the size of a debit card—in Girls’ Generation’s 2010 album, Oh! As other companies jumped on board, they started adding extra goodies to albums, like multiple photocards, postcards, and posters. Fans loved these new additions, and photocards quickly became a fun way to connect and trade with others in the fan community.
As sports fans have done for decades with baseball cards, or Pokémon collectors with holographic Charizards, some K-Pop fans are willing to spend hundreds of dollars to obtain rare cards. These cards offer a kind of personal connection to idols, perhaps in the same way a devotional icon offers closeness to the divine—a cross on the neck, a Ganesh on the wrist, or a pocket Quran.
When I purchased my first album, D-Day by Agust D, the experience of unboxing it was transformative. Inside were a CD, photo book, stickers, and photocards. I immediately knew I wanted to keep his photocard with me all the time, so I slipped it into the back of my phone case. After attending his concert in New York, I realized just how special it was to me. I ended up getting a tiny transparent plastic sleeve to protect it, which then went into a specially designed photocard keychain case I could attach to anything I wanted. Now I’ve got a small shelf filled with K-Pop albums, light sticks from four different groups, countless trinkets gifted by fellow fans at concerts, and even a binder dedicated to photocards of my favorite idols. This collection occupies a prominent space in my home, reminiscent of the devghar (shrine) in my family’s household where small idols of multiple deities sit high and mighty, but with one big exception—my collection is imbued with a sense of joy rather than obligation.
Just as religious communities gather for worship and shared rituals, exchange prasad (food offering to deities which is later distributed and eaten by worshippers), and wear religious clothing and accessories, K-Pop fans participate in collective activities. One example is the “cup sleeve” event, in which fans gather to celebrate a significant occasion for a K-Pop idol or a group, like their birthday or debut anniversary. These events often take place in cafes, where fans connect while listening to music, trading or purchasing photocards, and drinking beverages from cups wrapped in the images of their idols. Fans get these sleeves as a keepsake with their drink purchase—another collectible.
Of course, the photocard phenomenon isn’t just the organic result of the fan-idol relationship. The billion-dollar K-Pop industry has perfected the art of vertical integration, where almost every aspect of fandom has a product to match. Photocards are marketed as “must-haves” for serious fans, and can provide access to special events or even virtual meetings with idols if you collect enough (a lot!) of them. It’s a lucrative arrangement, and one that sometimes leaves me wondering if I’m being sold devotion.
The intense loyalty and connection I feel are real, even as I remind myself that this is a fandom, not a religion. As a kid, I understood “idols” to mean deities; as a young adult, I used the word to describe Korean celebrities who sang and danced. Now that I’m an adult, it no longer implies blind idolization. Instead, it reflects a deliberate and meaningful connection to a few select artists, whose philosophies and ideologies resonate with me through their art, making me a better person. What could be more divine than a real human who inspires and comforts without ever having to meet you?
While I often enjoy K-Pop solely for entertainment purposes, the complex emotions and politics of Jimin’s hypnotizing dance move as BTS sings about sentiments of temptation in Blood Sweat & Tears, this fancam in which Mingyu sings his Shadow bridge about overcoming the darkness within oneself while drenched in rain, Agust D using a blooming lotus flower as metaphor for growth after experiencing trauma, and Ateez’s mission to “wake up the world” through Guerilla are what draw me in and force me to stay.
For me, the value isn’t in the photocard itself (though sometimes it is hard to resist the cutest ones) but in what it represents: the joy and emotional bond I feel with the person it depicts, and the safe community they’ve helped create, one which has given me courage to explore my own identity and allowed me to form some wonderful friendships. I’d much rather carry a picture of someone whose work genuinely brings me happiness than pray to a mythical emo boy who wields weapons of mass destruction (Ram from the Ramayana) and is constantly used to incite violence, or celebrate a child beheaded and given an elephant’s head in substitute by its own father (Ganesh)—a mass celebration that always ends in extreme environmental pollution. For me, it is much more joyful to tweet about RM and Agust D (members of BTS) as Marx and Engels’s reincarnations; to fawn over the unapologetic androgyny of Jeonghan (Seventeen), Felix (Stray Kids), or Seonghwa (Ateez); to scream, laugh, and cry while listening to and watching a group’s comeback with a friend—celebrations that do not hurt anyone. It is much more inspiring to grow with K-Pop groups, and to see them grow as artists who spread positive messages of love, community, and hard work, especially when the rest of the world is crumbling.
I see people in K-Pop fandoms fighting for photocards, collecting them as if their life depends on it, or reselling them for an atrocious amount of money—which is only possible because there is high demand. After all, we also jokingly refer to photocards of male idols as “boy-paper” when we start feeling robbed and guilty. But I also see people bonding over the cards: exchanging them, decorating them, carrying them around for comfort. My photocard binder is probably the most valuable book I own right now. It’s a bittersweet devotional pursuit that goes against my politics. So I will keep retweeting videos of Xu Minghao (Seventeen)—dubbed an “anti-capitalist king”—who keeps telling his fans to stop spending money on him, and to “just print it yourself!” in hopes that one day I will.
