A North Korean’s Promise to his Father | Joseph’s Story: Part 1
Most of you may know me as Joseph, but my Korean name is Kim Kwang Jin. It means, “walking forward with brightness.” My father gave me this name, full of the hopes and expectations many fathers have for their sons.
But hope is a hard thing to have, especially in a country like North Korea, and as a child, I certainly didn’t make it any easier for my father to believe in my brightness. Even in elementary school, I was a poor student.
The first time I remember making my father proud was through my cooking, not from studying. That day, he and my older sister had gone to the mountains to collect firewood. It was getting close to midnight, but they still hadn’t come home, so I decided to make dinner for them—rice and kimchi soup. At the end of dinner, my father said, Son, this is the best rice I’ve ever had. I had never made rice before, and I knew it was undercooked. That night I realized how much my father loves me. I promised myself that next time I would make him better rice.
But next time never came. When I was 12, my father died of starvation.
To save us from the same fate, my mother and sister left for China in search of work and food. My mom ended up in a North Korean prison. But my sister never returned. Within one year, I had lost my entire family. I was alone—helpless, homeless, and orphaned on the streets.
After three years of barely surviving, I decided to escape. The journey would be risky, but staying in North Korea would be a risk too. I knew I could die of starvation. So I took a chance. Unlike most people, I decided to escape during the daytime, thinking that the border guards would become complacent because why would anyone be crazy enough to cross the border in the middle of the day with nowhere to hide?
Fortunately, I made it to China without being caught.
In China, I slept in the mountains and went to towns begging for food to survive. One day, while crossing a bridge in Yanji, I remember it started to snow. Everyone around me started walking fast.
I remember being so envious because walking fast must have meant they had a home they were rushing toward. I, too, wanted to walk fast, but I had no home and no one waiting for me.
Later on, I was lucky enough to be taken in by a halmoni, an older grandmother. She fed me and let me live with her for six months but I still lived in hiding, fearful that at any moment I could be arrested and sent back to North Korea. The halmoni eventually connected me with Liberty in North Korea and I had an opportunity to escape China and be the first North Korean refugee minor to come to the United States.
I was placed with a foster family and began attending an American high school, which felt a bit ridiculous at first. Even in North Korea, I was an F student. I barely finished elementary school so jumping straight into high school in a foreign country felt overwhelming.
One evening, my foster mom made chicken wings. They were so good that I wanted more, but I realized there wasn’t enough for everyone to have seconds. So I held back, thinking no one would notice. As I stared at my plate, my foster dad placed his last wing in front of me. I looked up, and he smiled, urging me to eat without saying a word. In that silence, I felt the depth of his love and care.
At that moment, I thought of my biological father. Even during our hardest times, he used to share what little food he had with me. I wished more than anything that I could cook for him one last time and share one more meal together.
That night, I promised myself that I would study hard and go to college. I believed that was the best way to honor my father’s sacrifice and make him proud.
Continue reading part 2 of Joseph’s story
Years before Joseph would reach freedom, talk on the TED stage, write a memoir, and pursue his master’s at Harvard Kennedy School, Joseph’s father saw the brightness in his son. While he may not have been able to witness Joseph reach these milestones, none of it would have been possible without the depth of his love that became the foundation for Joseph’s life.
His family’s support, both in North Korea and in the US, has given Joseph the confidence to believe in and fulfill his brightness.
When recalling his past, warm childhood memories and gripping hardship are shared in the same breath. Joseph often says that North Korea is not a land of darkness, merely a land with darkness. Both can exist. But what matters is what we choose to focus on—the shadow cast by the regime or the brightness of the North Korean people.
Help more North Korean refugees reach freedom and share their brightness with the world.
Finally Free
I went to Southeast Asia to see where LiNK’s Field Team rescues North Korean refugees. Here’s what I found…
Refugees must cross terrain like this to reach safety in Southeast Asia
We’re on a dirt road weaving around potholes.
On one side, the rice reaches to the horizon. On the other, corn stretches higher than the van.It feels like rural Iowa, but hotter and with palm trees.
The van lurches along, swaying back and forth with the ruts in the road. We’ve been driving for five hours through dense jungle and villages so small that you’d miss them if you blinked. It’s starting to seem like we’re in the middle of nowhere.
We finally coast to a stop and LiNK’s Field Manager points to a steep ravine.
“We’re here,” she says.
“We’ve rescued North Korean refugees right here,” she continues.
For the next hour we stop every couple hundred yards. She points to a field or a patch of trees and recounts stories.Stories of screeching to a stop, sliding open the door, and pulling North Korean refugees into the van.Stories of refugees so dehydrated they barely have the words to ask for water.
Stories of people collapsing in exhaustion, caked in mud and peppered with bruises from the long trek through the jungle.“What do refugees do once they’re in the van?” I ask.“Some start crying, the tears stream down their cheeks. They’re so overwhelmed that they finally made it. Others flash smiles in triumph, soaking in every second.”
I realize we’re not on just any dirt road.
This road meanders along the border. You can’t see the line but throw a stone in a certain direction and it’s likely to land in another country.For North Korean refugees this border means everything. Cross it, and they’re safe. The North Korean regime cannot have them arrested and forcibly returned.The danger is finally gone — evaporated in the sweltering heat and suffocating humidity of Southeast Asia.
For the first time in their entire lives: they are free.
It’s a week later and I’m sitting in an air-conditioned coffee shop that sells overpriced lattes.
I’m back in South Korea to interview a North Korean woman who reached freedom through LiNK’s rescue network.It took her four tries to make it to South Korea.She was arrested twice at the North Korean border and once in China. Each time the punishments seemed unimaginable, but they’re terrifyingly common.She recounts the horrific torture she endured for trying to escape. The way they slammed her head into a nail on the wall. The torment of witnessing cellmates whither away from starvation. The heartbreak of watching her 5-year old daughter being beaten in front of her.I’m trying hard to collect the facts. But hers is one of those stories that hollows you out. Leaving you nauseous and numb.The conversation dwindles. I can see the toll that sharing these stories are having. Her shoulders start to slump. She barely looks up to make eye contact anymore.I pull out my phone and show her a video. Her eyes flash with life.
20 seconds pass and she’s still glued to the phone.
It’s a video of that dirt road. And the exact place where she finally reached freedom. There are corn stalks on the left and a small farmhouse hidden behind palms leaves on the right.“Do you remember this place?” I ask.“How could I ever forget it?” she says without looking up.She’s smiling for the first time all afternoon.
