Humans of North Korea: YuSung
The North Korean government made my entire senior class work in the fields during the planting season.
For 40 days straight, we didn’t go to school. We just planted rice in the countryside from dawn to dusk. Even though I hated the work, some of my fondest memories are from that time. I hung out with my friends a lot because we all lived and worked together. We’d sing songs and sneak out to steal corn and potatoes when we were hungry. Then we’d roast them and share them with each other. I loved the feeling of disobeying the rules together.
We’d also hang out with the girls. I had the biggest crush on this one classmate. She had the palest skin and long black hair. In school, it was her job to clean the portraits of the leaders. Every morning she’d take her shoes off and stand on the desk while she wiped the frame with a special cloth. She looked like this beautiful statue standing over the class. It was the highlight of my day watching her do that and I looked forward to seeing her every morning.
She was my first love and while working in the fields I told her how much I liked her. After that, I started stealing corn just for her and we would laugh and talk together. 40 days seemed to go on forever. But the planting season ended and I stopped going to school soon after that because there were rumors my father had defected. I never got to say goodbye and I still think about her and wonder how she’s doing.
"If I saw her today I would walk up to her with a piece of roasted and corn and just say “remember me?”
After my father left for South Korea, the police came to question me and mom nearly everyday. We had to pretend that we had no idea where my dad was even though we knew exactly where he was. The police would sometimes interrogate us for hours waiting for us to slip up. I was still a teenager but I knew that I had to fake my emotions. I would beg the police to find my father and tell them how worried I was that he was missing.
"If I had told them the truth, they would have arrested us immediately.
”We left North Korea a year after my dad made it to South Korea. The police wouldn’t leave us alone so we first went to stay with my grandma. One of our neighbors agreed to let us know when it was safe enough to leave for good. The police bugged our phone so she had to speak in code. One day she called and said “The price of beans has been steadily going down” which meant it was time. When we got that message we left North Korea a few days later. All we had was a small bag and some money with us.
My father is a great photographer and he took a lot of photos in North Korea. We couldn’t bring even a single one with us.
It saddens me to think about all the family photos that are probably gone forever. I wish we just had one.
The first time I saw my father again was in Hanawon (South Korean resettlement center for newly arrived North Koreans). I couldn’t say anything and just started crying because he was crying. He brought me strawberries and the first thing he said to me was “eat this strawberry”.
I had never seen a strawberry that big and my first words to him in years were “Are these real strawberries?!”.
— Yusung Park, escaped North Korea in 2008
A North Korean Refugee’s Journey - Pursuit of the Freedom to Learn
By Yukyung Lim
Yukyung is a participant of LiNK’s Intensive English Program (LIEP), designed to build the capacity of North Korean English speakers at the intermediate level. In partnership with the British Council, LIEP aims to cultivate participants’ communication and critical thinking skills in English. LIEP is complementary to our broader LiNK English Language Program (LELP), which supports speakers of all proficiency levels.
I was born in North Korea—a place where identities are imposed, voices are silenced, and dreams are tightly confined. There, schooling is not a pathway to opportunity but a means of indoctrination, designed to enforce obedience and suppress individuality. But thanks to my mother’s courage, I never had to undergo that system. She made the bold decision to keep me out of school in North Korea. At age eight, I escaped to China to reunite with her, beginning a journey that would define not only my identity but also my deep, lifelong yearning to learn.
In China, my mother obtained a false identity for me so I could enroll in school. That first day in a rural classroom marked the beginning of a different kind of life. I was behind, anxious, and constantly aware of our fragile situation.
For the first time, however, I was learning not to obey—but to think.
A year later, we moved to Beijing. There, I stepped into a world I had never imagined—one of academic rigor, intellectual freedom, and cultural diversity. It was in that environment that I first witnessed how learning can transform a person. Each lesson, each classroom conversation, opened doors not only to knowledge but also to self expression, confidence, and hope.
One winter afternoon in 2010, I was on my way to the bookstore, backpack heavy on my shoulders. Beijing was bleak and cold that year. Snowflakes fell softly, only to be crushed by cars and vanish into the grime of the streets. That scene reflected my life: I bore a name I couldn’t speak aloud, fears I couldn’t share, and a fragile existence that felt quietly lonely.
Inside the bookstore, warmth greeted me. I wandered through the aisles, searching for a quiet corner to rest. Then, I saw it—a book with a black-and-white cover, its portrait etched in solemn ink. The man’s composed expression exuded a power I longed for. I picked it up, almost unconsciously.
“I Have a Dream.”
“I have a dream that one day... people will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
“This is the time to make real the promises of democracy.”
“We will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.”
These weren’t just words. They were light, seeping through a crack I hadn’t known existed. In a world that had taught me to stay small and silent, they spoke to a part of me I had hidden away. For the first time, I felt truly seen—not for where I was from or what I looked like, but for my thoughts, my voice, and the quiet strength I carried within.
Later, after arriving in South Korea, I faced new challenges. Though I had returned to my cultural roots, I felt out of place. I was older than my classmates, unfamiliar with many social norms, and unsure of how to fit in. But with time, I began to build friendships and navigate this new society. Again, learning was central—it provided not just academic skills but also the social space to grow and belong.
During university, I studied abroad in Texas. It was my first experience in a Western classroom. I was struck by the openness, the individuality, and the value placed on diverse opinions. Being among students from different backgrounds showed me how perspectives can differ—and how that difference enriches everyone.
Wherever I was—in China, Korea, or the United States—the classroom was where I grew the most. It was where I stepped outside my comfort zone, gained confidence, and slowly came to understand who I was becoming.
Across all these countries, I’ve developed not just a global perspective but a deep appreciation for the transformative power of learning. In each setting, the classroom became both a battlefield and a sanctuary. I struggled, but I also discovered. I learned new languages, absorbed new worldviews, and came to realize that I was more than a refugee or survivor. I was a thinker, a student, and a human being with agency.
And then I understood something deeper: My story is rare—but it shouldn’t be. There are still millions of children in North Korea growing up without the right to question, to dream, or to imagine a world beyond their borders. They deserve more than silence or sympathy. They deserve the same chance I had—to envision a different future and be equipped to pursue it.
That’s why I’m sharing my story through Liberty in North Korea. Because stories hold power. They build bridges, shatter stereotypes, and create connections.
North Korean people are not just victims. They are potential scholars, leaders, creators, and changemakers—if only they are given the freedom to grow.
My dream is to one day build a global school for children who, like me, come from hardship but brim with promise. I want to help others discover the same sense of identity and possibility that learning gave me. Until then, I will continue to advocate, teach, and connect.
If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll join me. Learn more. Speak up. Share stories. Support organizations like LiNK that are fighting to empower North Korean people with freedom, dignity, and opportunity.
Because when you invest in a child’s education, you’re not only changing one life—you’re challenging an entire system and planting seeds for a freer world.
Opportunities like LiNK’s Intensive English Program (LIEP) are helping North Koreans succeed in resettlement, reach their goals, and lead change on this issue. Your support can help us continue to make an impact in the lives of North Korean refugees.
