I Left North Korea As a Child. My Life’s Work is to Return Home to a Free Country | Rose’s Story
As a child in North Korea, I loved quiet, warm mornings. At dawn, I’d wake to the sound of breakfast being made in the kitchen. When my feet grew cold, I’d burrow deeper into my grandfather's blanket. A day that began with the smell of a home-cooked meal was nothing special then—just an ordinary morning.
Growing up, I lived with my grandparents. We worked the fields together, swam in the Yalu River side by side, and grew tomatoes, eggplants, and cucumbers in a small garden. In the summers, my cousins and I played in the mountains and gathered wild strawberries. Every fall, I always looked forward to the corn harvest.
This was the world I knew, and I was quite happy with it.
My mother's work as a broker—helping families separated by the border reunite or at least connect via phone—and her other job selling smuggled CDs containing Korean dramas eventually led to her arrest. She was released quickly but was placed under close surveillance. With no other way to support our family, she made the difficult decision to defect. It was a choice made easier, she later told me, by the countless South Korean dramas she had watched over the years that offered a glimpse into a life outside North Korea.
One winter vacation, my mother said, "Let’s go on a trip." I could barely contain my excitement. I had rarely ventured far from my hometown and thought I was finally traveling somewhere new. My grandmother gave me a warm boiled egg and told me to be safe. I didn’t know that would be the last time I would ever see her.
The journey never stopped. We left in winter and ended up in Southeast Asia, where summer never ends. Only then did I realize this trip was an escape. And it was only one-way.
When we finally arrived in South Korea, I couldn’t accept my new reality. I was only a child, but in my heart, I knew I’d never see my grandparents again. It felt like a cruel trick.
But life carried on, and I found myself adapting to South Korean society pretty quickly. I changed my accent and learned things by asking friends. Even at a young age, I instinctively felt the need to fit in. I was proud of myself for not looking or sounding like a North Korean.
Then one day in our elementary school classroom, the topic of North Korea came up. At that moment, I felt everyone’s eyes on me.
Although no words were spoken, the silence between me and my classmates felt like a wall.
As much as I tried to push it away, that feeling continued to follow me. In middle school, while watching a soccer game with friends and cheering for South Korea, someone said, “Shouldn’t you be rooting for North Korea?” I felt the color drain from my face. Once again, I felt the gap between me and them. And I wondered if I could ever close the distance.
Years later, in university, a professor mistakenly thought my South Korean friend was North Korean. She strongly denied it and took great offense, demanding a formal apology from the professor. Seeing her reaction, I wondered what it said about me. This incident left a deep scar on my heart.
As time went on, I realized that I wasn’t as well-adapted as I thought. I had been living my life avoiding who I was. Whenever the topic of North Korea came up in conversation, I cringed and tried to change the subject. When my family in North Korea would secretly call us, I would hang up the phone after a brief greeting, afraid I’d burst into tears. I couldn’t face how much I missed them, because I didn’t want to accept that I may never see them again.
Amidst these complex emotions, I began my work on North Korean human rights. I wanted to change how North Koreans were portrayed as “pitiful,” or “dangerous.”
But doing this work scared me at first. If I shared my story, would people look at me again with those silent, disapproving eyes? Then I began to understand something important—those fears came from my own hidden prejudice. If I believed that North Koreans would only be seen in a certain way, didn’t that also mean it was how I saw them?
Confronting the deepest parts of myself allowed me to finally embrace who I was. I stopped hiding, and began to explore the thoughts and feelings I had suppressed for so long.
In 2022, I took part in Liberty in North Korea’s Co-Creators program. It’s a unique opportunity for North and South Korean students to work together on advocacy projects. Our team’s project was called “North Korea Travel.” We highlighted different regions of the country and shared facts about life there, leading naturally into conversations about human rights.
As I worked on this project, it occurred to me how much I actually didn’t know about my own country. Due to the regime’s strict restrictions on movement, I never traveled beyond my hometown until the day I left North Korea for good. When I explained this to participants, they listened attentively and said it was their first time learning about it.
Their sincerity caught me off guard. I realized that prejudice often does not come from malice, but simply from a lack of knowledge and understanding.
After that experience, I knew I wanted to continue creating moments of connection and understanding about North Korea. I figured the perfect way to reach people would be through the medium I know best: architecture.
For my graduation project, I designed a North Korean Human Rights Memorial Hall. I chose Imjingak, near the DMZ, as the symbolic location. The space I conceptualized commemorates the sorrow of separation, and allows visitors to experience the "surveillance," "chaos," and "oppression" North Koreans face in their daily lives.
The Pantheon in Rome directs our gaze toward the sky. I turned that idea upside down. In my design, the ceiling collapses into the ground, trapping people beneath, like the crushing weight of the regime’s oppression.
On the opposite wall, the names of loved ones are carved into stone, representing those we miss dearly. Before politics, before ideology, these are mothers and fathers, grandparents and children. This is a space where people can freely miss and yearn for the people they left behind. And it is a reminder that North Korea is home to our families, friends and neighbors.
Last year, when I visited the Holocaust Memorial in Washington DC, I felt that it was more than just a commemorative site. It was a space that showcased how to confront humanity's darkest history to ensure that such things are never repeated again.
Standing there, I hoped that one day, the human rights abuses faced by North Koreans would also just be a memory for us to reflect on.
I no longer hide my identity. My story began in North Korea, in a beautiful city by the Yalu River. Even now, on quiet mornings, my thoughts drift back to my grandparents’ house. I want the world to see North Korea like I do—through the warmth of ordinary days and the humanity of its people.
I dream of returning home one day, when all North Koreans can live free and full lives. Until then, I will continue to speak through the language of space and the power of stories.
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights begins with this: "all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights." These aren’t just words on paper, but a reality that we can create together.
Please join me today to advance freedom and human rights for all North Koreans.
In 2025, Rose traveled across the US, sharing her story and advocating for the North Korean people as a LiNK Advocacy Fellow. Our capacity-building programs are cultivating the next generation of North Korean activists and leaders who are bringing change to their homeland.
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Lunar New Year in North Korea | What is Seollal (설날)?
North Korea has several major holidays, the most prominent being centered around the birthdays of Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong-il. But there are some holidays that predate the regime, and continue to be celebrated in both North Korea and South Korea.
Seollal (설날) is one of these traditionally significant days. Known more broadly as Lunar New Year, it marks the first day of the lunar calendar and is observed in many Asian cultures. While January 1st marks New Year’s Day on the Gregorian calendar used by many western countries, the exact date of Lunar New Year differs every year. It typically falls at the end of January or beginning of February, and is celebrated over a period of three days.
Seollal in South Korea
In South Korea, Seollal is a time for families to gather and honor their ancestors. With people across the nation traveling back home, roads are packed and train, bus, and plane tickets are all booked months in advance.
Long hours are spent preparing traditional foods like tteokguk (떡국), or rice cake soup, and jeon (전), a savory pancake-like dish usually made with green onions. The act of eating tteokguk symbolizes turning one year older in Korean, and is believed to bring good luck and health for the year ahead.
Food is also an important component of Charye (차례), a memorial service to honor one’s ancestors. Led by the family’s eldest son, an assortment of dishes are set out on a table as an expression of gratitude, and rites are performed for the last four generations of one’s ancestors.
Another well known Seollal tradition is Sebae (세배). Younger members of the family, often while wearing traditional hanboks (한복), do a deep bow to their elders with the greeting “새해 복 많이 받으세요,” which translates to “May you receive good fortune and blessings in the new year.” In return, elders share words of wisdom and sebaetdon (세뱃돈), new year’s money in a colorful envelope.
The rest of the holiday is usually spent exchanging stories, reflecting on the past year, and playing Korean traditional games like Yutnori (윷놀이), which involves four wooden sticks that are tossed like dice to move tokens around a board.
Seollal in North Korea
In North Korea, the celebration of Seollal is encouraged by the state to emphasize Korean folk traditions. Historical programs are broadcast on TV, and local authorities organize mandatory activities such as kite flying and spinning tops. North Koreans gather with loved ones over the highly anticipated three day rest from work.
But unlike in South Korea, January 1st is actually considered the more important holiday to celebrate the New Year. This is when North Koreans do Sebae. Instead of the South Korean greeting, it’s customary to say “새해를 축하합니다,” or “Congratulations on the new year.”
On New Year’s morning, it is compulsory for all North Koreans to visit statues or portraits of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il. After that, respects must be paid to town leaders, particularly the person in charge of one’s unit, such as the company president or homeroom teacher. Finally, greetings are exchanged between in-laws and neighbors, and families gather for ancestral rites, sharing food, and other traditional festivities.
Another key difference between New Year’s celebrations in North and South Korea is that there is no widespread travel. The lack of freedom of movement inside the country means it is extremely difficult for North Koreans to go from one city to another for any reason. Any requested travel requires a specific stated purpose, proper identification, and documentation that must go through several levels of approval, including from the head of the neighborhood watch (inminban), local People’s Committee, local district office, and a relevant police officer. Permits for restricted areas, such as Pyongyang and the border regions, require more complex issuing processes.
Yet both New Year’s Day and Seollal in North Korea are still celebrations of life and community. Many North Korean refugees fondly remember the holiday, recalling not the state enforced displays of propaganda, but precious time spent with loved ones.
“I grew up with a lot of aunts and uncles and they all lived in the same area, so on Seollal…everyone would get together to make rice cakes, noodles, and dumplings. After making a lot of food, we’d play Yutnori and everyone would start squabbling. Then we’d find out everyone’s fortune. I miss it now.”
- Hannah, escaped from North Korea in 2015
On Seollal, North Koreans don’t do a separate bow because they have already greeted the New Year. Depending on the region, North Koreans enjoy a variety of dishes like tteokguk (떡국), manduguk (만두국), dwejigukbap (돼지국밥), songpyeon (송편), nokdujijim (녹두지짐), and noodles.
“North Korea is a very communal society, so everyone gets together on Lunar New Year. The adults would play card games and Yutnori, we’d eat delicious food, and spend time together until the sun went down. I would wake up especially early to visit the homes of the neighborhood elders and they’d share the food they made with me… Later in the afternoon, I’d go to my homeroom teacher’s house with all my friends, and we’d play there until late in the evening.”
- Yulseong, escaped from North Korea in 2017
All around the world, the New Year is a highly anticipated time of reflection, gratitude, and turning the page. It’s a universal experience, one that is shared with the North Korean people as well!
