My Name Is Loh Kiwan | Fictional Story, Real Lives
From a crumpled piece of paper, he copies his name onto the Application for Recognition of Refugee status. The letters flow together in neat, sloping script to spell–Loh Kiwan.
This seemingly mundane declaration of identity serves as the focal point of Netflix’s recently released movie, My Name is Loh Kiwan. Showcasing the titular character’s past and present struggles as a North Korean defector seeking asylum in Belgium, the film follows Kiwan’s journey through both hope and heartbreak while he fights for a new life in freedom. He shows unimaginable resilience in the face of tragedy, betrayal, and bureaucratic apathy, carving out a place where he can live as himself, for himself.
Though based on a fictional novel, Loh Kiwan’s story captures the real life experiences of many North Korean refugees. Whether it be the harrowing circumstances of his escape, the subsequent challenges Kiwan faces while applying for asylum, or even the emotional turmoil of contending with his trauma, My Name is Loh Kiwan derives its drama from reality when depicting the struggles of North Korean defectors.
Uprooted by an act of defiance that saves his friend’s life, Kiwan and his mother escape across the border to China and live there under constant threat of arrest and forced repatriation. With no legal status as refugees and no legal options for leaving the country without government approval, North Korean defectors in China are exceptionally vulnerable to trafficking and exploitation. They live in the shadows, concealing their identities as best they can, despite cultural and language barriers. If captured and returned to their home country, they are subject to brutal torture, imprisonment, and execution. Rather than face such inhumanity, many see suicide as a final escape and carry poison or razor blades with them, much like Kiwan and his mother.
It is ultimately his mother’s sacrifice that saves Kiwan from such a fate. Her death forces him into a position nearly every North Korean refugee recognizes–having to leave behind friends, family, and loved ones with aborted goodbyes for the sake of everyone’s safety and survival. Kiwan’s only material connection to his mother is a photo and a wallet full of blood. In reality, most leave with even less than that.
Not wanting to incriminate the people close to them if they are caught trying to escape, most North Korean refugees forgo any identifying documents or proof of their existence. They take only the bare essentials for survival, not knowing that their arrival in a new country is only the beginning of their journey, or even if they'll make it.
But this is not the narrative Liberty in North Korea believes in. No North Korean person should have to endure the struggles or celebrate the successes of resettlement alone. Much like the assistance Kiwan later receives from an advocacy group that offers legal support and a community of other North Koreans, LiNK walks with our North Korean friends on their journey to freedom. And when they begin new lives, we support their success, amplify their voices, cultivate more leaders and changemakers working on this issue together.
In this, Kiwan’s story reflects yet another reality of the North Korean people. Not only do they encounter extraordinary hardships, but also, they face them with extraordinary strength. Throughout the film, Kiwan persists in his pursuit of an earnest, honest life. Despite setbacks and situations where he’s forced into hurt or hiding, he stays true to his mother’s wish for him to live well, and in doing so, inspires the people around him to do the same.
He finds hope, love, and freedom in others, but most importantly, in himself. When placed on trial to prove his identity before the court, Loh Kiwan proclaims the name his mother gave him.
Owning one’s identity as a North Korean person is not always easy. From the start of their escape, they are forced to hide. Once they reach freedom, the stigma and prejudice people hold towards their homeland pressures many to erase their accent or change their name–sometimes as a form of self-protection, other times as a way to fit in.
What Kiwan’s story shows, however, is that there is hope at the end of hiding. There is beauty in the simple, everyday life he longs for–a life where he can work for himself and share meals with friends, have a home, have a future, and have the choice to stay or go.
This is the life the North Korean people deserve, and every day, both within the country and without, they fight towards a better future. Their courage and indomitable spirit are not just figments of fiction. With your help, their freedom will become a reality.
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From North Korea to Seoul National University | Noah’s Story
The house was too small. There was nowhere to hide, and so we had to leave.
I was only 8 years old when my parents divorced. My father was a violent alcoholic, and every day he would beat my mother, sister, and me. North Korea’s laws didn’t protect us from him, so my mother tried to protect us instead. My father stabbed her in the lungs for it.
We were suffocating, but there was no one to save us. The police, the law, and the regime didn’t care. So we left.
First, from our hometown. We moved to a remote city to escape our father’s shadow, but North Korea is a patriarchal society so families like ours are looked down upon. All people saw was a divorced woman and her fatherless children. They didn’t see my mother, who came back from the brink of death to protect her children at all costs. They didn’t see my older sister, who ran her own business and worked away from home to support our family.
All we had was each other, and everything we had, we shared. I remember the snacks we used to buy, the delicious things my sister would bring home and split three ways. We endured 8 years like this, surviving hardships and prejudice with little bits of sweetness.
With no social welfare or food rations to depend on, we had no hope of escaping extreme poverty and hunger. We tried our best, but there were days when I went to school starving. One time, while the other kids were getting ready to eat lunch, I snuck out to forage in a nearby mountain. I found some unripe apricots and ate them to satisfy my hunger. After school that day, I ran home and found some rice porridge leftover in the pot. Without thinking, I ate it all, only to find out later that my mother had sold her clothes in exchange for the rice.
That was worse than the hunger–the helplessness as I watched my mother sell her beloved belongings one by one.
We were still suffocating in a country that told us to be small and silent. To live so invisibly, perhaps they hoped we’d disappear altogether. And so we did. We left North Korea, in search of somewhere with breathing room. Somewhere we wouldn’t have to run from again.
That was eight years ago. My family lives in South Korea now. Today, my mother, who fought hard to protect her two children in a place with no freedom or human rights, works as a school teacher for other refugee children. My sister has since graduated from nursing school and works as a full-time ICU nurse. They’ve never stopped being the strongest, most loving people in my life.
I’m here because they protected me. And now, I can protect them too.
I used to be a terrified, 8 year-old boy, who could only rely on his mother. Now, I’m her proud son, studying politics at Seoul National University – the most prestigious college in South Korea.
As I learn and grow, I’m able to understand my past and leverage it for a better future. The politics and systems that people live under, the environments and experiences that people carry with them – all of these things can be different. But in the end, we are all people. We set the standards for our freedom. We can be the ones who bring change.
When I think about how my family used to live and how we live now, it’s actually easier to remember the bright, happy moments in North Korea, because they were so few and far between. Now, happiness is happenstance – it’s everyday and mundane. And I realize that’s what it must mean to be free. That I know this sweetness will stay, and I can too.
Noah was part of our 2022 class of Advocacy Fellows, a program that supports and develops the next generation of North Korean leaders, storytellers, and advocates. For three months, he traveled across the United States, sharing his story at universities, Fortune 500 companies, embassies, thank-tanks, and The White House. Ultimately, Fellows are working to bring a greater focus to the North Korean people and human rights issues rather than just politics.
We’re only able to sustain these life-changing programs because of your support.
