The Bridge: The Role of North Korean Defectors in a Unified Korea in 2045
By: Eunsook Jang
Eunsook Jang holds a bachelor’s degree in Political Science from Korea University and a master’s degree in International Development from Brandeis University. A Fulbright Scholar and LiNK US Scholarship grantee, she is currently a research intern at the Hudson Institute, where her work focuses on post-conflict recovery, economic development, and human development. Her recent publications include “Slipping through the Cracks in South Korea: The Uncertain Futures for the Children of North Korean Defectors” with the Migration Policy Institute, and “Why Strengthening RFA Is a Strategic Imperative for US Policy on North Korea” in The Diplomat.
The door opens, and an elderly woman with white hair steps out. It is Emma's mother, Sun. Emma's voice fails her. She collapses into tears. Sun startles at the sound, turns toward Emma, and, in an instant, knows. It is her daughter.
"Euna!" her mother cries. The name no one had spoken aloud for thirty years. "Mom!" Emma answers, and they fall into each other’s arms.
Words fail them. They weep, touching each other's faces and hands as if to make sure the other is real. Emma feels with her palms the smaller body her mother now has, the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades, and cries harder.
"Look how you've grown," her mother manages through tears, cupping Emma's face in both hands. "You've become... a woman."
Emma pulls her closer. "Mom, I'm sorry. I left you alone." Her mother draws her in tighter, and murmurs into her hair: "You are here. You are alive. That is enough. I have missed you."
Sun had prayed to God every day for her daughter's new life, even without fully knowing religion itself.
For the first time since leaving, Emma cries in her mother's arms like a child.
And so for the next several hours, mother and daughter spend their time filling in thirty years of unshared life: how Emma met her husband Sam, how she spent each birthday without family, what it was like to settle into South Korean society.
After a while, Sun asks a kind of question Emma had not expected; a question filled with curiosity, hope, and all the images of South Korea she had imagined from afar.
“Is South Korea really like a K-drama?” Sun asks, her eyes sparkling.
"Yes, it often feels like it" Emma replies with quiet confidence. "I was able to study freely, for the life I wanted."
Sun shakes her head slowly, in something between disbelief and wonder. "To think, if you had stayed in North Korea, none of it would have been imaginable. Graduate school. A life like that. I suppose it really is a drama kind of place."
And yet not everything had felt like a drama. Settlement in South Korea had meant starting from zero: a political system unlike anything she knew, a language full of foreign words that made her feel dizzy just listening to it. She survived by studying fiercely and endured countless hours alone. It was the kind of loneliness that stayed at the back of the throat, the kind you feel when you fall ill and have no one to call, or when you achieve something and have no one to tell.
Emma takes her mother's hand. "Mom, everything will feel enormous and new at first. There will be moments when not knowing even small things makes you feel small too. But I will be there. So don't worry. We'll start this new life together."
As the words leave her mouth, she feels quietly grateful that she had gone through all of it first, knowing the path her mother is about to walk. And she finds herself already picturing it: the two of them sitting across from each other at her favorite pork belly restaurant Dwehyaji (돼야지), near Korea University, sharing a bottle of soju, talking until the night runs out. She smiles to herself at the thought.
The faces of the mentors and friends who had taught her culture and society drift through her mind, one by one, and she carries her gratitude for them again, as the sun goes down over Hyesan.
Emma falls asleep in the very spot where she slept as a child. It still feels like a dream. She closes her eyes, hoping she will not wake if it is.
Author’s note: I dedicate this piece to my father in South Korea, who has never once wavered in encouraging my studies, as if realizing through me the freedom to pursue the dreams that were taken from him. And to my mother, who remains in North Korea: This piece is my proof that your daughter has not turned away from your suffering, but is working, in her own small way, to fight against it. I hope to see you, even if only in my dreams tonight. I love and miss you beyond words.
–
Eunsook is a participant of the LiNK English Language Program (LELP), which serves to not only help North Korean defectors build confidence and skills in English, but develop their capacity as advocates for this issue. To that end, we partnered with select LELP “columnists” to write and polish personal essays through multiple rounds of external feedback and revision. Our goal is to have more North Koreans share their stories directly and lead efforts to change the narrative.
We believe the North Korean people can achieve their liberty in our lifetime.
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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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