The Moment I Chose Freedom
I remember sitting in an empty apartment.
There was nothing. No bed, no chair, no dishes, no clothes. I sat on the floor and stared at the wall for hours, wondering “what do I do now?” I was alone in a new country. I had lost all my friends and I had no idea what happened to my family.
It all started over a dinner in Beijing. I am from North Korea’s elite class and I was one of the few university students that was allowed to study abroad. In China, I met a few South Korean students and we became friends. One night over dinner they began talking about human rights in North Korea. They criticized my country and I was so confused. What are human rights? What is a dictatorship? What is freedom?
I grew up very comfortably in North Korea’s capital, Pyongyang. I never went hungry and I could buy whatever I wanted. I even owned a South Korean computer and I played video games on it. But there were also moments when I questioned things. There was the time I was interrogated for 3 days for giving a friend some South Korean movies. Or the time my dad had to bribe the police to let me go.
But I thought it was like that everywhere. I cried in the taxi on the ride home that night. I was so frustrated that I didn’t have the words to defend my homeland. I went back to my dorm room and began searching the internet for information on human rights.
My idea of North Korea died that night.
The place I called home and the only system I had ever known was all a lie. I couldn’t stop crying as I watched a documentary about North Korea’s political prison camps. I didn’t go to class after that. I stopped hanging out with most of my friends and spent most of my time reading and learning about things I had never known about my country.
A couple weeks later I was at an ice rink in Beijing. As I was watching these little Chinese kids skate around so carefree, something broke deep inside me. I thought about the North Korean children in the documentaries who would never get to enjoy something like this. That’s when I knew I had to do something.
I began devouring books about democracy and freedom. I watched more documentaries and read the political classics like Plato’s The Republic.
If the regime discovered I was reading that book, it could have cost me my life.
But I couldn’t kill my curiosity. I couldn’t unlearn what I now knew and I definitely couldn’t go back to North Korea.
One morning I received a call from the North Korean embassy in Beijing. They asked me to come in because they said something was wrong with my visa. Nothing like this had ever happened before so it seemed strange. I was convinced that they knew what I had been reading and thinking about. I agreed to come in and hung up.
I never went to the embassy.
I destroyed my phone and ID cards that day and left my dorm room with some cash. A couple days later I found a South Korean pastor and he helped me find a way to get safely to South Korea.
It has been six years since I sat in that empty apartment on my first day as a free South Korean citizen. There was a moment while I sat there where I began to question everything. Did I make the wrong choice? What did I do to my family? Will I really be okay on my own now?
But then I reminded myself—I came here with a purpose: to learn about democracy and to help my people get their freedom. So I put on my shoes and went to buy groceries for the first time.
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.
