Growing up in Pyongyang, I absorbed the state's narrative without question. My father was a military officer, and I dreamed of following his path, marching in uniform before Kim Il Sung, whom we were taught was immortal. That dream felt natural under a regime that controlled every story we heard.
When Kim Il Sung died in 1994, the shock was profound. The man we called our 'Eternal Father' was mortal after all. His body lay in a glass sarcophagus, draped in the Workers' Party flag, and for the first time, a crack appeared in the regime's mythology.
My father's quiet skepticism about the future led to our family's expulsion from Pyongyang. We were sent to a destitute rural area in the northeast, supposedly on vacation. Instead, we found starving children scavenging for food, with no government rations to rely on. That was my first encounter with communism's true cost—not in textbooks, but in the hollow faces of those the state had abandoned.
Soon my parents vanished, and at 12, I was living on the streets with other boys who became my brothers. We begged, stole, and rode cargo trains in search of food. Every day was a fight for survival; every night, we feared one of us might not wake up. Those years stripped away any affection I had for the regime.
The power of a single truth
Only after escaping did I grasp how transformative it is for North Koreans to encounter facts the government hides. A single piece of information can spark doubt. Doubt can become judgment, and judgment can become courage. Information gains its greatest power when people can share it and act on it.
That is why the democratic world must pair efforts to reach people inside North Korea with sustained investment in young escapees. Information alone is not enough. North Koreans need people who can interpret it, give it meaning, and turn it into a vision for change. Escapees can transform information into understanding, understanding into agency, and agency into leadership.
The regime knows this. In 2022, two North Korean teenagers were sentenced to 12 years of hard labor for watching South Korean films and music videos. Their public trial before 1,000 students was a calculated warning. Amnesty International has documented severe punishments, including labor camps and executions, for those caught consuming South Korean media. No secure government would fear a television drama or a K-pop song, but Kim Jong Un understands where outside ideas can lead.
For decades, international partners have supported North Korean voices and nurtured emerging leaders in the escapee community. The National Endowment for Democracy (NED) has been a key backer. This work rarely makes headlines—it lacks the drama of missile launches or summits—but it is vital. It helps North Koreans question official narratives, form independent judgments, and discover that other futures are possible.
With NED's support, escapees have built platforms where emerging leaders can organize and develop a shared vision for our homeland. That work has turned scattered voices into a movement for human rights and democratic change. It has shown young escapees they are not merely survivors; they can become leaders shaping North Korea's future.
I was once a boy who dreamed of marching before a dictator. I later became a starving child on the streets. Today, I am a free man who understands that the regime's greatest weapon is not its missiles or army—it is the lie.
Washington should help more North Koreans begin the journey from obedience to doubt, from doubt to understanding, and from understanding to action. That means supporting independent information, investing in escapees who can guide and inspire others, and refusing to abandon the North Korean people simply because change may not come quickly. Kim Jong Un fears ideas because he knows the truth can outlive any dictator—and eventually bring down the lies that sustain him.
