Freedom Is Not Free: North Korean Escapees and the Road to Resettlement in South Korea

By Lianna Leung, Former HRNK Research Intern 
Edited by Diletta de Luca

          Each night in the North Korean city of Hyesan, a girl, “Kim”, would watch the lights flicker on in the Chinese village across the Yalu River. From the pitch-blackness of her own home, her confusion and unease grew: why did North Korea have no reliable electricity of its own? Though merely a simple observation sparked by childhood curiosity, decades later she would look back on those moments as emblematic of her growing disillusionment with the regime. Years of propaganda extolling the virtues of communism stood in sharp contrast to the inequality and resource deprivation she witnessed daily. As hunger and despair grew amidst a crumbling economy, her hopes for the future dwindled. At the age of 19, she escaped.
       Hundreds of thousands of North Koreans have followed Kim’s path, and roughly 34,000 have settled in South Korea[1]. The vast majority escape across the border to China, making the perilous water crossing at the Yalu or Tumen Rivers. Some remain there, living under constant fear of repatriation or trafficking. Others press onward through Laos, Cambodia, or Thailand to reach a diplomatic or consular mission that can facilitate their transfer to South Korea, as embassies in countries hostile to North Korean escapees are too closely guarded to access. Many spend days navigating dense jungles to cross the Mekong River into Thailand[2]. The journey is over 3,000 miles.
         The plight of North Koreans under the regime is widely recognized, yet the challenges do not end upon reaching safety in South Korea. Adjusting to life in one of the world’s most competitive and technologically advanced societies is daunting, especially for escapees carrying decades of trauma, gaps in education, and little preparation for capitalist life. To ease this transition, the South Korean government offers extensive programs providing financial, health, and academic support[3].
       This piece traces the North Korean escapee journey—from escape to arrival to resettlement in South Korea—through the stories of two refugees from Hyesan, both interviewed for this research. Referred to by surnames only, the perspectives of “Lee” and “Kim” are not meant to represent every escapee’s path, but rather to shine a light on the human dimension of the transition process.
 
Kim’s Story
 
          Kim first dreamed of escaping at the age of twelve. She had witnessed the failures of the North Korean regime, reflected literally in the failing power grid that left homes in darkness after sunset. After the disastrous currency reform in 2009, her dream became an imperative. Inflation soared—she could no longer afford basic necessities at the local market and began to starve. Kim had lost faith in the communist system; its promises of equality and prosperity had rung hollow for too long.
         Hoping for a better life in China, Kim tried to flee North Korea. Her first two attempts were failures, and on the third, she was apprehended by Chinese authorities shortly after crossing the border and repatriated back to North Korea. As punishment, she was imprisoned within one of North Korea’s notorious labor camps, where inmates endure torture, assault, and inhumane conditions[4]. “I was treated worse than an animal,” she later recounted. To secure her early release, her mother sold their house to finance a bribe to authorities. With no shelter and dwindling food options, Kim made a final desperate bid to escape. She knew another failed attempt could mean life imprisonment—or worse—but at the very least, choosing to leave accorded her agency and dignity.
          With the help of a broker, she and her mother successfully made it to China, but the freedom she had sought was denied once more. A thriving market in human trafficking exists in northern China, with men paying substantial sums to “buy” North Korean wives. Kim was exploited by such a transaction—once she reached China, she was introduced to a man and told she was to begin living with him immediately. Separated from her mother and alone in a foreign country, she was forced to rely on her new husband, living under the constant fear of repatriation. “I had no real freedom,” she said. “I couldn’t make choices.”
          Kim spent three years in China, during which she gave birth to a son. Children of North Korean escapees exist in legal limbo in China. Without papers from either country, they are left particularly vulnerable to forced repatriation to North Korea—as Kim had experienced in failed escape attempts—where many face imprisonment and xenophobic discrimination for their “tainted” Chinese blood. Fearing for her son’s future in China, Kim escaped once more. With her family, she crossed through Vietnam and Laos before finally reaching South Korea. There, for the first time in her life, the prospect of both survival and freedom felt real.
 
Lee’s Story
 
          Hyesan sits frozen at the Northern border of North Korea, where winter temperatures plummet to an average of -2°F (-18°C), making it one of the coldest places on the Korean Peninsula. In this harsh climate, rice cannot survive. Families like Lee’s subsisted on corn and potatoes, supplemented by wild vegetables foraged from the mountainsides during the brief growing season. “I never felt full,” Lee recalls of his childhood.
         Life was tightly bound by state ritual. School days began and ended with chants of pro-regime propaganda echoed by each student. At home, families dutifully cleaned the portraits of Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong-Il that adorned their walls, knowing that unannounced police inspections could occur at any moment to examine their condition. Yet because of Hyesan’s proximity to China, smuggled CD players and foreign media often made their way across the border, carrying with them glimpses of life beyond the Workers’ Party’s control. Lee remembers watching forbidden South Korean dramas, draping blankets over windows to conceal the glow of his television screen from neighbors, since consuming “reactionary culture” is an offense punishable with years of forced labor[5]. When freed from the obligations of work and study, Lee swam in the rivers that wound through his hometown. He lamented never visiting the ocean—in North Korea, travel for leisure is virtually nonexistent, and leaving one’s assigned city requires a special permit.
          Lee’s father reported to his state-mandated position, but the family’s actual survival depended on his mother’s business. In North Korea’s rigid patriarchal society, while men are tied to military or state-mandated jobs, women are left with greater freedom to participate in the flourishing black market economy. Lee’s mother frequently visited China to smuggle goods, generating enough income to keep food on the family’s table. However, as North Korean authorities began scrutinizing her activities, she recognized that discovery and imprisonment was becoming inevitable. She chose instead to remain in China, sending word through a broker that the family should follow. With their primary income source severed and starvation looming, fifteen-year-old Lee decided to escape.
         Lee’s family purchased the services of a broker to cross the border, but midway through the journey he demanded a higher fee, threatening to turn them over to Chinese police if they refused. Facing imminent repatriation, Lee fled, eventually finding refuge with a Korean pastor in Qingdao. Even then, he was constantly fearful of being caught and sent back to North Korea. “Living in China, you don’t have to worry about hunger,” Lee would later reflect, “but you’re always hiding.” For nine months, Lee lived in this liminal space between escape and safety. Ultimately, with the help of the pastor, Lee trekked across Laos and Thailand to reach the South Korean embassy in Bangkok, finally resettling in South Korea. During the escape, Lee’s sister was caught by Chinese authorities and repatriated to North Korea. He hasn’t heard from her since.
 
Initial Intelligence Inspection
 
          It is the official policy of the South Korean government that all North Koreans are entitled to birthright citizenship rights in South Korea[6]. Accordingly, South Korean embassies and consulates are obligated to accept North Koreans who seek protection and to facilitate their transfer to South Korea, where they enter a standardized resettlement process.
          Upon arrival, North Korean refugees are first transferred to the North Korean Refugee Protection Center in Siheung, Gyeonggi Province. There, they undergo extensive interrogation under the jurisdiction of the National Intelligence Service[7]. The investigation is grounded in genuine threats; in 2010, South Korean authorities arrested two alleged North Korean operatives who planned to infiltrate the nation and assassinate a high-profile defector[8]. The vetting process typically ranges from several days to several months, designed to verify that escapees do not pose security risks as potential spies or double agents. During this period, they undergo thorough background checks and detailed interviews regarding their personal histories, escape routes, and any intelligence they may possess[9]. The interrogation procedures are rigorous—the inspectors, no-nonsense. “I stayed in one room during the interrogation for over a week,” Lee recounted. “They pushed us, [asking] where I used to live, what I did, everything.”
          Kim was there for three months, during which she faced extensive questioning about minute details of her North Korean life, including the names of acquaintances, schools, and teachers. Despite the confined nature of the facility, Kim recalled feeling thankful for her safety; she was together with her son and had escaped the traumatic circumstances of her life in China.
 
Life at Hanawon
 
          Hanawon facilities, literally translating to “unity center,” serve as transitional institutions where North Korean escapees spend their next twelve weeks. The establishment of these centers emerged in response to the dramatic increase in refugee flows following North Korea's devastating famine during the 1990s, known as the “Arduous March.”[10] To address this crisis, South Korea created the Ministry of Unification, establishing an institutional framework to guide North Korean refugees’ integration into South Korean society.
          The first Hanawon opened its doors in 1999 and has since processed over 30,000 refugees who have resettled in the country[11]. The COVID-19 pandemic, however, significantly impacted refugee flows—numbers have reached historic lows due to border closures and intensified crackdowns by the Kim regime. In 2024, only 236 escapees entered the country, a stark contrast to the thousands who arrived annually in the early 2000s[12]. The program currently operates a facility in Anseong serving women and children, and another in Hwacheon dedicated to men.
       Hanawon’s mission encompasses two objectives: ensuring the physical and mental health of escapees, and preparing them to enter South Korean society through education and vocational training programs.
          The centers are equipped with medical facilities, including general hospitals and specialized mental health units. Many escapees suffer from severe depression and anxiety, stemming from trauma experienced in North Korea, the harrowing escape process, survivor's guilt from leaving family members behind, and uncertainty about their future prospects. Addressing these needs, Hanawon opened a center for mental health in 2018, providing professional individual and group therapy services[13].
           Refugees’ physical health is often substantially worse than that of their South Korean peers as well, with many suffering from vitamin deficiency and musculoskeletal diseases (MSK) after years of chronic malnutrition[14]. The dental health of escapees is particularly concerning—over 90% visit the on-site dental clinic, and ultimately 30-40% end up needing dental prosthesis treatment due to their limited access to healthcare in North Korea[15]. Kim herself recalled being in and out of the hospital with pulmonary tuberculosis (TB) for three years after she arrived in South Korea. “The most difficult part of it was taking pills all the time,” she recounted.
         Beyond healthcare provision, Hanawon addresses the challenge of enabling North Korean refugees to adapt to South Korean society. This process confronts vast disparities across multiple dimensions, including in technology, governance, and economic systems.
          Through a 400-hour curriculum, escapees learn skills most South Koreans take for granted: using ATMs and computers, recognizing and avoiding financial scams, and understanding democratic procedures[16]. Refugees are given a primer in history, including the true origins of the Korean War—launched by Kim Il-Sung’s invasion rather than “American aggression.” The North Korean education system is grounded in propaganda, often unjustly portraying South Korea and the West as antagonizers. For many escapees, confronting the reality that their education was based in falsehood is deeply unsettling. Lee, however, embraced the change. “South Koreans don’t lie about education,” he said. “So, I just accepted what I learned.”
          The most substantial component of the program, 162 hours, is dedicated to vocational training and career guidance[17]. North Korean escapees can take courses on cooking, nail art, baking, electronics manufacturing, and nursing, among others. While these programs historically emphasized blue-collar skills, the Ministry of Unification has worked to diversify career pathways, as North Koreans have long faced higher unemployment and lower annual salaries than their South Korean counterparts on average[18]. These efforts have yielded some progress: the monthly salary of escapees has risen steadily since 2011, and the salary gap with South Korean natives shrunk to 457,000 won ($328) in 2021, though there’s been little improvement in the quality of employment[19].
             Refugee experiences at Hanawon vary considerably. Lee found immense relief in having arrived safely in South Korea and took enjoyment in the amenities of the facility: “I could play soccer and table tennis, had access to the Internet, and got an education.” For him, the comfort of interacting with fellow North Koreans in a free society and exercising personal autonomy outweighed any concerns or boredom.
            Kim’s impression of her first few months was less rosy. She was overwhelmed with anxiety about what to make of her new life in South Korea, and recalled: “For the first few days, I couldn’t fall asleep because of concerns for the future.” The coursework on fraud and scams felt redundant given her years of navigating bribery and trafficking networks. “That kind of thing, you don’t need to teach me,” she said. And while Hanawon’s tightly controlled environment was meant to ease the transition, its restrictions often felt stifling. Residents were permitted to leave only under supervision, for organized visits to banks, stores, or government offices[20]. Kim’s favorite moments were brief opportunities to step outside alone, a freedom she had been denied during the initial months of security investigations.
 
Entering Society
 
            After leaving the Hanawon, North Korean escapees receive a base stipend, healthcare, subsidized housing arrangements, and support from regional “Hana Centers.”[21] Yet, this assistance is often capped at five years, creating pressure for refugees to secure immediate employment regardless of job quality. For those pursuing higher education, the government provides special admission pathways and tuition subsidies. Nevertheless, the dramatic education gap between South Koreans and North Koreans makes the transition especially difficult.
            In North Korea, rather than providing education as a tool of knowledge and self-empowerment, it serves to mold citizens into loyal and productive members of the state. Hundreds of hours are dedicated to learning the history and actions of individual leaders and studying “Juche” (or self-reliance) ideology. Even fundamental subjects such as math are tainted with propaganda. For instance, an exercise from a 2003 textbook read: “During the Fatherland Liberation War the brave uncles of the Korean People’s Army in one battle killed 374 American imperialist bastards, who are brutal robbers. The number of prisoners taken was 133 more than the number of American imperialist bastards killed. How many bastards were taken prisoner?”[22] In stark contrast, the South Korean system is globally recognized for its rigor, with lengthy school days, competitive testing and a strong emphasis on academic achievement. “It is difficult for North Korean escapees to compete with those who have been taking private education from the age of 3 or earlier,” said Ethan Hee-Seok Shin, a legal analyst at a North Korean human rights organization based in Seoul.
            Lee’s experience illustrates these challenges. Because his escape took years, he fell behind his age cohort and enrolled in a school exclusively for escapees. With government tuition support, he eventually studied political science at university. Kim was even further behind; she had failed to graduate middle school in North Korea. Despite demonstrating strong potential throughout elementary school, she was devastated when her family couldn’t afford the requisite bribe for admission into the more prestigious middle school. She dropped out of school entirely, disheartened that merit alone was worthless in the North Korean system. At age 23, while caring for an infant son, Kim began studying independently for middle and high school equivalency exams. For ten months, she studied relentlessly. “It was really hard, both physically and mentally,” she said. Ultimately, she passed, going on to enroll in an Education program in college. Yet the competitive nature of South Korean society left her exhausted, and she worked constantly to keep up with her peers. On top of that, she recalled the excruciating difficulty of spending so much time apart from her 3-year-old son—she only saw him briefly on weekends while relying on a community of nuns for weekday childcare.
         Even with state support, many refugees face profound social and psychological challenges. Research shows that roughly half of all North Korean escapees suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), often resulting from experiences such as witnessing public executions or enduring extreme stress during their escape[23]. Kim herself suffered from depression and anxiety but found mental health services inadequate for her needs. Though counseling was available, she felt uncomfortable revisiting triggering past experiences. “I had trauma, but I thought, ‘They can’t solve that for me’,” she explained.
             Beyond mental health, refugees also contend with societal prejudice. Despite government efforts to foster a sense of belonging for North Korean escapees, South Korean society can be unforgiving. Misconceptions about defectors remain pervasive: “Some South Koreans expect North Koreans to be lazy or uneducated or communist,” Lee said, mentioning that peers of his had been rejected from jobs explicitly because of their background.
          The transition process is filled with obstacles, but the most profound difficulty for both Lee and Kim arose from a fundamental difference between totalitarian and democratic society: the ability to make your own decisions. In North Korea, individual life trajectories are predetermined, largely based on your songbun (social status) rank[24]. Field of study, employment, and residential location are all closely dictated by the central government, leaving no room to deviate. In South Korea, by contrast, freedom comes with the burden of responsibility. “You are responsible for your life,” Lee said. “In North Korea, you don’t learn about responsibility, because the regime tells us what to do—to be loyal.”
         Kim found her newfound autonomy to be simultaneously liberating and paralyzing. She constantly feared making incorrect decisions and bearing the consequences of her choices. This anxiety manifested in her academic life, where she struggled to choose a major in college. Despite pressure from peers and advisors to pursue Nursing, a lucrative career, she chose to study Education. Though it was a daunting choice, Kim viewed education as not only a way to rebuild her own life, but also a means of giving back—of strengthening the community and nation she was now a part of.
          The challenges faced by Kim, Lee, and others reveal the structural gaps that remain in South Korea’s resettlement framework, which emphasizes short-term integration over long-term stability. The following recommendations highlight areas where policy can better address the mental health needs of North Korean refugees.
 
Recommendations
 
          The South Korean government has made immense strides in improving transition programs for North Korean refugees since their establishment. Hanawons have expanded their capacity, infrastructure, vocational training, and counseling services, incorporating feedback from civil society and escapee experiences. Nevertheless, sustained improvement requires greater emphasis on the long-term welfare of refugees, particularly in the areas of mental health and social integration.
          Pervasive mental illness is a critical concern among the escapee population. North Korean refugees have a suicide rate three times higher than that of South Korean citizens[25]. Although Hanawons are equipped with substantial mental health services, significant gaps remain in mental health literacy among refugees themselves.
          Cultural stigma compounds these challenges. East Asian societies traditionally maintain negative attitudes towards the use of therapy or other psychiatric assistance for mental health disorders. The combination of limited mental health knowledge in North Korea and persistent stigmatization within South Korean society creates barriers that prevent refugees from accessing potentially beneficial treatment. “This kind of support is a fairly new concept even for South Koreans,” explained Hee-Seok Shin. “So introducing [it] for North Korean escapees is still challenging.”
       Kim’s story exemplifies the impact of these constraints. Despite grappling with anxiety and depression, she found it difficult to seek help while also juggling part-time employment, study, childcare, and the demands of adapting to South Korea’s hyper-competitive society. Early detection of trauma at Hanawon, followed by sustained, individualized care, could provide a strong foundation for recovery. Researchers have suggested normalizing conversations about mental health in educational programming and training veteran North Korean escapees as peer counselors, allowing new arrivals to speak to someone with shared experiences[26]. Additionally, mental health professionals must acknowledge and study the specific barriers to resettlement faced by female escapees, many of whom have faced traumatic human trafficking or sexual exploitation during their journey to South Korea.
           Beyond individual health, longer-term integration is hindered by broader structural limitations in the resettlement programs. Although Hanawon delivers a wealth of information and training in a short period, support wanes once refugees leave the facility. Kim described the education style as overwhelming: “They provide a lot of information at once, but that’s not really helpful—you can’t just memorize all that.” She suggested that more gradual exposure to real-life challenges and interactions, while still under the safety of a controlled environment, would have been more beneficial. Lee voiced similar concerns, noting that the brief period of government protection does little to prepare refugees for the sustained difficulties of adjustment.
       Social integration remains another area for improvement. Discrimination—whether explicit or implicit—in employment, education, and daily life has been linked to lower self-esteem and greater disconnection from society among escapees[27]. Even forming friendships can be daunting. North Korean communities are accustomed to tightly knit social networks, where spontaneous visits to neighbors are common[28]. In contrast, South Korea’s urbanized, fast-paced lifestyle often leaves escapees feeling isolated. While Kim and Lee both developed friendships with South Korean peers, they admitted feeling far more comfortable among fellow North Koreans. As Lee explained: “Even though I am close to my South Korean friends, those kinds of stories about my childhood just don’t come out.”
     The government can play an important role in bridging this divide by fostering organic opportunities for North and South Koreans to connect. Such initiatives would not only help refugees build meaningful relationships but also challenge the biases that some South Korean citizens may hold. Public education and media campaigns could further reduce prejudice by humanizing the experiences of escapees. For example, the reality TV show Now on My Way to Meet You, which first aired in 2011, has given defectors a platform to share their stories[29]. While not without criticism, the program has broadened public empathy for the defector experience. Similar documentary and media projects that highlight the everyday lives of North Korean refugees could expand these positive outcomes.
 
Concluding Thoughts
 
          Support for North Korean escapees has been a long-standing policy in South Korea, but as newer generations grow increasingly distant from the historical memory of a unified peninsula, public attitudes may be shifting. “Younger South Koreans, especially women, tend to hold a more hostile view towards refugees and migrants,” observed Hee-Seok Shin. He expressed concern that South Korea’s tradition of acceptance and financial assistance for escapees may gradually diminish as the nation continues to evolve.
          For Kim and Lee, the support and opportunities provided in the South proved transformative. Lee pursued a career as a freelance journalist and radio producer, dedicating himself to advancing the cause of North Korean human rights. Both he and Kim were awarded Fulbright Scholarships to pursue master’s degrees in the United States, where they have shared their life stories publicly and advocated for confronting the North Korean regime’s repression.
       Sustaining and strengthening the government programs that enabled their success is imperative. The ordeals endured by escapees during both flight and resettlement are difficult to fathom, and they—along with future refugees—deserve the opportunity to build a life with what was unattainable in North Korea: autonomy and dignity. Yet privilege, as Lee reminds us through his own experience, is never without cost. Reflecting back on his own hardships, he invoked the words engraved on the Korean War Memorial, a constant reminder of the responsibility society must bear to uphold liberty: “Freedom is not free.”

Lianna Leung is a junior at Stanford University studying international relations, with a focus on East Asia. Originally from Berkeley, California, she is driven by a strong interest in human rights and sustainable development. She has pursued these interests through public sector internships, most recently at HRNK, as well as at the NGO International Bridges to Justice, where she supported criminal justice and legal training initiatives. Her research centers on China’s expanding geopolitical influence, including work with the Hoover Institution examining Chinese media influence in Africa. Through her academic and professional work, she hopes to build a career at the intersection of policy and law, advancing global justice.


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