Ch7: The Teacher Who Changed Everything

It was during my four years at "People’s School"—North Korea’s version of elementary school—that I first began to develop a sense for evaluating adults, especially teachers. When I first became a student, everything seemed exciting and new. But by the time I was seven, I had already grown to resent my homeroom teacher. She praised only the top students, while those of us who struggled—even just a little—were humiliated with cruel insults. Maybe being scolded for poor performance was normal, even expected, but something about it felt deeply unfair to me. It wasn’t just “you need to do better”—it was “you’re not worth my attention.” I couldn’t stand it.

So, in my own silent way, I rebelled. I stopped doing my homework altogether. Not out of laziness, but as a quiet protest. A small act of resistance that, in a place like North Korea, could carry heavy consequences. My defiance angered my teacher so much that I became the class outcast. Eventually, less than two years after I started school, I was expelled.

I wasn’t the kind of child who could explain my feelings well. I knew exactly why I disliked my teacher, and I knew why I didn’t want to do the homework—but turning those thoughts into words was almost impossible. And so, when one classmate claimed they saw a bedbug crawl out of my book, others quickly joined in, saying I should be thrown out with the trash. I became the target of cruel bullying, and I had no idea how to tell my strict parents any of it. To this day, my family still thinks I was expelled for simply refusing to do my homework—nothing more. In a society like North Korea’s, refusing to obey a teacher was not just disobedience. It was a kind of heresy.

This time, it wasn’t my mother who got summoned—it was my father. He visited the principal in person and pleaded with every ounce of sincerity he had. But the answer was firm and cold. There was no room for second chances. I was out.

Determined not to give up, my father began searching for another school. But the stain of being expelled, especially for disobeying a teacher, followed me like a bad smell. Every new school rejected my enrollment outright. Eventually, my father managed to find one school willing to give me a narrow window of opportunity: one month. If I behaved well for one month, I could stay for three. If I made it through three months without any trouble, I’d be allowed to continue all the way to middle school. But if I failed within that first month, we would have no choice but to leave the area entirely—our whole family forced to move just to find a school that would take me.

It was a desperate situation. But strangely, I felt nothing but relief. Just being away from that teacher—the one who crushed my spirit—was enough to make me feel free again.

My new homeroom teacher at the transfer school was nothing short of a miracle—an angel sent by heaven. I hadn’t suddenly become a better student overnight; I still struggled with my studies and often failed to complete my homework. In fact, I slipped right back into my old habits, claiming my usual spot in the very first seat—usually reserved for the worst student in the class.

But this teacher was different. Instead of scolding or shaming me, she took my hand, along with the hands of the other children, and led us in songs and dances. She told the class, “She’s new here, so let’s help her and play together kindly.”

That small gesture—so simple, yet so powerful—made me feel like I belonged. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t the outcast. I was just a kid, dancing and laughing like everyone else.

In North Korea, the idea of holding a teacher’s hand was unthinkable. Teachers were to be feared, obeyed, never touched. But this new teacher stood beside me, spoke kindly on my behalf, and reached for my hand. That simple gesture broke something open inside me. From that moment on, I wanted to do anything she asked. Happily. Willingly.

I became the best version of myself at school. I listened, participated, and did everything with enthusiasm. North Korea’s mass gymnastics performances—often praised by the outside world—aren’t just limited to grand events in Pyongyang. Even schools in smaller towns were expected to hold their own versions of these mass displays. Every student had to participate. And the training? It was brutal. There were different routines like ribbon dances and baton formations, and the rehearsals felt endless.

But I never skipped a single practice—not once. While other kids found excuses to miss ten sessions, I showed up every time. I even missed a family trip to the beach because of it. My parents and brothers went without me, and to this day, there's a photo of that day with everyone smiling—except me, because I’m not in it. I still regret that.

But I also remember how proud I was to be part of something… and how it all started with a teacher who saw me not as a problem, but as a child worth holding hands with.

For the first time in my life, school felt like a place I actually wanted to be.

I started doing all my homework—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. And with each completed assignment, my grades improved. The very last seat—the one reserved for the lowest-ranking student—was no longer mine. I wasn’t the class idiot anymore.

I was no longer the kid others avoided. Instead, I became the one they wanted to sit beside. Why? Because I was a good storyteller. I could recite old sayings, spin fairy tales, and bring characters to life. Whenever I started talking, the other kids would scramble to sit next to me.

And the most incredible thing of all? The smartest student in our whole school—the one I used to assume would be arrogant and look down on kids like me—became my closest friend. She didn’t have a trace of pride or superiority. She didn’t even know how to be condescending.

Her kindness shattered the ideas I’d built up about “smart kids” and showed me something I hadn’t known was possible before: friendship.

When that teacher got married, I brought three big buckets of water as my gift to her wedding. That was the custom, and it was all I could offer—but I carried them proudly. I still remember the way she looked at me that day, her eyes filled with something deep and unspoken. It was like a scene from a movie, the kind of gaze that says everything without words. Even now, more than thirty years later, I can still see it clearly.

Whenever my parents look back on those days, it’s not my turnaround they mention first—it’s her. That teacher. They talk about how I changed so visibly under her care, how I became someone entirely different.

While most students moved on to middle school with top honors from elementary school, I barely managed to earn a second-tier certificate. But to my parents, it didn’t matter. To them, that certificate was more than enough. It meant I had become “a person,” thanks to her. It meant I was going to middle school not as a failure, but as someone with a future.