Chapter 3 Ordinary North Korean Love.

The Cost of Love and Marriage in My Parents’ Time

I think about my parents’ generation, I’m always left wondering—how did people even fall in love back then? During my teenage years, just before the year 2000, love in North Korea was not something you boasted about. In fact, romantic relationships were treated more like a shameful secret than something to celebrate. Even if you had a boyfriend or girlfriend, you wouldn’t tell your parents, siblings, or relatives—maybe, just maybe, you’d whisper it to one close friend. But even that felt risky.

No official law said young people couldn’t fall in love, but culturally, romance carried a silent stigma. High school relationships, especially, had to be kept hidden at all costs. If your romance was discovered, it was always the girl who bore the shame. A boy might be seen as bold or mischievous. But a girl? She risked being seen as impure, like she had lost her value as a “virtuous” young woman. The way people talked about girls who had been in relationships—especially if caught—was cruel. They were treated like something used and dirty, like a rag that had been left in the street.

My Mother’s Life Without Parental Love

My mother’s life began without the comfort of a parent’s love. Born the fifth of six children, she was only seven when her entire family was expelled from Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea. At that time, the regime was “cleansing” the capital—removing families they deemed impure or undesirable. My mother’s family was one of them. They were forced to relocate to a remote mountain village, and that same year, she lost both of her parents. To this day, even my mother doesn’t know how they died. It remains a mystery wrapped in silence—a secret so deep that none of us, her children, have ever even seen a photograph of our maternal grandparents. Their names, their faces, their stories… all erased.

My mother grew up under the shadow of this unspoken loss, raised in the home of her eldest brother after his marriage—never fully welcome, always surviving on cautious politeness and invisible burdens. Her two older brothers worked in remote mountain coal mines. Her second-eldest sister lived in a remote political prison camp in South Pyong Num Province, raising her children behind guarded gates with her husband. Her eldest sister was sent far away to a mining village in South Ham Num Province, raising a family in isolation.

Why my mother’s family was expelled from Pyongyang, why her siblings were scattered into some of the most unreachable and punishing places in the country—those questions have no answers. Not from my mother. Not from her brothers or sisters. The truth disappeared with her parents.

And yet, despite all of this, my mother grew into a bright and capable young woman. She graduated from a technical high school, a rare accomplishment for a girl at the time. She was cheerful, admired, and eventually became a radio announcer—a prestigious position that made her well-known in her community. She had a beautiful singing voice. At every major holiday performance organized by the local coal mining enterprise, she would perform solos. She even recited poetry on stage, becoming a celebrated figure in her town.

At 23, my mother was in the prime of her youth. Her pride, her resilience, her radiant presence—these were hard-won treasures. And just like that, as if sent by fate, love finally found her.

How My Father Found His Way Into Her Heart

In his youth, my father was as striking as any South Korean actor today—tall, broad-shouldered, with a clean, handsome face. His presence alone turned many young women’s heads and, quite frankly, broke more than a few hearts. But back then, it wasn’t like today where women could openly confess their feelings. In those days, it was entirely up to the man to initiate love—or even marriage. And yet, despite his popularity, my father had never dated. He had a firm principle: he would not pursue any woman unless she matched his ideal type. Because of that stubborn standard, romance never had a chance to bloom.

Then one day, a marriage broker introduced my father to someone. To meet her, he rode his bicycle for six long hours to a small town where my mother lived. In North Korea, even today, most people don’t own private cars—a bicycle is often the closest thing to personal transportation. Cars are considered government property. When he arrived, the broker pointed to a young woman performing on stage, completely unaware that her future husband was watching her from the crowd. That young woman was my mother. From the moment he laid eyes on her, my father was captivated. To him, the entire performance felt magical.

Back then, beauty standards were different. While today’s world favors slim figures, in those days, a woman who stood 162 centimeters tall and weighed the same—full-figured and glowing with health—was the picture of beauty and strength. That was exactly what my father had dreamed of. My mother was, in every way, his ideal woman.

My mother, too, was very popular among young bachelors. So one day I asked her, “Out of all those men, why did you choose Dad?” She smiled and said, “All the other men came dressed to impress—shiny black shoes, hair slicked back with oil, and formal suits. But your father showed up in worn-out work clothes and dusty work shoes… and he was smiling. And somehow, that made him the most handsome of all.”

She always says it was a simple love story. But honestly, I think my mother was being a little strategic. She lived in a remote mining town, while my father—still in his twenties—was already a respected official at a company in the city. On top of that, he was good-looking. He was, without question, a very eligible bachelor.

But the price of their modest little love story? Well… that came in the form of my oldest brother, who’s been drowning in debt his whole life; my second brother, who somehow became the ringleader of every schoolyard fight; and me—the family’s certified disaster.