Chapter 6: Lessons from a Tough Childhood: Growing Up in North Korea”

When people think of North Korea, they often picture the three generations of rulers—Kim Il-sung, Kim Jong-il, and Kim Jong-un. Their didn't just dominate the government; it shaped every corner of society. The culture of control trickled down into every level of daily life. In the military, dictatorship was expected. At home, fathers—or sometimes mothers—held absolute authority. At school, teachers ruled with unquestioned power. In workplaces, it was the team leaders. In factories, the managers. In the countryside, the chairmen of local committees. Everywhere, someone stood at the top, and everyone else was expected to obey.

North Korea has a 12-year free compulsory education system: two years of kindergarten, four years of elementary school (known as “People’s School”), and six years of secondary education. University education is also provided free of charge, although it is not compulsory. .But there’s still a catch. While elementary, middle, and high school education is mandatory, college is not. So, who actually gets to go to university in North Korea? First of all, anyone with a serious physical disability is immediately disqualified. Even if you have perfect eyesight and a brilliant mind, if you're missing a limb, higher education is not an option. You could be a genius, but if you're on the autism spectrum, that alone could stop you. The top requirement is physical health. After that comes academic performance. And as long as you’re not from a politically “tainted” family—say, the child of a known traitor—your background usually won’t hold you back. These three things—health, grades, and basic political acceptability—are the gatekeepers. Because in North Korea, college isn’t just about learning. It’s about shaping the next generation of the country’s future leaders.

I wasn’t exactly born out of a plan. I came into this world like a surprise guest—an unexpected little angel who brought sudden joy to my parents. After giving birth to my two older brothers, my mother hadn’t had another child for six years. As she approached her thirties, she began to wonder if her time had passed. Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe no more babies. But just when she let her guard down—ta-da!—I arrived.

Though my existence eventually brought her happiness, my mother’s first reaction wasn’t pure joy. She was worried. What if it’s another boy? That thought quietly haunted her as she waited through the long months of pregnancy, unsure of who was growing inside her.

When I was born, my parents saw me as nothing short of a miracle—a blessing from the heavens. To my grandmother, however, I wasn’t quite a boy or a girl. I was more like... an alien. But to my mother, that little alien was the daughter she had long hoped and prayed for during her pregnancy. She was overjoyed. That happiness gave her the strength to make a big decision: right after giving birth to me, she underwent surgery to remove her womb, something normally not done so soon after delivery.

The pain from the operation faded quickly, she said—because the joy of having a daughter overwhelmed everything else. For the next three months, she and I soaked up the sunshine together, and I grew round and chubby under that warmth. My grandmother, never one to mince words, nicknamed me her “little black pig.”

Thanks to my chubby little body and sun-kissed skin, I managed to win second place in the weight competition at the nursery. Yes, that was a thing. As the proud second-place winner, I received a “gift from Kim Il-sung”—because in North Korea, every official gift, no matter how small, is said to come from either Kim Il-sung or Kim Jong-il.

The gift box was filled with sweet treats: candies, biscuits, even canned food. Of course, my older brothers enjoyed most of it.

Second place also meant I was sent to the central district nursery—a more prestigious one. My achievement was considered a mark of success for the caregivers who had raised me, and they took it very seriously. To make sure I didn’t lose even a gram, they fed me only carefully measured, nutritionally calculated meals. If my weight dropped even slightly, it wasn’t just a personal matter—it was considered a failure of the entire nursery staff. My time at the nursery, of course, was completely free of charge. In North Korea, childcare services like nurseries and kindergartens are provided by the state, as part of the country’s commitment to free education and public upbringing.

Growing up was supposed to be a joyful thing—but in my house, joy often came with bruises. While some kids were born fragile and raised like porcelain dolls, I had the unfortunate blessing of being the sturdiest one in the family. That sturdiness became my curse. I was big, loud, a little slow to mature, and apparently indestructible. Which meant, I became the designated punching bag of the household.

My dad used to say, “This girl forgets everything I tell her—she needs to knock that rock of a head against a real rock to fix it!” And then he'd try. My mom chased me with a broom whenever I made a mistake, and when I didn’t run—because I thought being brave would help—she said, “Good. That makes it easier to hit you properly.” My grandma whacked me for talking back before my head had even finished healing from the last time. My eldest brother hit me for “disrespecting Mom,” and the younger one got mad that I used honorifics with his friends but spoke casually to him. (To be fair, he was shorter than his friends.)

Yet none of them seemed worried I might get hurt. Why would they? I healed like a superhero. Even when we all got food poisoning from the same pot of soup, I was the only one who didn’t throw up. So clearly, in their minds, I was built to survive anything—including them.

If this had been in America, I would’ve sued every single one of them and won five separate lawsuits by age ten. But somehow, here’s the twist: I still love them all to bits. That’s the ridiculous, unshakable truth. I grew up being hit by the people I loved—and somehow, I ended up loving them even more.

If someone asked me who got hit the least growing up, my answer would be clear: my fox-like eldest brother. As the firstborn, he didn’t get much of Mom’s breastmilk, so he was raised on goat’s milk instead. Maybe that’s why he always had the weakest immune system in the family—he caught every passing cold like it was his job. But what he lacked in health, he more than made up for in looks and brains. Somehow, he inherited all the best genes. In our house, he was easily the most handsome, and at school, he was one of the smartest.

To my younger, jealous self, it felt like he got all the adult attention and praise while the rest of us scrambled for crumbs. I was often grumpy about it, convinced that life had played favorites. I never once admitted—even to myself—that I had a good-looking big brother. But the truth is, every time I got into a fight with our younger brother, it was always him, the eldest, who stepped in to break it up and take my side. So, as much as I wanted to hate him, I never could. Not entirely.

Before I knew it, I had become a kindergarten kid. Out of all the daily routines, there was one I absolutely couldn’t stand: the mandatory one-hour nap. The moment nap time rolled around, I would sneak out and run off to play outside, happily skipping sleep until just before the afternoon snack time. That’s when I’d quietly slip back in—right on cue.

Snack time came exactly one hour before our parents picked us up, and it was sacred. Some days we got cookies, and on very special days, we were given quail eggs. In North Korea, quail eggs were rare—almost no family had them at home, and you couldn’t even find them at the market. So on days when those fancy little eggs were served, nothing—not even my hatred of naps—could keep me away.

At kindergarten, I had a special talent for doing exactly the things teachers and parents hated most. My poor mother was regularly summoned to meetings with the principal because of me.

During nap time, we were supposed to lie still on our mats, singing, “Legs out, hands on your belly,” as if that would magically lull us to sleep. But I could never stay still—my whole body would itch with energy. So the moment the teacher turned her back, I made my escape.

When we were assigned homework like copying ten pages from the Korean language textbook, I came up with my own shortcut: I drew three horizontal lines and three vertical lines across the page, making nine neat squares. Then I wrote one character in each box. Voilà—homework “done.”

For my creative genius, I was rewarded with beatings. My mother would grab whatever was closest—usually the stiff kapron towel (the kind always draped around her neck)—and give me a good smack. As I grew older, so did her tools. Eventually, she graduated to the broomstick handle. Sure, it wasn’t as bad as the leather belt our dad used on my brothers, but to my little body, it felt just as painful. Like a death sentence in a very domestic form.