The first breath of free air can feel like a miracle. For those who have navigated the perilous journey from North Korea, escaping through countries like China, Laos, and Thailand, the arrival in South Korea is often a moment of profound relief and disbelief. I remember the sheer wonder of it all, the clouds outside the airplane window looking like soft, peaceful cotton. It was a stark contrast to everything I had known, a tangible sign that the impossible was becoming real. Whispering to myself, "Am I dreaming?" and pinching my cheek became a ritual of confirmation.
This journey, often spanning months and fraught with danger, culminates in a process that, while designed for safety and integration, can be disorienting. My own arrival in 2011, one of over 2,700 defectors that year, led me straight to the National Intelligence Service (NIS) building. Seeing a cafeteria filled with North Koreans in yellow uniforms was my first clue that I wasn't alone in this experience. The simple act of eating fresh rice, after weeks of meager rations and the harsh reality of prison food in Thailand, felt like a luxury.
Then came the practicalities, the checks that underscore the transition. Health screenings, including the rather embarrassing request for a urine sample and a blood test, were part of the initial intake. It was a moment of cultural clash, a gentle reminder that public discussions about personal matters, so taboo in North Korea, were openly accepted here. "You're not in North Korea anymore. You can be comfortable here," an agent reassured me, a simple phrase carrying immense weight.
The reality of escape also means confronting the darker aspects of the journey. Witnessing a 15-year-old girl, identified by a pink name tag, revealed she was pregnant – a consequence of coercion by those who facilitated her escape. This stark reality is part of the complex tapestry of defection.
Following the initial intake, the process moves to interrogation. My mother had warned me: "You're going to be interrogated. Tell the truth. Don't be scared." And indeed, the interviews were intense. An inspector, with a gentle voice but a sharp gaze, meticulously reviewed my statements, cross-referenced my mother's information, and probed for any inconsistencies. Every answer felt like it led to a cascade of further questions, each designed to uncover the truth of my experiences and motivations. Despite being in a free country, the feeling of guilt and the pressure to be perfect were palpable.
The interrogation period, which included a week of writing down my life story in North Korea, felt like the most challenging homework assignment I'd ever received. Having only attended elementary school for a year, my written Korean was rudimentary, a reflection of how language is spoken rather than formally learned. The inspector's questions about specific families or places, like the one behind the factory for blind workers, highlighted the depth of their investigation, seeking to verify every detail of my past.
This initial phase is crucial for South Korean authorities to understand the background of defectors, assess potential security risks, and begin the process of resettlement. It's a journey of rebuilding, not just physically, but also emotionally and socially, in a world that is both familiar and profoundly different.
