My life, and the lives of Koreans who relocated from Japan to North Korea
iStock/marrio31
I sometimes wonder how it would have been if South Korea had not been a nation of single ethnicity but a multi-ethnic country. Would I have felt less alienated living among immigrants whose situations were similar to mine? Would I have felt more satisfaction and greater security compared to other immigrants who spoke Korean poorly?
At this point, I ask myself why I came to South Korea. Even though I could have gone to many countries from the immigration prison in Thailand, I chose the path to South Korea. Why? Because we are one people. I believed that. I believed that, here, I could resolve the sorrows I had endured in North Korea. I thought that in South Korea, more than anywhere else, I could live as a member of society without feeling different, sharing the same identity. Most defectors came here with that hope, yet ironically, once here, many deny their identity as defectors. Countless people pretend to be ethnic Koreans from China.
Why do they make choices so different from their original intentions in the very South Korea they longed to reach? Over seventy years of division changed not only the systems of the two countries but also the identities and speech patterns of the people living there. South Koreans have become too different to be called one people with North Koreans. The ideological framework and mindset forced upon us in a communist state, along with our rough and conspicuous way of speaking, makes defectors appear different from those born and raised in South Korea.
And, of course, media influence plays a role. But the fact that North Korea is a poor country made its defectors seem insignificant and worthless. In this process, defectors consider the image of China, a powerful nation, preferable to that of impoverished North Korea, and so they begin to conceal their true identity.
Of course, just as there is no perfect utopia, South Korea also harbors some prejudice against defectors. But that prejudice is never severe enough to make life unbearable here.
Still, many defectors struggle or feel depressed because their high expectations have collapsed. Perhaps we held expectations that were too grand, even somewhat vain. As mere outsiders, we wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with those born and raised here. So I wonder: If South Korea had many immigrants who spoke broken Korean and looked very different, how would defectors have felt? Wouldn’t we have thought ourselves fortunate to at least speak the language, rough but complete? We would not have timidly, without self-respect, gone so far as to deny our own identity.
I think my position in this society resembles the social position of Korean residents in Japan who returned to North Korea. We both once hoped to become part of the mainstream. Yet we both now live as second-class citizens. If we were truly mainstream, we would not have been given special labels. Just as defectors in South Korea are called by that name, Korean residents in Japan who returned to North Korea are called “returnees.” The difference is that defectors came from a land of poverty to a land of plenty, while returnees went the opposite way.
Why did the returnees make such a choice? Let us briefly recall their situation when they left Japan. To have no homeland is a sorrowful thing. It is like a child suffering injustice but having no mother to raise her voice or protect him. That is why they say a person without a country is “worse off than a dog at a funeral.” The fate of Koreans in Japan during the colonial period was no different. They endured endless contempt and humiliation, and whenever an earthquake or disgraceful incident occurred in Japan, it was blamed on them. Often, they paid with their lives for such accusations and falsehoods. They felt more keenly than anyone the sorrow of being a people without a nation. Perhaps that is why, when North Korea opened the path of return, most boarded ships without hesitation. They believed without doubt that their homeland would be a strong mother to them, and they were filled with hope and joy.
But when they arrived, the North Korean authorities treated them like stepchildren. Restrictions were imposed, and all opportunities for advancement were taken away. This attitude spread to ordinary citizens as well. Just as children in a household shun someone rejected by the family’s authority figure, so North Koreans shunned the returnees. They were branded as selfish, untrustworthy, or tainted with “Japanese blood.” Eventually, even marriage became restricted. In North Korea’s society, people avoided marrying returnees lest it harm their chances of promotion. Of course, few ever advanced regardless, but the stigma remained. Returnees were forced to marry only within their own group, accelerating their social isolation. Their parents regretted the decision to return until their dying day, asking themselves why they had made such a foolish choice.
Yet among Korean residents in Japan, some were wise. At the height of the repatriation movement, one pair of brothers in Japan decided to be cautious. They could not know whether Japan or North Korea would prosper in the future. After a long discussion, they agreed to separate. One stayed in Japan, the other went to North Korea. They promised that whichever brother lived in the better-off country would help the other.
The brothers had devised a secret code. If life was good, they would send a photo of themselves standing. If life was bad, the photo would show them sitting. Fate is unpredictable. They thought they would soon exchange news, but years passed due to tensions between the two countries. Finally, a photo arrived from the brother in North Korea. Was he standing in the photo? Or sitting? Actually, he was lying down, tilted to the side. This was the fate of the returnees who fell for North Korea’s lure and took the path of return. It is the story of innocent people who crossed the sea to escape discrimination, only to face another kind of discrimination. To be discriminated against is truly sorrowful. But if one must suffer discrimination anyway, isn’t it better to endure it in a prosperous land?
Born in Chongjin in 1990, Jang Mi was not a studious child, but under her mother’s influence, she graduated from high school and went on to university to take math and science. She worked as a wedding video editor for seven years until her defection in 2019.
Latest posts by Jang Mi (see all)
- My life, and the lives of Koreans who relocated from Japan to North Korea - December 15, 2025
- The problem of anxiety inherent in capitalism - June 25, 2025
- What happens when cinema loses its freedom - June 23, 2025