The rise and fall of the jangmadang street markets

In any discussion about the economy in North Korea, you can’t ignore the pivotal role of the jangmadang, the informal markets that have become the backbone of everyday survival for ordinary people.
Far from being mere trading spaces, these jangmadang are the heart of the unofficial economy. Now, recent crackdowns have put the livelihoods of countless numbers in jeopardy.
In the late 1990s and early part of this century, when Kim Jong-il ruled, the state rationing system that had been in place for decades effectively collapsed. The regime loosened restrictions to allow people to engage in small-scale commerce to survive. Those with initiative turned to trade, smuggling, and cross-border exchanges with China.
This shift sparked economic awareness among people. The idea of earning money became central to daily life.
Initially, the markets existed in select regions where they functioned as informal exchange zones. But as food and essential supplies dried up, the jangmadang rapidly spread across the country. What began as simple barter evolved into a survival hub where people could buy rice, cooking oil, medicine, clothing, and even foreign goods. This meant those who worked hard could earn enough to avoid starvation, though not necessarily enough to thrive.
However, after Kim Jong-un came to power in 2012, and especially following the outbreak of COVID-19, the state sealed its borders, not reopening until August 2023. With external supplies cut off, jangmadang distribution networks collapsed.
But rather than easing restrictions, the government intensified central control and began shutting down markets.
These spaces had become more than economic lifelines. They were places where people could dream, plan, and connect. Predictably, their closure sparked widespread frustration.
Merchants who had invested their entire household savings into goods for resale suddenly found themselves unable to sell. Market hours were pushed back from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m., then to 6 p.m. – a time when winter darkness discouraged foot traffic. Despite the reduced hours, the government continued collecting fees as if nothing had changed. This wasn’t just poor policy. It was a deliberate move to suppress commerce.
Such measures appear less about public health and more about controlling grassroots economic activity. The regime fears citizens gaining financial independence and, by extension, power.
A prime example is the closure of the Okjeon Market in Pyongsong. Once a hub for the garment industry, it relied on Chinese raw materials and local sewing factories. With both the market and border trade shut down, production halted and jobs vanished.
The consequences have been severe. Rice prices surged from 6,000–8,000 won per kilogram to over 10,000 won. Corn prices doubled to 4,000 won. Foreign exchange rates became volatile, eroding purchasing power. Basic goods like soap, salt, cooking oil, and seasonings became scarce, and black market prices skyrocketed. The burden fell squarely on ordinary people.
Despite this, the government continues to push for a “restoration of socialist economics,” expanding state-run stores in place of the jangmadang. But the state’s supply chains are outdated and inefficient. Citizens, now accustomed to market dynamics, find little value in what the government offers. The gap between central policy and local reality is widening, and even basic survival is no longer guaranteed.
The suppression of the jangmadang is not just a policy shift. It exposes the fragility of the system. No matter how tightly the regime tries to control its people, it cannot suppress the instinct to survive.
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