My name is Doohyun Kim, and I am not just a survivor but a witness—one voice for the millions who cannot speak. My story is just one thread in the vast pattern of suffering created by the North Korean regime. I want to share that story. It’s about a childhood shaped by hunger and fear, a family torn apart by oppression, and an escape driven by love and the hope for freedom. I offer these memories in the hope they shine a light on one of the darkest places on earth and inspire us all to act.

I was born and raised in North Korea, in a city by a wide river. As a young boy, I believed my life was normal. I played with friends on the riverbank, gazing across the water at the tall buildings and cars in China—a world just out of reach. But as I grew older, the truth sank in. We lived under constant fear. The government demanded total loyalty; even a small complaint could lead to punishment, prison, or execution. We were never taught how to think—only what to think. From the moment we could speak, we learned to praise the Kim family and stay silent about our own pain.

One of my first memories of that pain was hunger. In the mid-1990s, a terrible famine called the "Arduous March" swept through North Korea. The public food system collapsed. I remember going to bed hungry and waking up even weaker. Seeing dead bodies on the streets and at train stations became normal. Our "Great Leader" told us to stay strong and blamed our suffering on American sanctions. But that wasn’t true. The U.S. was sending over a billion dollars in food aid. None of it reached me or my neighbors. The regime turned away international help and fed us lies instead. Because of a lifetime of propaganda and brainwashing—even while starving—many people still believed the lies. Hunger wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a tool. Soldiers would shoot people caught searching for food. I grew up knowing that even trying to survive could cost you your life.

During those years, fear became a part of who we were. We were afraid to ask questions or even whisper doubts. I learned to keep my head down and my thoughts hidden. Neighbors spied on neighbors. A wrong word or joke could send a whole family to a prison camp. One night, I saw soldiers drag away two families—parents and children in pajamas—because someone reported them of practicing a forbidden faith. As they were loaded into trucks, they sang a defiant song about God and eternal life. It was the first time I heard the word "God." Their voices were silenced by rifle butts and barking dogs. In North Korea, even hope and faith are crimes.

Fear was the air we breathed. We never spoke freely—not even at home. My father once warned me, "Never say anything bad about the regime. The walls have ears." I was just a child, but I understood: one careless word could destroy us all.

Hunger and fear defined my childhood, but certain moments left scars I’ll carry forever. When I was thirteen, I saw my first public execution. In North Korea, these events were staged to control people through fear.

One day, everyone in town—kids and the elderly—was forced to gather at the riverside. Schools, markets, and factories shut down. A makeshift courtroom was set up, with officials seated behind a long table draped in white. Two policemen dragged out a thin, trembling man and tied him to a wooden post. His crime? Cutting a cow’s leg to feed his family.

His wife and children were placed in the front row, forced to watch. I’ll never forget her face—she clutched her baby, sobbing, as her toddler cried beside her.

Then the command came: "Ready, aim, fire!" Three soldiers fired at once. The man’s body collapsed. Men with a sack gathered his remains and tossed them into a truck. Then it was over. We were told to go home as if we had just left a school event.

I don’t remember walking home. I barely ate or spoke for weeks. Nightmares haunted my sleep. But in North Korea, we were expected to pretend everything was fine. At thirteen, I had learned the regime’s lesson: fear keeps you obedient, and silence keeps you safe.

While fear kept most silent, my father was different. He was a proud former soldier and a devoted father. But in North Korea, even good people can be punished for no reason. In the 1970s, a high-ranking official was executed by Kim Il-sung. My father, who had served under him, was discharged and labeled a "traitor."

He struggled to find work but never gave up. During the famine, he started a small market business to feed us. His resilience inspired me. But the regime does not tolerate even this small success—especially from someone they considered part of the "hostile class." One day, the police came and arrested him for "illegal business," though he had broken no laws. They simply needed an excuse to punish a man they already distrusted.

He was detained for a year. When he returned, he weighed just 66 pounds, just 30 kilograms—barely alive. They sent him home to die under our care so they wouldn’t have to explain a death in custody.

But his spirit wasn’t broken. In a quiet act of defiance, he wrote a letter to the Central Party in Pyongyang. It was an unthinkable risk. In North Korea, writing a complaint about human rights abuses could get you killed. But he spent days carefully writing by hand, describing the torture, the corruption, and the injustices we lived with every day.

Weeks later, a black Mercedes-Benz with the license plate "216"—a number reserved for Kim Jong Il’s closest aides—pulled up in front of our house. A high-ranking official had come to hear my father’s story. He apologized and promised justice. For the first time, we felt hope.

But it was false hope. Days later, local police returned and arrested my father again. We never saw him again.

For two years we lived in silence and pain, not knowing whether he was alive or dead. Then a police officer finally told us the truth — that my father had died in prison. He died alone, simply for telling the truth.

We were not allowed to bury him. When we requested his body, the regime refused. They claimed that since he had been sentenced to eight years and died after two, he “still had six years left to serve.” So even in death, he remained a prisoner. Imagine being told your father must serve six more years as a corpse. It was grotesque. Humiliating.

I was shattered. I realized then: how broken our country was. Do normal governments punish the dead? Do they starve, torture, and kill their own people? No. This was not normal.

My father’s courage and sacrifice steeled my resolve; in 2009, I decided to escape.

Escaping meant leaving behind everything and everyone I loved. At the time, I had been married for two years to my wife Jiyeon—my best friend and confidante. But I couldn’t tell her my plan. In North Korea, if someone knows about a defection and doesn’t report it, they’re punished too. The only way to protect her was to lie. It broke my heart. My family had lived for years without knowing what happened to my father. Now, I was about to do the same to my wife. But I had no choice.

The worst lie I ever told was to the person I loved most.

I told her I’d be gone for just two weeks—on a business trip. In truth, I didn’t know if I would ever return.

At the train station, she held my hands, crying softly, thinking it would only be two weeks. I swallowed my tears. If I showed any emotion, she might sense the truth. I hugged her one last time and stepped onto the train.

As it pulled away, I saw her wiping her eyes. My heart broke in two—half guilt, half determination. I made myself a promise: This lie would not be the end. 

It would be the bridge to our new beginning.

Escaping North Korea is a journey few dare to take—and even fewer survive. I became a fugitive in my own homeland. From the moment I stepped off the train near the Chinese border, it felt like death was chasing me. For thousands of miles, I looked over my shoulder, knowing that if I were caught, I’d face a prison camp—or worse, public execution. Either way, I’d never see my wife or family again.

I carried poison with me. If captured, I was ready to end my own life. As the son of a “traitor,” I knew exactly what they would do to me.

One night, crawling through a cornfield near the Yalu River, I heard footsteps. Guards were nearby, ordered to shoot on sight. Suddenly, a soldier walked straight toward me. I froze. My hand gripped the poison.

He stopped—just inches away—and began to urinate. He never saw me. When he walked off, I stayed motionless, then crawled forward, shaking. But I was still alive.

Eventually, I crossed into China. But I wasn’t safe yet. Chinese government often capture defectors and send them back. I spent months traveling across China and Southeast Asia—through jungles, across rivers—always hiding, always afraid.

Finally, I reached South Korea. The moment my feet touched the ground, I collapsed to my knees and wept. I was free.

The sky looked brighter. The air smelled different.

Freedom had a feeling. And I would never forget it.

Arriving in South Korea felt like landing on another planet. Overnight, I went from darkness to neon light. Everything was unfamiliar—food, technology, freedom. I remember walking into a grocery store and seeing aisle after aisle filled with food. It felt surreal. I had electricity at the flip of a switch, running water 24/7, and—for the first time—I could speak without fear of prison.

But none of it mattered without my wife, Jiyeon. My mission was clear: I had to bring her to freedom.

From day one, I worked twelve-hour shifts to save for her escape. Ten long months passed—months when she had no idea whether I was dead or alive. Finally, I was able to reach her through a broker.

When we finally spoke, it was from a mountaintop—far from any signal detectors. At first, we couldn’t speak. We just cried. Then I asked, “You’re coming, right?” And she said yes.

Now it was her turn to make the same terrifying journey I had taken. I could only wait and pray. Knowing exactly what she would face made it even harder. But Jiyeon is brave and strong. On December 27, 2011, she crossed the river. A few months later, she arrived safely in South Korea.

When we saw each other again, we broke down in tears—and then she punched me and called me a liar. I deserved it. My “two-week business trip” had turned into two years.

We held each other, saying nothing. But we both knew: we had made it. We were finally free—together.

Today, we live in America—a life that still feels like a beautiful dream. We have two beautiful sons who know nothing of hunger, except asking for a snack before dinner. They’ll never bow to a dictator’s portrait or fear the secret police. Every day, I cherish simple blessings: my children’s laughter, the smell of breakfast, the light of freedom.

Back then, the regime decided every part of my future. Now, my family and I choose our own path.

We go fishing, camping, hiking—freedoms that once felt impossible. And sometimes, when I watch my sons playing, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude... and grief—knowing how different their lives might have been.

I often think of my father, who died in a North Korean prison for speaking the truth. He dreamed of this life for his children. And I know millions still trapped in North Korea deserve that same chance.

Freedom is a gift. And it comes with a responsibility—to carry the voice of those who still cannot speak.

Today, I’ve shared these painful and personal memories with you because I do not want the world to look away from North Korea. 

I stand before you as a free man, but I am the exception. Twenty-five million of my fellow North Koreans remain trapped in a regime that crushes freedom, punishes thought, and uses hunger and terror as weapons. They are not just statistics. They are fathers and mothers, sons and daughters—families just like yours—denied dignity and choice.

Today, through my work with the Committee for Human Rights in North Korea (HRNK), I fight for those who cannot speak. HRNK investigates abuses, amplifies the voices of victims, and holds the regime accountable on the global stage. Our mission is clear: don’t let the world forget North Korea’s people. Raise awareness. Demand action. Push for justice.

This is not just about nuclear weapons or one dictator. It’s about 25 million lives. Your voice matters. Put human rights up front. Tell their stories.

My wife and I don’t seek pity. We seek action and change. 

My father died alone in a prison cell, believing the world would never hear his voice. By standing here today, I honor his memory. I make sure his voice, and the voices of many others, are finally heard.

North Koreans are not helpless victims—we are survivors. Our desire for freedom is stronger than fear, stronger than borders, stronger than silence.

I hope my journey helps you appreciate the freedoms you enjoy: to speak, to worship, to move, to live. And more than that, I hope it helps you feel connected to the people of North Korea—not as strangers, but as fellow human beings whose lives matter.

Please—do not look away. Help us bring light to the darkest place on Earth. So that one day, the people of North Korea can stand beside us—not in fear, but in freedom.

Thank you for your kindness. And thank you for choosing to care.