In the second year of our marriage, my husband left for business for two weeks. My husband was doing a small business. We didn’t make much money, but we had enough to get by.

Because my husband had often been on business trips, I had to leave him at the train station that day. But my husband didn’t come back in two weeks; he did not come back in one month. North Korea did not have cell phones at that time, so I had no way to find my husband. I waited for him to return without knowing whether my husband was dead or alive. When he was gone a month, I remembered what he said at the train station. He had said to me, “We don’t have to stay here, you know. What if there is a better place for us? We could go and live there.” I had assumed at the time that he was talking about another city in North Korea. But then those last words he left me came to me in a different sense.

Later, I just cried and cried, never knowing if they were tears of resentment or longing. Every evening when I went to sleep, I silently hoped that my eyes wouldn’t open the next morning. I hated the rising sun that told me another day was about to start. The thought of spending another day without my husband was absolutely agonizing.

For almost a year, I sat alone in my room, surrounded by things he had touched — clothes, pictures, blankets…

Then one day, I got a phone call. On the other end, I heard the voice of a man I had never heard before. The stranger said, “Are you Jiyeon?” I said, “Yes.” He said, “I will call you later again,” and then he hung up without waiting for my answer. I intuitively thought it was a phone call from my husband. My heart started to race. Since that day, I have not left the phone. From that day on, every time my phone rang it sounded like thunder.

I realized two things after I received the call. One of them was that somewhere in this world, my husband was alive. He wasn’t dead. And the other one was that he was somewhere he couldn’t call me, somewhere outside of North Korea.

Then one day, I answered the phone to the voice of the stranger. He told me that if I wanted to see my husband again, I must do exactly what he said. Perhaps it was dangerous to follow him without his name, his face, believing the words of a stranger. But for me, the hope of meeting my husband again was greater than any fear and pain.

I went to the promised place wearing a gray coat and glasses just as he told me. Because we didn’t know each other’s faces, we had to find each other by our clothes. No, exactly, I did not know anything about him. Only he knew my coat. The place we were supposed to meet was in front of the farmers’ market in a small border town. Many people were crowded. I was waiting for him there. But he didn’t show up even an hour after the promised time. But I could not leave. Because if I didn’t meet the stranger that day, it meant that I would be cut off from my husband forever.

Thirty more minutes passed. I heard a small voice in the crowd. A man passed me and whispered, “Follow me.” He was watching me from behind me for over an hour to see if I did not come with the police or government people. Just like I could not trust him, he could not also trust me. He handed me a small piece of paper and said, “This is your husband’s phone number.”

That night, I walked with him for six hours hiking to a mountain top. We had to get to a place where government authorities could not tap our phones. And I finally heard my husband’s voice.

When I first heard my husband’s voice, I could not say anything for a while. We were both crying. Just because I knew he was alive, that’s all I needed to know. After several minutes, he asked me, “You are coming, right?” He asked my opinion carefully and with hesitation, because we both knew so well the way to my husband was probably the way to lose my life. Many people, in their attempts to escape the country, were shot and killed as they crossed the border. Even though I were to die, I thought that losing my life on the way to him was less painful than living without him. Without hesitation, I told him that I would go to him.

Just before I crossed the border, I was able to speak with my husband on the phone one more time. He asked me two things.

On the phone, my husband quietly said to me, “Jiyeon, pray to God. Pray to Him and ask Him to bring you safely to me. If you do, He will hear your prayer.”

I asked, “Who is God? And what is praying?” I thought he was a little weird since he had been away. Because I had never heard the word “God” in North Korea. My husband briefly explained to me about God and about prayer. He told me that God lives up in the sky and that asking Him for the things we need most is called praying.

He then asked me to make just one more promise: “Whatever happens, whatever terrible situation you find yourself in, please don’t end your life. I promise you that wherever you are in the world — whatever happens to you — I will come and save you. Don’t end your life.” He was worried that if I were caught and arrested, I would kill myself. I told him that I would never die before I could see him again.

The broker my husband paid to help me escape led me to the Chinese border. It was the end of December. The night sky was dark. When I arrived at the riverside, I was seized with fear and felt certain that at any moment someone would grab me from behind. The river was frozen thick. I carefully put one foot forward onto the ice. The ice cracked. The sound was like a gunshot in my ears. Before I could think anymore, I started to cross the river. With each step across the ice, I was surprised to still be alive. When I made it to the Chinese side of the river, I realized that I was still alive and that I was no longer in North Korea. But that was little comfort. I was not safe yet, for if I were caught in China, I would immediately be sent back.

I clambered up the river bank with all my strength. As I climbed up, I was brought to a stop when I scraped my hand on something sharp on the riverbank. There was a barbed wire fence in front of me, blocking the way. Unable to think of what was behind or before me, I climbed up three meters of barbed wire.

To this day, I have no idea how I was able to climb up that high barbed wire fence. All I remember is that one moment I stood frozen in front of the fence, and the next moment I was sitting on the ground on the other side. My hands were scraped and bleeding, and the front of my clothes was torn apart. A superhuman strength I didn’t even know I had somehow got me over the top of that fence.

This is how I left North Korea.

When I was in North Korea, I was a simple housewife who knew nothing of human rights, freedom, or world peace. When I was there, I was starving and in danger. Now I am able to eat and live comfortably. I risked my life to escape that country because of love, and it is that love that allows me to live here with my beloved husband today. We have very little and live a simple life. But I am happier than anyone in the world.

As I conclude this speech, I hope you feel deep gratitude for the people you love, the country you live in, and the freedom you enjoy today.

Thank you.