Jo Eun-Sil was only 23 when she chose to leave home. She fled a nation known for its rigid control under a regime led by Kim Jong-Un. If caught, her life would be in danger. If she succeeded, she hoped to rebuild a life with relatives in South Korea. A new life, a freer future beyond the regime’s reach.
Her family in the south had arranged the escape. They communicated by approaching the Chinese border and using a smuggled foreign mobile phone. They hired a well connected broker from Seoul, paying him 23,000 euros for his influence and access in political circles.
The woman spent a week preparing. She laid traps to slow the regime’s observers who guarded her life until the escape began. She crossed the Tumen River, the natural border between North Korea and China, carrying a bag of clothes. She recalls wading through water at chest level. Jo Eun-Sil is a petite woman, standing a little over six feet tall in memory and resolve.
From there she moved onward. The journey went through China to Laos, then Thailand, and finally toward South Korea. The path was slow and placed her in detention in Thailand for weeks.
This occurred in 2019. North Korea has seen very few people leave since then, according to Amnesty International which has documented the shock of stricter border controls and the country’s isolation as it faced the global pandemic. The regime hardened the borders and reduced contact with the outside world, intensifying its self-imposed isolation.
“You get rewarded for your efforts here”
Today Jo Eun-Sil is 26 and living in Seoul. She studies accounting and works at a Korean tapas restaurant, living with her uncles. Her parents and two brothers remain in North Korea, the source of the strongest longing she still carries.
A typical day in North Korea is tightly scheduled under government supervision. A group leader monitors conduct and prepares reports for authorities. Those who oppose the state or break bans such as watching prohibited films risk arrest.
Jo Eun-Sil describes a routine of relentless work and routine. There is room for affection and a partner, holidays bring moments of rest, but life is dominated by a five-channel television that broadcasts state propaganda and controlled entertainment as well as the official narrative of the day.
The defector recalls a time when her family occasionally faced hunger. Her family was considered middle to upper-middle class by local standards. She was born in Pyongsan County, in the northern part of Hwanghae Province. Her father was a soldier and her mother practiced traditional medicine. When her father left the service due to illness, life changed. They faced a winter with little food and warmth, and her peers spoke of days spent indoors simply to survive.
She studied Planning and Statistics at the Faculty of Economics and was assigned to an unpaid, compulsory job at a post office by the state. She recalls the frustration of unrewarded efforts and watching party members prosper while ordinary citizens struggled. There were wealthier families in North Korea whose homes housed modern televisions, up-to-date phones, and other gadgets; these were typically officials or people licensed to trade with China, involved in distribution networks rather than real opportunity for everyone.
“A higher and stronger wall outward”
At the start of November North Korea announced closures of its embassies abroad, including the one in Madrid opened in 2014. The withdrawal of the ambassador and other diplomatic staff symbolized a shift in the regime as financial pressures grew. A South Korean official cited by a North Korean news service noted that Pyongyang intended to send a signal with this move, a political message about its position in a difficult global economy. The outward boundary hardened in response to the pandemic and ongoing tensions.
Analysts describe the shift as a strategic choice by Pyongyang to project strength while sustaining tighter internal control. Amnesty International experts have argued that the country has built higher and stronger outward walls after the crisis, reinforcing isolation to preserve the regime’s grip.
Political history in the region includes moments of outreach and more contentious exchanges. The memory of a high-profile meeting between a US president and North Korea’s leadership raised hopes for potential openings, but subsequent years brought new tests of trust and power. The year 2023 alone saw a series of missile tests that signaled defiance and reinforced internal control, even as international observers urged dialogue.
The broader picture shows a country with repressive systems and a network of camps and punitive measures. NK Watch and other human rights organizations have documented patterns of human rights abuses in North Korea and have offered testimonies from defectors who describe the everyday realities faced by many citizens. The personal story of Jo Eun-Sil remains a reminder that fear and resilience can coexist, and that escape often requires extraordinary risk and support from those who oppose the regime’s oppression.
Experts emphasize that the danger for those who oppose the government continues to be severe. Yet the perimeters of fear are not absolute. For Jo Eun-Sil, leaving behind a controlled life meant embracing freedom and seeking normalcy in a world where basic opportunities, such as education, work, and personal choice, could finally be within reach.
Her narrative underscores a global conversation about human rights, political prisons, and the limits of state power in a region where the balance between security and liberty remains a live issue. The stories of defectors like Jo Eun-Sil continue to illuminate the human cost of political repression and the enduring hope for dignity and basic freedoms.
Photo credits: ALBA VIGARAY. The narrative acknowledges the contextual and visual documentation that accompanies testimonies from defectors and rights advocates. The accounts reflect the experiences of individuals who have left North Korea and whose voices contribute to international awareness and advocacy for change.