Escape from Pyongyang

Our family’s escape from Pyongyang was a journey through fear, loss, and resilience—a story of what it means to start over.

In 1947, Pyongyang was under Russian military authority. Life for my family had been difficult during the Japanese occupation and was about to become even harder. My mother, Song Kyung-Shyn, had surrendered her brass housewares and even her wedding ring to the Japanese army for the war effort. When the Russians and Chinese militaries arrived, my parents’ music school was shut down, and our family’s property was seized. My father refused to join the communist army. When soldiers came to arrest him, my parents knew it was time to flee.

Crossing the 38th Parallel

I was awakened in the middle of the night and told we were going on a long journey. I could not take my toys and had to remain silent. Between us and Seoul lay a desolate, heavily armed frontier where Russians were known to shoot anything that moved. My parents planned to escape using a clandestine network that guided refugees across the 38th parallel. I stayed with my grandmother outside Pyongyang, unaware that my parents were gone for three months.

As a child, I didn’t understand borders. I thought the 38th parallel stretched across the world. I wondered if there were 38 soldiers guarding it, or 38 walls, and how one ever crossed from one side to the other.

A Legacy of Survival

My father, Yoon Doo-Sun, escaped first, taking lumber on a motorboat southward—wood was then more valuable than gold. In Seoul, he was betrayed by a friend and imprisoned as a suspected spy. My mother, about to give birth, stayed behind. After delivering a stillborn child, she decided to go to Seoul alone to free my father. Weak but determined, she hid under the planks of a rowboat and crossed the border at dawn, carrying a small bag of possessions.

My aunt later crossed back into North Korea to bring my siblings and me to safety. We traveled by truck, then on foot, for days and nights. When soldiers spotted us, we were forced to turn back and try again. By the time we reached Seoul, we had lost weight and hope—but we had survived.

For years I dreamed of refugees crossing an icy river, a mother sinking beneath the water under the weight of her baby. In the dream, I became that child.

Those early memories taught me that global events can overturn any life in an instant. They also taught me courage—to act instead of waiting, to prepare for disaster, and to believe that even the most fragile life can endure.