'Students need teachers who understand': Defector becomes lifeline for children with North Korean roots in South

[NEIGHBORS FROM THE NORTH] 

North Korean refugees face unimaginable peril to reach freedom, but their tribulations hardly end with their escape. Cultural differences often limit opportunities to earn a living in South Korea. In this series, the Korea JoongAng Daily meets defectors who have found their niche, exploring how their experiences and backgrounds in the North have influenced their work. — Ed. 

INCHEON — Every afternoon, students from North Korean defector families swarm into Hanbit Classroom on the fifth floor of Dongbang Elementary School in Namdong District, Incheon, after regular classes end.

Some come because they need help with their math homework. Others simply want someone to talk to. Whatever the reason, they all come to see Choi Kyong-ok, a North Korean defector teacher who has become one of the most trusted adults in their lives. 

“These kids tend to struggle in making friends or keeping up with schoolwork,” the 59-year-old educator told the Korea JoongAng Daily during an interview at Dongbang Elementary School on July 6. “Many of them are also reluctant to disclose that they have a North Korean background.”

Officially, Choi is a “unification education specialist” (translated), a title coined by the Korea Hana Foundation, an institution that provides support for North Korean defectors under the South Korean Ministry of Unification. Along with some 20 more nationwide, Choi’s position is filled by the foundation, which recruits those with prior teaching experience from the North. Choi was formerly an elementary school teacher in North Korea’s northern Ryanggang Province from 1996 to 2006.

In practice, Choi now spends her days tutoring children, arranging counseling, mediating between parents and homeroom teachers and above all, helping such students adjust to South Korean society. She’s worked at Dongbang since June 2013. 

“Parents always tell me to make sure their children study hard, even if it means I have to beat them!” Choi laughed. “Of course, that would be wrong. But that’s just how much faith they have in me.” 

Choi currently supervises a whopping 50 students from North Korean defector families, despite South Korean classrooms today typically having fewer than 30 students due to the declining birthrate. 

Her hectic workday ends at 4:30 p.m., like most other elementary school teachers in South Korea. 

“I love it,” she gleamed. “Back in North Korea, I used to get off work at 10 p.m. That was the reality for all teachers there.” 

The miracles of motherhood 

Choi defected in 2006 with her husband and two young children. Her husband, whose work involved trade with China, had pitched the idea first. 

Choi was initially highly reluctant, thinking it was an impossible job. But she quickly came to terms with the plan as she wanted to build a better future for her children. 

“North Koreans used to think South Korea was a poor country back then,” she said. “But since my husband would visit back and forth from China, he learned that this was, in fact, not the case.” 

The problem was Choi’s children — a 12-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter. One cry or even a slight peep would be risky enough to put the entire family in danger while crossing the border. 

“I had heard stories of people giving their children sleeping pills, but I simply couldn’t do that,” Choi said. “Thankfully, my daughter was a gentle baby. She slept while I carried her on my back while we crossed the Yalu River safe and sound.” 

From China’s Yanbian Korean Autonomous Prefecture, the family continued farther inland and headed to Thailand. 

The family had a moment of panic aboard a train traveling across China. A public security officer was inspecting each passenger. If caught, they would all be detained on the spot as illegal migrants, and in the worst-case scenario, be sent right back to the North, where they may face punishment such as imprisonment, labor or even execution.

Frightened, Choi immediately began breastfeeding her daughter. 

“She wasn’t even crying, but I had to pretend I was busy trying to soothe her,” she said. The plan worked: The officer passed by without a word. 

After that, the family stayed at a refugee detention center in Thailand for about three months. They finally arrived in South Korea on Nov. 2, 2006. 

“I stayed in a cell with my children that was far over capacity. There were over 100 women cramped together in what should only have had 30,” Choi said, referring to her time in Thailand. “Because my son was the only male, we always had to wait until everyone else was asleep just to let him shower. It was such a stressful time.” 

‘No place for me here’ 

Choi thought she would be able to easily continue as an elementary school teacher after reaching the South. But she was wrong.

Choi was a self-described high achiever back in the North. She was admitted to Hyesan Teacher’s College with the second-highest score, to follow in the footsteps of her older brother, who was also a teacher, as North Koreans have little freedom to choose their occupation.

“In North Korea, teachers are considered important figures who educate the future of the regime,” Choi said. “It’s why the admissions process for teacher-training universities was so strict. I had to undergo an intense interview and fitness test."

But those credentials meant little in South Korea. To become a public schoolteacher, candidates must obtain a degree from a teacher-training university or college and pass the national teacher certification exam. Choi, in her late 30s and a mother of two, deemed it to be too late to return to college.

“I was devastated that there was no place for me here,” Choi said. She worked day jobs as a hospital janitor and later became a stay-at-home mom.

One day, Choi received a phone call from her daughter’s elementary school teacher, who requested a home visit. She immediately recognized the teacher’s dialect as similar to hers and was puzzled by how she could be a teacher.

During the home visit, the teacher — who also turned out to be a North Korean defector — asked Choi what she had done before coming to South Korea. 

“A teacher? What are you still doing unemployed at home?” the teacher asked Choi, and it was the first time that Choi learned that there were dozens more defectors who became educators for students from North Korean defector families.

“These students need teachers who understand where they’re coming from,” Choi said, citing English as an example. While North Korean elementary school students intensely memorize English words and phrases, South Koreans focus on listening exercises.

“The students aren’t used to that form of studying, since there’s no rigid control,” Choi said. “It’s why sometimes, kids don’t even know the alphabet after three years of studying English!” 

High status, low pay 

In South Korea, students get a fresh start with a new teacher each year. In North Korea, students stay with one teacher throughout elementary school.

Schools in the North comprised state-mandated mass exercise sessions, home visits and after-school classes conducted directly by the homeroom teachers, unlike in South Korea, where students commonly attend a separate hagwon, or private cram school.

Teachers also were required to map out lesson plans and prepare materials, well after students went home. 

“Because we had to do everything on our own, teachers worked well into the night — that’s why no one wanted to be a teacher, even though they were highly respected. It was an exhausting job,” Choi said. 

Despite the heavy workload, teachers were not paid well. Choi said she earned about 3,500 North Korean won per month around 2006, right before she defected — or about $20 or $25, according to North Korea's official exchange rate at the time. Even this was far above the 74 North Korean won she made straight out of university. 

“With that money, you can’t even buy a kilogram [2.2 pounds] of rice, which was about 5,000 [North Korean] won,” Choi said. “Teachers weren’t allowed to launch a side business, either. Fortunately, my husband brought in a lot of dough, so our family was pretty well off.” 

A home visit entailed teachers meeting with parents and learning intimate details about their families, “even how many spoons and forks they owned,” all of which would be reported back to the principal the next day, Choi explained.

Oftentimes, parents would bribe teachers, particularly with gifts like cooking oil or vegetables, or even U.S. dollars or Chinese renminbi. 

“There’s a saying in North Korea that the teacher takes care of the students, while parents ‘take care’ of the teachers,” Choi said.

Teachers also enjoyed considerable social prestige, to the point that parents very rarely filed complaints.

“Students go to school to learn from teachers. When did it become a place where you can assault your teacher, or even murder them?" Choi said, alluding to the broader controversy in South Korea surrounding the treatment of teachers, following multiple incidents of teacher suicides and abuse. 

“Kids here are less polite compared to those in North Korea. Whenever a teacher walks by, North Korean students stop and always bow. Here, students talk back to teachers, but we’re still not allowed to scold them!” 

A teacher’s calling 

After two decades in the South, Choi is set to retire next year. 

Until then, she hopes to continue operating Hanbit Classroom as a haven, offering both academic and emotional support for students from North Korean defector families. The need remains significant: Of the 2,645 such students enrolled in South Korean schools in 2024, 2.2 percent dropped out — about twice the national average — according to data released by South Korea’s Ministry of Education.

During the past 13 years, Choi has obtained numerous certifications in social work, art therapy and even suicide prevention counseling. She is currently pursuing a doctorate in North Korean studies as well.

“I once had a student who kept intentionally hurting themselves,” Choi said. “That’s why I decided to get that license. The student depended on me so much that they refused to come to school whenever I wasn’t there. Thankfully, they’re doing so much better now.” 

After retirement, Choi’s goal is to establish a unification education center. 

"Over the years, I've realized that unification education is largely limited to schoolchildren," Choi said. "I want to create a system where office workers and ordinary citizens can also learn more about unification." 

The most rewarding part of her job is when her students say that meeting her was the “greatest blessing” of their lives. 

“I had another student who would tell me that they loved me constantly,” Choi said. “Turns out, they had never said the same to their own mother — simply refused to do so, too. I could surely never love these children more than their own parents do. But moments like that remind me how fortunate I am that my students know I genuinely care about them.” 

BY SHIN MIN-HEE [[email protected]]