The Dickensian tale of a North Korean orphan

INCHEON, South Korea—His nickname was tokebi—“little goblin” in Korean—because he acted like one. Hyeon Cheon-yong was once a tiny, bronze-skinned, unpredictably violent boy who would scratch, punch, and kick to defend himself. He was also a kotjebi—literally “flowering swallow”—the description given to homeless North Korean children who roam like feral packs in the streets of South Korea.

But the young man I met in Incheon, South Korea, no longer looks like a little kotjebi. Though still short and skinny, Hyeon, now 18, looks like a typical, fashion-conscious teenager in black tank top and khakis cinched with a silver-buckled belt. He keeps his hair long and tousled with golden highlights, like a K-pop star, and his ears twinkle with multiple piercings, one of them a silver cross. He boasts about his social media proficiency, and even has a girlfriend. But Hyeon’s voice reveals his youth: Whenever he laughs or gets excited, his changing voice breaks into a pip-squeak.

Hyeon is one of many North Korean youth refugees living in South Korea. According to South Korea’s Ministry of Unification, about 20 percent of the 27,000 North Korean refugees in South Korea are between 4 and 18 years old. Some defected with a parent, some reunited with a family member in South Korea, others are orphaned or alone. In 2012, 146 unaccompanied North Korean youth came to South Korea.

Many Koreans who want to see the North and South reunified herald these young defectors as future leaders who will one day bridge peace between the two divided nations, placing enormous pressure on the children to adapt and succeed. But without greater focus on social and emotional needs, they often fail to meet adult expectations.

Life for North Korean adult refugees in South Korea is tough enough. Many deal with psychological issues, physical ailments, unemployment, and discrimination. But young refugees face unique challenges of their own. They too suffer from PTSD, but its effect is greater because the trauma took place during formative periods in their lives. Add to that peer pressure, low self-esteem, academic struggles, and lack of family structure, and the full picture of the crisis among young refugees begins to emerge.

More than half of school-age refugees never attended school in North Korea, while the rest had inadequate, inconsistent education. It’s impossible for them to catch up in South Korea’s rigorous, hyper-competitive school system. As a result, the dropout rate among middle and high school refugee students is up to 10 times that of South Korean students. Even though North Korean refugees get free college tuition (with government-paid housing and living stipends), half of college kids drop out due to academic, psychological, or social problems.

Because of widespread social stigma against North Koreans, bullying and shunning are common. Less than a quarter of North Korean students say they voluntarily reveal their origin, while more than a quarter say they “never ever” want to disclose their North Korean background. Several well-meaning groups created special “alternative” schools for North Koreans students, but such segregation further isolates them from mainstream society.

Meanwhile, the majority of adolescent refugees live in broken families, or none at all. A 2014 government study found about 49 percent live in a foster/guardian household and 46 percent live in a single-parent household (compared to South Korea’s 8.6 percent). About 2 percent live alone. Divorce, abandonment, domestic and child abuse are common. Many parents remarry, which creates great tensions between the stepparent and stepchild. Some kids end up being raised by others because the stepfather resents taking care of a non-blood-related child. And then there are the parentless, family-less kids like Hyeon, who believes both his parents are dead.

Eight years ago, a 10-year-old Hyeon crossed the frozen Tumen River on foot with four other neighborhood boys, lured into China because he was “curious about life outside.” At night, he and his friends huddled over cardboard “mattresses” in abandoned houses. In the day, they dug leftover scraps from trashcans and smoked littered cigarette butts they picked up from the streets. Sometimes they would eat decomposed food, remedying the subsequent stomachache by swallowing toothpaste. They often pitted street wars against local Chinese boys, using any weapons they could find.

“I didn’t know the meaning of fear in China,” Hyeon recalled. “I just knew I needed to survive.”

Four years later, a missionary couple (identified only as Jang and Shin for their safety) found Hyeon and his gang loitering the streets in Changlai, China, and invited all of them—by then a total of eight boys—into their home, where they scrubbed their dirty bodies, treated their lice and pus-oozing wounds, and shared the gospel. They lived together for two years, in which Hyeon learned to wash the dishes (which he detests), read the Bible, and call the missionaries abba and omma—“Dad” and “Mom.”

In 2012, the missionaries helped the boys escape to South Korea through Laos and Thailand. Because he was unaccompanied, Hyeon lived in a group home with other parentless teenagers and attended a Christian alternative school.

He hated it—the strict curfews, the high turnover of caretakers and teachers, and the punishments. He switched schools at least five times. Without intimate parental care, he fell back to his old habits—drinking, smoking, loitering. He barged into Sunday service 30 minutes late, then ran out early to smoke and create nuisance with his North Korean cronies. Fingers wagged and tongues lashed against the Northern rascals who seemed to bring nothing but trouble to the neighborhood.

“These kids, they are screaming, ‘Please, just love me.’ But you can’t find a system of parents and family in South Korea,” Jang said. “What these kids truly need is parents, spiritual fathers and mothers.” Every time Jang gets word that one of the kotjebis he cared for is slipping—one even begged to return to China—his heart breaks. “It makes me feel discouraged. I start to wonder, why am I risking our lives to send them to South Korea, only to see them living in such adversities?”

But some in South Korea are awakening to the need for parents, not just mentors or teachers. Hwang Sun-joo, lead pastor of Areum Presbyterian Church in Incheon, informally adopted Hyeon into his home—but not before a series of failures. He and his wife used to open their home church to any North Korean teenagers without parental care. It started with a home-cooked dinner for one boy, who returned with his gang of friends, including Hyeon.

Hwang’s church became a madhouse—at one point, up to 15 teenagers barged in and out of the building in a day. Hwang’s wife cooked six meals each day, mopped and tidied after them, and even did their laundry. Meanwhile, the kids enjoyed the free lodging, food, and maid service, and saved their monthly government stipends for cigarettes and fancy gadgets. Hwang and his wife essentially ran a free bed-and-breakfast service.

Finally, Hwang and his wife admitted defeat: “We realized we can’t give quality care to all of them.” Still, they were hurt when every kid disappeared when the free food and laundry service stopped—everyone except Hyeon. So Hwang proposed a new plan to Hyeon: “Come live with us. We’ll take care of you like family.” Hyeon agreed to try for two months. More than a year later, he’s still living with the Hwangs, and calls them his third abba and omma.

For the first few months, Hyeon struggled to adjust to family life and let go of his distrust, anxiety, and insecurities. Several times, Hwang found a knife hidden in his room. He confiscated the knife, only to find another days later. Hyeon claimed they were for self-protection.

Now, Hyeon’s room is free of knives. His schoolteachers called home in amazement: Where did the belligerent, uncontrollable teenager go? Hwang’s church members also marveled at the difference. Nobody imagined Hyeon would one day attend Sunday service 10 minutes early and sing in the church choir.

The turning point came one day in the subway, when a drunken man grabbed Hyeon and started spitting curses at him. Hwang immediately stepped in: “Sir, what did my son do wrong? Please apologize to my son.” The man stammered out an apology—he hadn’t realized Hyeon had a parent with him—and slunk away. Hwang believes that was when the boy “started feeling safe and secure, because he knows he finally has a father who’ll always stick up for him.”

Hwang hopes other Christians and churches in South Korea will develop a system of fathership.

“These kids need parents who discipline and educate them on what is wrong and right, someone who gives them detailed, personal attention,” he said. “It takes time and energy to teach them how to adjust to life here.” But for now, he and his wife say they gain comfort and encouragement that Hyeon is changing day by day.

Today, Hyeon has dreams: He wants to attend culinary school in America, a nation he believes shares his values of individual freedom and diverse opportunities. He then wants to open a restaurant at the North Korea-China border, where he’ll grill hamburgers and share the gospel with crossing defectors: “I want to treat them the way my abbas and ommmas treated me.”