From 'Sir' to 'Dad': A North Korean Daughter's Journey (Part 1)

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Growing up in North Korea, I learned not to trust fathers — not the word, and certainly not the people.

My birth father was cold and violent. My first stepfather started out kind, then turned abusive. So when another man began spending time with my mom, I had already made up my mind. I was seven years old and certain I didn’t want another father. I didn’t want another man who might pretend to care, only to hurt me later.

Mom and I had been homeless, sleeping at Geumya Station, when she started talking to a man who played cards with strangers. His face looked unusual, and his eyebrows pointed upward whenever he smiled — which was all the time. I overheard them say they had known each other back in our hometown of Geumya-gun, Bongsan-ri, but that didn’t mean I trusted him.

He had been to Yodok, the notorious North Korean prison camp. He told us, “The prisoners there couldn’t move and were forced to sit on their knees all day, except for when they ate.” If they dared to scratch an itch, they would get beaten. He told us they couldn’t move or see the sunlight. After years inside, when he was finally released, he couldn’t open his eyes in the sunlight.

Despite everything he had been through, he was always cheerful. At the train station, he played cards and always seemed to win. He was like a magician with the cards, leaving some people so frustrated they stormed off, while others simply conceded to him. “Shut up! I’m going to kill them all with these cards. One time, two times, three times,” he would shout during games, joking but bold, confident even when he was bluffing.

He began spending more time with Mom, talking about how they could earn money together. After winning at cards, he would sometimes use his winnings to buy us food. I sensed something was developing between them.

A few times, he and Mom would go out stealing food together. I wasn’t allowed to join them, but he made sure I was protected while they were gone. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t starving. He looked out for Mom and shielded her when things got tense. He made plans for everything — if they were ever caught or had trouble, he was the one to fight, negotiate, or disappear through some kind of magic.

One day, Mom asked me directly, “Do you know the man who is playing cards? What if he becomes your new father?” I didn’t hesitate — I frowned, shook my head, and said, “No, Mom.” She didn’t push it.

But a few days later, he brought us more food and gave Mom some money. I became suspicious and asked her, “Mom. What’s going on with that guy? Mom?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure? He gave you some money.”

“I’m sure. Nothing’s going on, he’s helping us.”

I didn’t believe her, I could tell something was going on. She finally admitted, “He wants to help us and have a good relationship together.”

I wasn’t finished. “That means …” I said, and then waited for her to finish the sentence. Finally, she said: “Let’s try.”

He and Mom were planning a future together, with plans to save money and buy a house. He told us, “From now on, I will play cards every day, but that is pocket money. We will also need to steal food.” They kept it up for about a month, until one day he said, “Okay, we don’t need to steal food again. We can’t live like this long-term. Let’s find a place to stay.”

That was how we ended up moving into a house with an older woman named Ms. Shin. She had suffered a stroke and needed someone to care for her. Ms. Shin slept in the bedroom while the rest of us — me, Mom, and the card player — slept in the living room. But even after moving in together, I still called him “Sir.” Even when they were all laughing, I was stone-faced.

Then one day, something happened that changed how I saw him.

Mom asked me to prepare the dinner table. I loved having household chores after being homeless and living in a barn, I was grateful to have a home and food again. But while I was setting the table, Ms. Shin sat down before I was finished. I politely asked her to move. She refused. “No! I’m a grandmother. You shouldn’t tell me to move.”

When Mom asked what was going on, I explained. That was enough to make her angry. She threw a heavy laundry stick at me. I was moving as the stick hit me on my upper lip. I was bleeding badly.

Sir stepped in. He didn’t ask questions or waste a moment — he lifted me into his arms and headed for the nearest clinic. As he walked, I couldn’t speak, I stared up at the sky watching it shift and blur above me. All I could hear was the steady rhythm of his breath. When the clinic turned us away, saying they were closing and couldn’t help, he didn’t panic. He rushed us home and told my mom to get ready — we were going to a bigger hospital. His shirt was stained with my blood. The usual lift in his eyebrows had vanished. For the first time, I saw him truly angry, and not at me — but at Mom.

Mom tried to treat me with soybean sauce, her usual home remedy. Even if I broke an arm, Mom would probably use soybean sauce to treat it.

Sir said, “You can’t do that kind of thing; you need to be patient. You can’t throw things when you get angry. She is a girl, not a man.”

The usually talkative Sir stayed quiet for the rest of the night. He stepped outside to smoke, saying nothing. Something inside me shifted. He had defended me — stood up for me in a way a father figure never had. He was angry for me, not at me.

He even influenced Mom. She had never explained herself before, but that night, she did. It is unusual for a parent in North Korea to apologize or explain themselves to a child. She said she believed in discipline and didn’t mean to hurt me. And, of course, I knew she had been beaten by my birth father and was often emotional. Sir told her she could be stern without being violent. After that incident, she never hit or whipped me again.

A deeper apology from my mom came two years later: “I didn’t mean to hurt you; I am so sorry.”

Sir had truly become the leader of our family. He teased everyone — especially me. For the first time, I joined in his joking. “With my big, wounded lip, I looked like an American,” I told Mom.

Sir jumped on the joke. “Yeah! She looks like the enemy.”

“Hey! Don’t say that!”

“Can anyone understand you now? It seems you have wind going through your mouth.”

He wouldn’t stop teasing me, especially at mealtimes. I always had one eye on him, waiting for the next joke. “You look like a grandmother the way you are chewing,” he would say.

“I’m not a grandma.”

“Oh, you’re not a grandma. Maybe you are a goat?”

Still, I only called him “Sir” even though my mom encouraged me to call him “Dad.” But he didn’t mind. “It doesn’t matter, you can call me anything.”

And then, one day, that changed when I finally called him “Dad.”

Han Song-mi is a North Korean Refugee Author Fellow at Freedom Speakers International (FSI) and co-author with Casey Lartigue Jr. of her memoir “Greenlight to Freedom: A North Korean Daughter’s Search for Her Mother and Herself.”