Han Song-mi tells her story at a Voices from North Korea forum at Seoul University of Foreign Studies in October, 2022. Courtesy of Freedom Speakers International

I left my home in North Korea's countryside on Feb. 17, 2011, but the actual act of leaving North Korea was not immediate. I spent more than a month hiding in Hyesan in the home of the broker's girlfriend, waiting for the moment I would cross the river. That waiting period felt both endless and terrifying. I wasn't in school. I had moved around so much that I didn't even have my own ID. I had to borrow an ID from a friend to prepare for the escape. I kept thinking about what would happen to me if I got caught.

I spent most of that month hiding in Hyesan watching Chinese TV dramas and movies. They were completely different from North Korean dramas, which only showed people fighting for the regime, praising the leadership, or suffering for the revolution. But Chinese dramas were about love, friendships, and happiness. They showed men and women laughing together, going on dates, and living freely. The people on the screen weren't starving, and they weren't scared of their government. I sat in front of that TV every day, mesmerized.

Then, on March 17, the broker came to see me. For weeks, I had seen him joke around, tease people, and make sarcastic comments. But that day, he didn't smile.

"Songmi-ya," the broker said. "You will be escaping on the 19th. After you escape, you can watch TV all the time."

That was it. No more waiting. No more hesitation. In just two days, I would leave behind everything I had ever known.

But even as he spoke, there was another problem. "The main thing I am worried about is the river," he said. It was March, and the ice on the Yalu River was melting. If it broke while we were crossing, we could fall into the freezing water and drown. I knew he was right.

"I hope the ice will remain frozen," he said. "That will make it easier to escape. I hope the weather will be on our side."

"We have no choice," I told him. "The ice is melting. We have no control over the weather."

That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking, What if I just stay? Maybe Mom could send me money to help me survive? It wasn't impossible. But I knew it wasn't realistic. Even if my mother sent me money, I couldn't use it comfortably. I couldn't openly buy things without attracting suspicion. My life in North Korea would never improve.

And more than anything, I didn't just want my mother's money. I wanted to be with my mother.

My liberation day from North Korea, March 19, 2011, had finally arrived. If there had been a camera on me that night, it would have captured a girl sitting on a couch, staring at a TV screen, dressed in slacks and a shirt. But if the camera zoomed in, it would have noticed that my eyes weren't focused on the screen. I wasn't watching the Chinese dramas anymore. I was just staring, my body completely stiff with fear.

Would my escape succeed? Would I see my mother again? Or would I disappear into a North Korean prison?

The broker came to check on me. He asked if I was ready.

I forced myself to nod. I had no choice.

We had to walk 15 minutes to the main road, then another hour to get to the border. At first, we walked in silence, but then the broker spoke.

"We need to catch a ride."

I didn't understand at first. Didn't we already have a plan? Weren't we supposed to meet soldiers who would help us cross? But that was just another lie. We were alone, and we needed to find our own way.

The broker took out a pack of cigarettes and held them in his hand as cars passed. No one stopped. Then he pulled out Chinese money and waved it in the air along with the cigarettes. Still, car after car drove past without slowing down. Then he turned to me.

"You need to help. They might stop for you."

I started waving my hands, standing in front of him, trying to flag down a car. Finally—one car slowed down. The driver rolled down his window and asked, "Where are you going?"

The broker didn't answer directly. "We need to go about 10 minutes."

The driver was an older man, wearing a hat. The broker handed him cigarettes and money, and just like that, we got into the car.

The ride was silent. I was too nervous to think about anything except what was ahead. Every second felt like an eternity. When we stopped, the broker pointed toward the darkness.

"Look over there. You can see two people."

I squinted and saw two figures standing about 50 meters away.

The broker looked nervous. "I will watch until you get to them," he said. "Good luck. If something bad happens, don't mention my name."

That was the last thing he said to me.

I turned toward the two figures. I could hear my own heartbeat. They didn't speak until I was standing in front of them.

Then one of them asked, "Your name is Songmi?"

I forced the words out. "Yes."

"Okay, let's hurry. Let's go."

As I walked with them toward the river, I reached into my pocket and touched the knife I had hidden there.

I told myself, If I get caught, I cannot let them torture me. I cannot let them force me to talk.

But even as I thought that, I realized I wasn't ready to die. I was ready to live as a free human, and with my mother.

Han Song-mi is a North Korean Refugee Author Fellow with 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."

Han Song-mi is a North Korean Refugee Author Fellow with 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."