Yeomyung School is where young North Korean refugees are wrapped in hope. Yeomyung means “the light of dawn.” It embodies hope for the dawning of unification. Perhaps its students will end up being the vanguards of unification as cross-border guides. But nowadays, accusations and provocations are eroding hopes.

Of course, the Korean Peninsula is no stranger to bombast and hyperbole. For the authorities on both sides, verbal exchanges have been not much more than brinkmanship to gain leverage in external negotiations or political rhetoric designed to rally public opinion at home. Still, the current bluster underscores the highest level of cross-border tension in years.

The North’s demolition of inter-Korean rail and road links last week and warning shots from the South followed two major policy shifts earlier this year by the nuclear-armed North: naming South Korea its principal enemy and abandoning its bedrock goal of unification.

Cho Myung-sook, the principal of Yeomyung School, calls the current conditions a “dark period.” But she believes that light shall dawn in the darkness. For her students, the cascading negativity can temper dreams and optimism. When asked their views of unification, the students expressed hopes of simply rejoining their family left in the North. (“Unification will be the happy road for me to go home.” “It will be the safest and most peaceful way for me to meet Mom.”) Others voiced resignation. (“God, please just allow me to have one meal with Mom and I won’t mind dying the next day.”)

Last month, the school celebrated its 20th anniversary in an emotion-laden ceremony, recalling its “miraculous” accomplishments and envisioning its future as a model educational institution contributing to the integration of North and South in a unified Korea. In the early 2000s, when North Korean defectors flooded in after fleeing their famine-stricken country, the school opened as a joint endeavor of 23 churches across denominations.

It started with 23 students and eight teachers in a small, rented space in a commercial building in Bongcheon-dong, southern Seoul. Many of its early students had missed years of schooling when natural disasters and ineffective leadership led to massive starvation. They had secretly crossed the border in search of food and, after wandering in China, arrived in the South through third countries.

Most of those youths had parted from their parents and endured horrific circumstances during their arduous journey. The school’s curriculum focused on healing their traumatic psychological wounds and physical consequences of malnutrition while helping them assimilate into a far different lifestyle and culture, in addition to equipping them with knowledge and skills to catch up in the South’s competitive school environment.

Eventually, Yeomyung expanded its program and obtained the accreditation to confer middle and high school diplomas in 2010. It is the only school thus qualified in Seoul. There are 10 alternative schools exclusively for North Korean refugee students currently operating across the country, four of which have such accreditations. They are educational sanctuaries for defector students, who are constantly reminded of their vulnerability. In regular schools, many have experienced prejudice and isolation.

After Kim Jong-un assumed power in 2012, North Korea tightened security along its border with China and the number of defectors noticeably decreased. It further dropped with the border closure during the COVID-19 pandemic. The number of North Korean defectors arriving to resettle in the South peaked at 2,914 in 2009, then plummeted to 32 in 2023, according to Unification Ministry statistics.

As a result, youths born in China to North Korean mothers and Chinese fathers account for nearly 90 percent of the student quota at Yeomyung these days. The vast majority of North Korean defectors were women who sneaked into China for economic reasons. They were trafficked or married Chinese men in coercive circumstances. Many of these women eventually made their way to South Korea and brought their children.

By this year, Yeomyung has produced a total of 421 graduates. Of these, 127 advanced to universities and colleges, 200 found jobs, 21 started their own businesses, and 36 are preparing for employment.

“We have come a long way, indeed, thanks to the support of many generous people,” said Cho at the anniversary ceremony, her voice choked with tears. “We have tried to help young North Korean refugees adapt to South Korean society, and based on this experience, we aim to devise model education programs that can be applied to North Korean youths in a post-unification Korea. In this sense, our students are the early vanguards of unification.”

Cho is a lifelong activist dedicated to supporting refugees and migrant workers along with her husband, Lee Ho-taek. Her next mission is to look for a place to relocate her school again. After moving through commercial buildings, Yeomyung moved into its current campus last year, renting part of an abandoned primary school building in Yeomchang-dong, southwestern Seoul. The contract expires in February 2026.

Cho appeals to communities, local administrations and the government to open their hearts to refugees. In 2019, Yeomyung faced fierce nimbyism from residents when it attempted to buy a plot of land and construct a new school building in a neighborhood in northern Seoul. The hostile community sentiment seemingly forebodes a rough road to unification at the grassroots level.

Lee Kyong-hee

Lee Kyong-hee is a former editor-in-chief of The Korea Herald. The views expressed here are the writer's own. -- Ed.