Soo-Min Yoon

Working at the Masikryong ski resort in North Korea has been an experience unlike any other. The hotel, a sprawling complex nestled in the mountains, is mostly filled with Russian guests who come here for a few days of skiing and relaxation. For a long time, tourism in our country was almost non-existent, but now, certain visitors are allowed, and they bring with them a glimpse of a world I can only imagine.

Every day, I am grateful for my job. My whole family works here too, and though we earn very little, it’s more than what many of my friends and neighbors have. A single day ski pass for tourists costs more than my monthly salary, a fact that’s both astonishing and humbling. Despite this disparity, I feel fortunate. So many people I know are struggling without work, money, or enough to eat.

My training as a hotel manager was rigorous and filled with strict rules. We are constantly reminded of what we can and cannot discuss with our guests. There are eyes everywhere, watching our every move. Recently, two kind Russian women stayed at the hotel. In a fleeting moment, when no one was looking, they slipped me some money. I knew the risk, but I accepted it with a brief nod, saying nothing. It was as much as three day ski passes—enough to help my friends who are in desperate need. Their gratitude was immense.

Living here feels like being in a strange bubble. Inside, tourists enjoy their vacations, laughing and carefree. But outside this bubble, the reality is stark and grim. There is poverty, and there is also an unwavering loyalty to the state. No one speaks openly about the political situation, and personal feelings are rarely discussed. It’s a silent, heavy burden we all carry.

I am 19 years old, and I dream of a day when we can live without fear. A day when our existence isn't threatened by famine, and we can express ourselves freely. Until then, I will continue to do my job, support my family, and hold on to hope.