Sunya Tham

I’ve been living in Phongsali, Laos, all my life. Life here is quiet and simple, and it’s hard to imagine the kind of suffering that many people in the world experience. But for the past two years, I’ve been helping those who are running for their lives.

I volunteer with a small organization that assists refugees from North Korea. I know the risks are high, but when I hear their stories, I know I can’t turn away. Last week, we took in a family of four. They had been traveling for days in a car, trying to stay out of sight. They had helpers guiding them through China, but even then, it’s so easy to get caught. If China’s authorities find them, they’ll be sent back to North Korea, and that could mean prison, torture, or worse. Even here in Laos, if they’re caught, they’ll be sent back. And that’s something I can’t even bear to think about.

I offer them a safe place for a couple of days—just long enough to get their bearings before they continue on their journey. The route is dangerous, but it’s the only way they can get out. Once they cross the border into Thailand, they can finally breathe, at least for a moment. From there, they can make their way to South Korea, where they’ll automatically receive a passport and start a new life. It’s a bitter-sweet feeling, knowing how many don’t make it, how many lose their lives along the way.

I’m 26, and my family doesn’t have much. We live simply, but we’re free. It’s a small thing, but it’s enough to remind me how much of a difference even a small act of kindness can make. There’s nothing special about what I do, but I know I’m helping. And in this life, helping others feels like one of the few things that makes sense.

I dream of a time when North and South Korea reunite, when these people don’t have to run, don’t have to fear for their lives every day. But I don’t hold out much hope. Until that day comes, I’ll keep doing what I can, no matter how small. It’s all I can do.