I wasn't dreaming of freedom when I escaped from North Korea... I

Host: The night was thick with mist, the kind that clung to skin and memory alike. Beyond the small dock, the river moved — dark, slow, indifferent — a quiet mirror reflecting a sky without stars. The air carried the scent of wet earth, diesel, and distant smoke.

On the pier, under a flickering lamp, Jack stood — tall, still, wrapped in his long coat. His grey eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the faint outline of the border lights glowed like cold embers. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against a wooden post, her hair damp from the mist, her hands clasped together, trembling — not from cold, but from something deeper, older.

The only sound was the slow, rhythmic lap of water against the dock.

Jeeny: “Park Yeon-mi said, ‘I wasn’t dreaming of freedom when I escaped from North Korea… I was willing to risk my life for the promise of a bowl of rice.’”

Jack: “A bowl of rice,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s strange how something so small can carry the weight of an entire world.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, its weak glow stretching across their faces, highlighting the sharp tension between thought and feeling.

Jeeny: “That quote breaks me every time I read it. Because it strips freedom of its glamour. No flags, no slogans — just hunger. Raw, real hunger.”

Jack: “Freedom’s romanticized too much. People talk about liberty as if it’s art. For her, it was survival. Freedom wasn’t an idea. It was calories.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it sacred. The rest of us speak of freedom as if it’s abstract. She bled for it. Not for ideology, not for pride — for the simplest, most human thing. Food. Life.”

Host: A gust of wind cut across the dock, rippling the water into shards of reflected light. Jack’s coat swayed; Jeeny shivered, but didn’t step back.

Jack: “It’s humbling — and ugly. Because it exposes how much of what we call struggle is luxury. We fight over opinions while others risk death just to taste rice.”

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about that? How privilege blinds compassion? How words like freedom and justice mean one thing to us and another entirely to someone starving?”

Jack: “I think about it too much. And every time I do, I hate myself for complaining about trivial things.”

Jeeny: “But guilt isn’t the answer, Jack. Awareness is. Her story isn’t to shame us — it’s to wake us.”

Host: The river groaned softly under the wind. Somewhere far off, a dog barked — faint, lonely.

Jack: “She didn’t even dream of freedom,” he said, his voice low. “She just wanted to live. That’s what hits hardest. It wasn’t a political act — it was an act of hunger. That’s the truest kind of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It wasn’t rebellion — it was instinct. When the body demands survival, it becomes more honest than any manifesto.”

Jack: “And yet, look at us — living in abundance, still hungry for meaning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s another kind of hunger. But hers was the kind that silences philosophy. She risked her life for a bowl of rice — that’s not just survival; that’s sacred desperation.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, but it wasn’t pity — it was reverence. She looked down at her hands, as if the weight of that truth had settled there.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought freedom was choice. To vote, to travel, to speak. But for her — freedom was warmth. Food. The ability to not die today.”

Jeeny: “That’s the foundation we forget. Freedom starts in the stomach, not the ballot box.”

Host: The lamp buzzed, casting uneven shadows over the cracked planks. The mist drifted closer, swallowing the riverbanks into obscurity.

Jeeny: “It’s strange,” she whispered. “She wasn’t dreaming of freedom, but in chasing that bowl of rice — she found it anyway.”

Jack: “You think survival itself can be freedom?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s the first act of defiance. When everything’s designed to starve you — and you still find the will to live — that’s the beginning of liberation.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jeeny: “Not there, no. But I’ve known hunger — not for food, but for meaning. For belonging. For a place where I could breathe without apology.”

Jack: “Hunger wears many faces.”

Jeeny: “And all of them look the same in the dark.”

Host: The moon broke through the clouds, casting silver light across the water. The reflection shimmered, turning the dock into a pale bridge between worlds — safety and danger, memory and possibility.

Jack: “When I hear her story, I think — she didn’t just cross a border. She crossed illusion. The illusion that freedom is grand. She showed us it’s small. Human-sized.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Freedom isn’t fireworks. It’s the warmth of food in your hands after years of cold. It’s sleeping without fear. It’s being able to dream again — even small dreams.”

Jack: “Do you think she ever stopped being afraid?”

Jeeny: “No. But courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s walking through it anyway — for something as fragile and vital as a bowl of rice.”

Host: The river wind grew colder. Jack rubbed his hands together, his breath visible. The silence stretched, long and heavy, filled with unspoken awe.

Jack: “I wonder how many of us could do what she did. Risk everything for something so… ordinary.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it. Ordinary things save us. She didn’t run toward a dream — she ran toward life. That’s why it moves the spirit so deeply. Because it reminds us what life really costs.”

Jack: “You think we’d value our freedom more if we remembered its price?”

Jeeny: “Only if we stopped treating comfort as entitlement. Freedom isn’t free because it’s fragile — it’s free because someone else broke first.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He stared out into the dark, where the far shore was invisible. For a moment, the sound of the water became the only voice — ancient, endless, true.

Jack: “You know, she said she didn’t dream of freedom — but maybe freedom dreamed of her.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe freedom always starts with hunger — for food, for safety, for dignity. And maybe that’s what connects us all.”

Host: The moonlight shimmered over the water as if nodding in agreement. A single leaf floated past, caught in the current, gliding silently toward the horizon — fragile, but moving.

Jack: “You’re right, Jeeny. Freedom isn’t found in ideals. It’s found in motion — even when that motion is just crawling toward one more day alive.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why her story matters. Because it strips away illusion until all that’s left is the pulse of humanity itself.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the dock shrinking, the two figures becoming small silhouettes against the river’s endless black mirror. The sound of the wind softened, replaced by a faint echo — not of words, but of heartbeat.

And over that stillness, Park Yeon-mi’s truth lingered, quiet and eternal:

Freedom begins not in the dream of a nation, but in the hunger of a soul that refuses to die.