North Korea was pretty insane. Like the first thing my mom taught

Hear the words of Park Yeon-mi, a daughter of shadows who escaped from silence into truth: “North Korea was pretty insane. Like the first thing my mom taught me was don’t even whisper, the birds and mice could hear me. She told me the most dangerous thing that I had in my body was my tongue.” These words, though spoken plainly, carry the weight of centuries of human bondage and fear. They reveal a world where not even the whispers of children were safe, where a careless word could summon death, and where the most natural instrument of the human soul—the tongue—was transformed into a weapon against its own master.

The ancients knew the power of speech. It was said that words can build kingdoms or burn them to ash. In the scriptures of old, it is written: “Life and death are in the power of the tongue.” For Park’s mother, this was not metaphor but survival. She taught her daughter that silence was armor, that even the smallest utterance could betray them to unseen ears. To say the wrong thing in North Korea was to invite chains, exile, or execution. In such a land, the cry of freedom was smothered before it could leave the lips.

History offers grim parallels. In the days of the Spanish Inquisition, even a whisper of heresy could condemn an entire household to the flames. In Stalin’s Russia, a careless joke about the regime could mean a midnight knock at the door and disappearance into the gulag. And in Mao’s China, children were taught to report their parents for unfaithful speech, tearing apart families with the poisoned gift of betrayal. In all these times, rulers feared the same weapon—the human tongue, sharp as a sword, harder to silence than armies.

And yet, though tyrants dread it, the tongue is also the instrument of liberation. The speeches of Martin Luther King Jr. shook the chains of oppression in America. The words of Nelson Mandela, spoken after decades of imprisonment, stirred South Africa toward freedom. Even whispers, when multiplied, become the roar of revolution. That is why Park’s mother feared it: because she knew the truth—that her daughter’s words could destroy her if overheard, but also that one day, those same words could destroy the tyranny itself.

The sadness of Park’s memory lies in the corruption of innocence. A child should be taught to sing, to question, to laugh without fear. Instead, her first lesson was silence, her first wisdom was mistrust, her first inheritance was fear of her own voice. This is the wound of every oppressive regime: not only the bodies broken, but the voices that never learn to rise. Yet Park herself, in telling this story, has transformed silence into testimony, proving that even a silenced tongue can one day speak with unshakable power.

The lesson, then, is clear: guard your words, but never abandon them. Know that the tongue can wound as well as heal, can enslave as well as free. But do not live in silence when you have the chance to speak. If freedom allows you voice, use it to protect, to reveal, to comfort, to resist. For there are still corners of the earth where children are taught to fear their own words. Your voice, spoken in courage, may become their echo of hope.

Therefore, let all who hear take this counsel: speak truth, but speak it with wisdom. Do not waste words on bitterness, but wield them as light in the darkness. Remember Park’s story, and remember that there are still those who cannot speak, those whose tongues are bound by fear. Use your own voice not only for yourself but for them, until their silence is broken.

Thus, the teaching endures: the tongue is the most dangerous weapon in the body, and also the most powerful gift. Tyrants fear it, prophets wield it, mothers guard it, and children must one day learn to use it. May your tongue be not an instrument of destruction, but a torch of truth, carried boldly against the shadows of the world.