When Park Seung-hwan* has a moment to himself, he opens Google Earth and searches for his family home. The 30-year-old has been able to check that the roof was repaired and that crops are growing – tangible proof that the money he sent home had reached his family safely.
“Sending money was the simplest way for me to feel connected to my family,” Park says, adding that he worries that without it, his brother might be drafted and sent to fight in Russia because his family will not have enough to pay bribes so as to be exempt.
Park fled North Korea in 2012 and now lives in Seoul, and the remittances he sent travelled one of the world’s most dangerous financial routes, relying on a clandestine network that was almost decimated by Covid border closures. But amid an unprecedented crackdown in South Korea and the wider threat of scams, Park has been unable to send his family money for two years.
The delivery of remittance payments takes place across multiple stages: North Korean escapees in South Korea hand money to brokers, often fellow defectors, who convert South Korean won to Chinese currency. Funds then pass through Chinese intermediaries before being smuggled across the border into North Korea, where brokers there arrange delivery.
Communication relies on Chinese phones that work near the border, with families sometimes sending video clips of themselves counting the money to confirm receipt.
“As more North Koreans began to escape from China to South Korea, the number who wanted to send money to their families increased,” says Ju Su-yeon, who with her husband claims to have helped facilitate the escape of more than 2,500 North Koreans and later arranged remittances for many families.
A survey of 362 defectors by the Database Center for North Korean Human Rights (NKDB) found that 40% had sent money to North Korea within the past five years. Ju estimates that only about 60% of the money reaches families after commissions and bribes are taken.
Park, who now works in the media industry, typically sent between 2m and 3m won (£1,070-1,600) each time – enough, he says, “for my family to have white rice for a whole year, which in North Korea is the greatest sign of privilege and stability”.
“I think I tried every kind of part-time job,” he says about his time at university. “Any extra cash I had, I saved to send to my family. That often meant being sleep-deprived and struggling to focus on my studies.”
Crackdown destroys decades-old routes
After years of looking the other way, South Korean police began investigating the networks in 2023.
Many investigations began when police protection officers assigned to defectors noticed them sending money. What started as national security inquiries became financial crime prosecutions when no espionage evidence emerged.
Under South Korean law, currency exchange businesses have to register with the government, which remains impossible for North Korea remittances since there are no legal channels between two sides still technically at war.
At least 10 people allegedly involved in facilitating these transfers have faced investigation, with at least three currently on trial for violating foreign exchange laws. Although police have reportedly stopped initiating new investigations, courts are still issuing guilty verdicts for ongoing cases.
“About 70% of the routes and the network that we had have all disappeared,” Ju says. “It will be very difficult and almost impossible to rebuild and regain that network.”
Scams are not uncommon, and Park hasn’t been able to send money for about two years after his trusted brokers stopped working. “I’m worried that if I use a new network, they will lie to me,” he says.
Push for a legal solution
Recognising the crisis, some politicians want legislative changes. Ihn Yo-han, a lawmaker from the opposition People Power party, is reportedly drafting a bill to legalise small-scale remittances for humanitarian purposes.
An official at the unification ministry acknowledged the legal constraints, saying the issue “must be approached with careful consideration of both compliance with the Foreign Exchange Transactions Act, as well as the humanitarian aspect of supporting their families’ livelihood”.
The broader implications trouble those who’ve devoted their lives to this work. With inter-Korean relations at their worst in years, the informal remittance networks represent one of the few remaining windows into daily life in North Korea, and South Korean intelligence has long relied on information that flows naturally through these connections.
“Every time the administration changes in South Korea, they’ve been using us,” Ju says. “Just because we call North Korea home doesn’t mean that they should be able to treat us as spies whenever it suits their political needs.”
For Park, the stakes are deeply personal. He recently got married, but his family has no idea. He still hopes to find a way to send money and the good news for the upcoming Chuseok holiday.
“In the first few years after I arrived in South Korea, I lived with overwhelming guilt for leaving them behind,” he says.
“Sending money is my way of easing that guilt while still taking care of them, even from afar.”
* Name has been changed
