My name is Songho Kim.

I’m 27 years old.

And what I’m about to tell you today transformed not only my life, but my entire understanding of who God is and the extent of his power.

5 years ago, in the most secretive and dangerous place for a Christian on the entire planet, six security officers pinned me against a wall, found a Bible in my backpack, and told me I had exactly 24 hours to say goodbye to this world.

They beat me for endless hours, deprived me of food and water.

And when they had already decided to execute me at dawn, when the firing squad commander gave the order to fire and the bullets were supposed to pass through my body, what happened at that instant defies all human explanation.

What those six North Korean soldiers witnessed that dawn is something no earthly logic can justify.

And I know that every word you’re about to hear represents the reality of many brothers and sisters in the faith who suffer persecution.

Every detail I’ll share illustrates the power of God manifested even in the darkest places.

Are you ready to hear how God can intervene when it seems all is lost?

It was January 2018.

As the world celebrated the Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, South Korea, just a few miles north, I found myself in a place where freedom was the strangest and most dangerous concept.

Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea, where the regime maintains absolute control over every aspect of its citizens’ lives and where possessing religious material is considered a crime against the state punishable by death.

I had lived there my entire life, growing up under the regime’s constant surveillance, learning as a child to worship leaders as if they were gods.

But something deep inside me always told me there was something more, a different truth than what we were taught in school.

It all started one December night when my grandmother, lying sick, called me to her side in a voice so faint it was barely audible.

She revealed a secret she had kept for decades.

“Songho,” she said, looking into my eyes, “there is one true God, and his name is Jesus. Your grandfather died for believing in him. I have kept this faith a secret all my life.”

Her words struck me like a bolt of lightning in the middle of the night in a country where the leader is considered a deity.

Hearing that another god exists was a shocking and dangerous revelation.

My grandmother passed away 3 days later, but her words were burned into my heart like fire.

Over the next few weeks, I began searching for answers, asking discrete questions, observing my surroundings with fresh eyes.

If my grandmother had believed in this god all her life, there must be others like her hiding in the shadows of our country.

I was born in 1996 in a small apartment on the outskirts of Pyongyang.

My father worked as an engineer in a state-owned factory and my mother was a primary school teacher.

From childhood, I was indoctrinated, like all North Korean children, to revere leaders, to distrust the outside world, to believe we lived in the greatest country in the world.

Photographs of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il hung in every home, including ours, and it was mandatory to keep them clean and in perfect condition.

My life proceeded as normally as can exist in a totalitarian regime: school, mandatory youth activities, and military training from an early age.

At 18, I entered Pyongyang University of Technology to study computer engineering, following in my father’s footsteps.

I was a model student, an exemplary member of the Youth League, and had never questioned the system I lived under.

But everything changed with my grandmother’s words.

That family secret revealed a story I had never heard.

My grandfather, whom I had always been told had died in a work-related accident, had actually been sent to a re-education camp for possessing Christian literature.

He never returned.

The seed of curiosity was planted in my heart.

With extreme caution, I began searching for information.

In a country where the internet is restricted to a government-controlled intranet, where communications are monitored, and where neighbors are required to report suspicious activity, searching for information about religion was extremely dangerous.

It was during my third year of college that I met Minjun, a fellow student who noticed my interest when I discreetly mentioned the topic of religion during a conversation.

Days later, Minjun invited me for a walk near the Taedong River.

As we walked, making sure no one could overhear, he whispered to me, “My family also believes in Jesus. We meet in secret.”

Minjun warned me about the dangers.

“If they discover you, you’ll lose everything. They’ll send you to a labor camp or worse. Your family will suffer the consequences. Are you sure you want to know more?”

I remember looking at the river, thinking of my grandmother, of my grandfather who had lost his life for this faith, and I felt as if an inner voice was telling me this is the way.

With a mixture of fear and determination, I replied, “Yes, I want to know more.”

Minjun explained the extreme precautions we had to take: never speak about it in public, never carry written material, never meet in the same place twice in a row, never trust anyone unless introduced by someone you trusted.

It was a life of constant vigilance and fear, but also, as he explained, of profound inner peace.

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Two weeks later, Minjun took me to my first clandestine meeting.

We went to an apartment in a run-down building on the outskirts of the city.

We entered separately, 15 minutes apart.

Inside, in a small room with the windows covered with thick blankets to keep out light and sound, I found seven people sitting in a circle on the floor.

An older woman whom I later learned was named Sujin led the group.

She was about 60 years old and her eyes reflected a mixture of pain and inexplicable peace.

I later learned that she had spent 12 years in a labor camp for her faith, but she never renounced it.

“Welcome, brother,” she told me in a low voice.

“Here we are safe to talk about God’s love.”

That night I heard passages from the Bible for the first time.

They didn’t have a physical book.

The group members had memorized entire chapters and shared them orally, a tradition they maintained to avoid being caught with written material.

They closed their eyes and recited John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.”

Those words had a profound impact on me.

In a country where we were taught to be willing to die for our leaders, hearing that there was a God who had given his own Son for us was revolutionary.

Over the next few months, I attended clandestine meetings once or twice a week.

I learned to memorize verses, to pray silently, to recognize other believers through small signs: a specific way of greeting, a particular phrase in a conversation that seemed innocuous to others but had special meaning for us.

It was in April 2017 that Sujin confided something extraordinary in me.

After a meeting, she asked me to stay for a moment.

When everyone had left, she pulled a package wrapped in plastic and cloth from a gap in the wall behind a piece of furniture.

“Songho,” she told me, her eyes shining.

“You’ve shown your commitment and your faith. I think you’re ready for this.”

She unwrapped the package and showed me what it contained: a small Korean New Testament, barely 10 cm tall, with black covers and extremely thin Bible paper.

It was the most dangerous and precious object I had ever seen.

“This came across the Chinese border,” she explained.

“There are brothers there who risked their lives to bring us the word of God. We only have three copies in our entire group. We share it, keep it in different places each week, and never carry it with us on the street.”

With trembling hands, I picked up the small book.

It was the first time I had ever seen a real physical Bible.

They explained the rotation system to me.

Each member of the group could have it for exactly 3 days, had to read it alone in absolute privacy, and then pass it on to the next member in a pre-established order.

“If you were caught doing this,” Sujin warned me earnestly, “it would mean labor camp or execution. Do you understand the risk?”

I fully understood the danger.

But I also felt an overwhelming need to read for myself these words that had given so much strength to my grandmother, my grandfather, and now to my new brothers and sisters in the faith.

“I understand,” I replied.

“And I’m willing to take the risk.”

I hid the small New Testament in a secret compartment I had created at the bottom of my backpack between the lining and the outer fabric.

I took it to my dorm room, hoping my roommate would be away.

That night, under the covers with only the dim light of a small flashlight, I read the Gospel of Matthew for the first time.

Comment: Jesus guides and strengthens me.

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Over the following months, whenever I had the New Testament, I would spend hours reading, memorizing, absorbing every word like water in the desert.

I learned to hide my emotions in public, to maintain the facade of loyalty to the regime expected of me, while a faith grew inside me that changed my entire perspective.

In my group, I learned the stories of other believers.

Jong-oh, a 45-year-old man who had lost his wife when they were betrayed and sent to a labor camp.

Mija, a 19-year-old woman whose father had been executed for distributing Christian literature.

Sung-min, an elderly man who had been a secret Christian for over 30 years and had survived three arrests because no physical evidence was ever found against him.

Each of them taught me something valuable.

Jong-oh taught me about forgiveness, Mija about unwavering hope, and Sung-min about prudence and perseverance.

They all shared an inner peace that contrasted dramatically with the constant fear in which we lived.

In September 2017, something happened that further strengthened my faith.

My father became seriously ill with pneumonia.

The doctors at the state hospital gave him only a few days to live due to a lack of adequate antibiotics.

That night, desperate, I knelt in my room and prayed like never before.

“God, if you are real, if you have power, please save my father. He doesn’t know you yet. He needs time to get to know you.”

The next day, a doctor from another province arrived unexpectedly at the hospital for a consultation, bringing with him antibiotics that were not normally available.

My father received the treatment and against all odds began to recover quickly.

For me, it was a clear answer to my prayer, a confirmation that God heard me even in the most closed country in the world.

When my father fully recovered, I felt compelled to share my faith with him.

But Sujin advised caution.

“Sometimes the most powerful testimony is that of a transformed life. Let him see the change in you, and when he asks, then share.”

I followed her advice and focused on being the best son, the best student, the best citizen I could be while keeping my faith a secret.

And I noticed my father beginning to observe me with curiosity, noticing something different about me, a peace that contrasted with the constant tension of life in our country.

Everything changed on January 14th, 2018.

It was a cold, gray Monday, typical of the North Korean winter.

I had had the New Testament for 2 days and was to pass it on that afternoon to Minjun.

I carried it in my backpack in its secret compartment while I attended my classes at the university.

That day there was a surprise inspection at the campus entrance.

Normally inspections were routine, a mere formality.

But that day there were state security officers, not just the usual guards.

They were searching backpacks, bags, and personal belongings with unusual thoroughness.

My heart began to race.

I considered turning around, but that would have raised immediate suspicion.

I took a deep breath, mentally recited the 23rd Psalm I had memorized, and approached the inspection line.

When my turn came, an officer took my backpack.

“Kim Songho, fourth-year computer engineering student,” announced another officer reading my ID.

The security officer opened my backpack and began searching its contents.

Textbooks, notebooks, a pencil case, and pens.

Everything seemed normal.

I was beginning to feel relief when I noticed the officer pressing the edges and bottom of the backpack, looking for anything unusual.

His fingers paused when he felt the slight bulge where the New Testament was hidden.

“What is this?” he asked, pressing the area.

“It’s just a reinforcement for the backpack,” I replied, trying to remain calm.

“It broke a while ago, and I fixed it.”

The officer looked at me suspiciously.

He took a knife from his pocket, and without asking permission, cut the lining of the backpack.

The small black New Testament fell to the ground.

Time seemed to stand still.

The officer picked up the book, looked at it, and his eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and triumph.

“Religious material,” he said loudly.

“We have a traitor to the regime.”

Within seconds, three more officers surrounded me.

They held my arms, handcuffed me, and dragged me toward a black SUV parked near the entrance.

Everything happened so fast that I barely had time to process what was happening.

The last thing I saw before I was shoved into the vehicle was the horrified faces of some of my classmates who witnessed the arrest.

The ride was short but terrifying.

I was taken to a detention center in the Tongil-dong district, a gray unmarked building that everyone in Pyongyang knew belonged to the Ministry of State Security.

I was shoved into a small windowless concrete cell with only a bare light bulb in the ceiling and a bucket in the corner serving as a toilet.

I spent the first few hours in shock, trying to comprehend what had happened and what lay ahead.

I knew that possessing religious material was one of the most serious crimes in North Korea, classified as treason against the state and its leaders.

I had heard stories of people sent to labor camps or executed for less than that.

After what seemed like several hours, the metal door opened.

Two officers led me to an interrogation room.

There, a middle-aged man in military uniform was waiting for me, sitting behind a metal desk.

His face was stone-like, expressionless.

“Kim Songho,” he said, reading from a file in front of him.

“A computer engineering student. A family with no negative political background. An exemplary member of the Youth League.”

He looked up and stared directly at me.

“And now a traitor to his country.”

He placed the New Testament on the table.

“Do you know the punishment for possessing foreign religious material?”

I remained silent, my gaze lowered.

“Answer me,” he shouted, banging his fist on the table.

“Yes, sir,” I finally replied.

“How long have you had this? Who gave it to you? Who else is involved?”

I faced the most difficult decision of my life.

Revealing the names of my fellow believers would mean their certain arrest, torture, labor camps, or execution.

But refusing to speak guaranteed my own suffering.

I remembered Jesus’ words: “Whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it.”

At that moment, I felt an inexplicable peace.

“I found it,” I said.

“It was hidden in an old book I bought at the secondhand market. No one else is involved.”

The interrogator laughed in disbelief.

“Do you expect me to believe that? These books don’t just appear. They’re brought in by traitors and spies. I’ll give you one last chance. Who gave it to you?”

“No one, sir. I found it myself.”

What followed was a session of beatings and intimidation.

I was slapped, punched in the stomach, and thrown to the ground.

All the while, they yelled at me to confess, to name names, to reveal the network of believers.

If there is anything in your life you need to surrender to God, something that ties you to the past, don’t wait any longer.

Surrender everything to Jesus and make the decision today.

God is waiting to transform your life.

The interrogations continued for 3 days.

They deprived me of food, gave me little water, and didn’t allow me to sleep.

They changed interrogators.

Some threatened, others feigned sympathy and offered me mercy if I cooperated.

They used psychological techniques such as making me believe they had arrested Minjun and that he had already confessed everything.

Despite the physical pain and exhaustion, I found an inner strength I didn’t know I had.

Whenever I felt close to breaking down, I recalled the verses I had memorized: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

On the fourth day, I was taken before a higher-ranking official.

He was a man in his 50s, his uniform covered in medals.

He sat across from me and looked at me coldly.

“Kim Songho, you have been found guilty of treason against the state and our beloved leaders for possession of foreign and subversive religious material. The sentence is execution by firing squad, which will take place tomorrow at dawn.”

There was no trial, no defense, no due process.

Just a sentence handed down in a cold room by a man who had the power to decide my life.

“Do you have something to say?” he asked.

I looked up and in a voice that surprised me with its firmness, I replied, “Only that I don’t regret having met Jesus.”

The officer looked at me with a mixture of contempt and curiosity.

“Tomorrow we’ll see if your Jesus comes to save you when you stand before the firing squad.”

They returned me to the cell to spend my last night on this earth.

I felt strangely calm.

I thought of my family, of how they would suffer at my execution, of how they would be branded as the family of a traitor.

I thought of my fellow believers, hoping that my arrest hadn’t put them in danger.

And I thought of God, wondering what it would be like to meet him face to face.

That night, in the solitude of my cell, I prayed like I had never prayed before.

I didn’t ask for a miracle or deliverance.

I only asked for strength to face what was coming with dignity and faith.

“Lord,” I prayed, “if this is your will, I accept it. But I ask you to protect the other believers, to comfort my family, and that one day North Korea may know your love.”

After praying, a peace so profound came over me that I managed to sleep for a few hours despite knowing that at dawn I would face my end.

I was awakened before dawn when darkness still dominated the sky.

Two guards entered my cell, handcuffed me, and blindfolded me.

They led me through hallways and stairwells until I felt the cold morning air on my face.

We were outside.

They removed the blindfold.

We were in the backyard of the detention center, a rectangular space surrounded by high walls.

At one end was a bullet-scarred concrete wall.

The execution wall.

They led me there and placed me with my back to the wall.

The sky was beginning to lighten with the first rays of sunlight filtering through the clouds.

I thought it appropriate to depart this world with the arrival of a new day.

About 10 meters in front of me, six soldiers lined up with their rifles.

They were young, probably my age or even younger.

Their faces showed a mixture of nervousness and determination.

For many of them, this could be their first execution.

The officer who had handed down my sentence was there, along with another officer who appeared to be the platoon commander.

There was also a secretary with a folder, probably to officially record my execution.

“Prisoner Kim Songho,” the officer announced.

“You have been sentenced to death for treason against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and our leaders. The sentence will be carried out immediately. Do you have any last words?”

My mind was extraordinarily clear.

I felt fear, of course, but also a strange calm.

I thought of Jesus facing his own execution, and that gave me courage.

“Yes,” I replied in a firm voice.

“I want to say that I forgive everyone present, as Jesus forgave those who executed him. And I pray that one day they will know the love of God as I have known it.”

The officer frowned, clearly annoyed by my words.

He turned to the platoon commander and nodded.

The commander took a step forward.

“Platoon, prepare weapons.”

The six soldiers loaded their rifles with synchronized movements.

The metallic sound of the weapons preparing to fire echoed in the quiet courtyard.

“Aim.”

Six barrels were aimed at my chest.

I closed my eyes and began to mentally recite the Lord’s Prayer, hoping they would be my last words on this earth.

“Fire.”

I heard the sound of six triggers being pulled simultaneously.

But then nothing.

No explosion, no impact, no pain.

Only silence.

I opened my eyes, confused.

The soldiers stared at their rifles with puzzled expressions.

They pulled the triggers again.

Nothing.

The weapons didn’t fire.

The platoon commander, visibly shaken, approached one of the soldiers, snatched the rifle, checked the mechanism, and pointed it at me.

He pulled the trigger.

The weapon still didn’t fire.

What happened next was extraordinary.

The commander, furious, ordered the soldiers to change rifles.

They brought six different weapons.

They checked each one, reloaded them, and took up positions.

“Aim. Fire.”

Again, all six weapons failed simultaneously.

It wasn’t possible.

The odds of 12 perfectly good military rifles all failing at the same time were astronomically low.

Impossible.

A murmur of unease ran through the courtyard.

I saw fear in the soldiers’ eyes.

Not the fear of failing in their duty, but a deeper, almost superstitious fear.

In a culture where unexplained events are often interpreted as signs or omens, what was happening was incomprehensible.

The senior officer, now visibly nervous, ordered a recess.

The soldiers withdrew, leaving me still against the wall, guarded by two guards who stared at me as if I were something supernatural.

After about 20 minutes, the officer returned, accompanied by an older man in a different uniform who seemed to have greater authority.

They spoke in low voices, glancing at me occasionally.

The older man seemed skeptical at first, but something in the officer’s explanation made him change his expression.

Finally, they approached me.

The older man studied me intensely.

“Kim Songho,” he said in a deep voice.

“It seems today is not your day to die.”

I didn’t understand what was happening.

Was this a cruel form of psychological torture?

Would they give me hope only to take it away later?

“Your sentence has been reconsidered,” he continued.

“Instead of execution, you will be sent to Camp 15 for re-education through labor. Perhaps there you will understand the error of your foreign beliefs.”

Camp 15, known as Yodok, was one of the harshest labor camps in North Korea.

Many didn’t survive more than a few years there due to the extreme conditions, malnutrition, and grueling labor.

But it was a chance to stay alive.

Later, as I was being led back to the cell to prepare for transfer to the camp, I heard two guards talking in low voices, unaware that I could hear them.

“It’s bad luck,” one said.

“Commander Kim says he’s never seen anything like it. 12 rifles all misfiring at the same time.”

“I’ve heard the general is furious,” the guard continued.

“But he’s also scared. He says it’s a bad sign, that it could bring disgrace to the detention center. My grandmother used to talk about things like that.”

The other replied, his voice even lower.

“He said that when the heavens protect someone, it’s best not to challenge that protection.”

At that moment, I understood what had happened.

It wasn’t just a technical glitch.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

It was a divine intervention so clear that even those who served the regime could perceive it, even if they didn’t fully understand it.

That night, in my cell, I fell to my knees.

Tears streamed down my face as I thanked God for what he had done.

“Lord,” I whispered, “you have shown your power even here in the darkest place. You have silenced the guns as you silenced the lions for Daniel. I thank you, and I promise that if you give me the chance, I will tell the world what you have done.”

The next day, I was transferred to Camp 15.

The journey lasted several hours in a military truck, handcuffed and blindfolded.

When we arrived and the blindfold was removed, I found myself standing in front of a huge compound surrounded by electrified fences and guard towers.

What awaited me were brutal conditions: 16-hour days of work in the mines, minimal food rations (a small portion of rice with corn and the occasional vegetable), extreme temperatures without adequate clothing, and guards who treated us as if we weren’t human.

But something had changed in me.

I was no longer afraid.

I had faced death and seen God intervene miraculously.

That certainty gave me an inner strength that allowed me to endure what for others was unbearable.

In the camp I met other political prisoners, including some who were there for religious reasons.

We recognized each other through small signs: glances, and code words inserted into seemingly innocuous conversations.

At night, when the guards weren’t on watch, we whispered prayers and Bible verses we had memorized.

Work in the mines was exhausting and dangerous.

Many prisoners suffered accidents, lung diseases, or simply collapsed from exhaustion.

I saw strong men break in a matter of weeks.

But every morning before the sun rose, I reminded myself: “This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.”

I spent 7 months in Camp 15.

7 months that felt like seven years.

My body deteriorated.

I lost more than 20 kilos.

My hands became covered with calluses and wounds.

And I contracted a lung infection from the constant dust in the mines.

But my spirit grew stronger every day.

One night in August 2018, while I was sleeping in the barracks with 40 other prisoners, I was awakened by a hand over my mouth.

It was Kwang-su, an older man who had been a border guard before being sent to the camp for “impure ideology.”

He had become one of my closest friends there.

“Songho,” he whispered, “there’s an opportunity. Tomorrow they’ll send a group of us to work cutting down trees near the northern edge of the camp. Security is weaker there. I’ve been observing the guards’ patterns for weeks. There’s a window of about 3 minutes when the guard change coincides with the blind spot between two towers. If we’re quick and quiet, we might be able to make a go of it.”

My heart began to pound.

Escaping from a labor camp was practically impossible.

Those who tried and failed were publicly executed as a warning to others.

Even if we managed to leave the camp, we’d be in the middle of remote mountains with no food, no shelter, and the entire state security apparatus hunting us.

But I also knew my body wouldn’t hold out much longer in those conditions.

The lung infection was worsening, and I’d started coughing blood.

Staying meant a slow and certain death.

“Where would we go?” I asked.

“North,” Kwang-su replied.

“Toward the Chinese border. I know those mountains. I served there for 10 years. There are routes only smugglers know. If we manage to cross the Tumen River, we’ll be in China. It’s not safe there for North Korean defectors either, but it’s our only hope.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I prayed continuously, asking God for direction.

Was this the door he was opening for me?

Or was it a temptation that would lead me to an untimely death?

I remembered how God had stopped the bullets, and I felt a deep conviction.

The same God who had saved me from execution could guide me through the mountains.

At dawn, as we lined up to receive our daily assignments, Kwang-su and I were selected along with eight other prisoners for the logging group.

We were loaded into a truck and taken to a wooded area about 5 kilometers from the main camp.

The work was grueling as always: felling trees, stripping them of branches, and preparing the logs for transport.

The guards, bored with the routine, took turns watching us while the others rested in a small hut nearby.

In midafternoon, Kwang-su gave me a discrete signal.

It was time.

The guard change was about to take place and the fog that had begun to descend between the trees would provide us with additional cover.

“Now,” he murmured as the guard stepped away momentarily to answer a radio call.

We dropped our tools and, crouching low, slipped into the woods.

We moved as fast as we could, keeping our heads down, moving from tree to tree to hide.

My heart was beating so hard I was afraid its sound would give us away.

We had gone about 200 meters when we heard the first alarm call.

We had been discovered.

Seconds later, gunfire rang out.

Bullets whizzed through the trees, but the dense vegetation and fog protected us.

“Run!” Kwang-su shouted.

“Don’t stop for anything.”

We ran like never before.

Fueled by adrenaline and survival instincts, my weakened body found strength I didn’t know I had.

We heard the guards shouting, the dogs barking, but the sound grew more distant as we entered the thick forest.

After what seemed like an eternity, Kwang-su signaled for us to stop.

We were in a small clearing surrounded by tall pines.

We were both panting, trying to catch our breath.

“I think… I think we’ve lost them for now,” he said.

“But they’ll send search parties. We have to keep moving.”

“Where are we?” I asked, looking around.

Everything looked the same: trees, mountains, gray sky.

“In the Hamgyong Mountains,” he replied.

“The Chinese border is about 80 kilometers to the north. If we keep up a good pace, we could get there in 4 or 5 days.”

“But we have no food, no water, no shelter,” I pointed out, feeling the chill of the evening beginning to penetrate my bones.

“God will provide,” Kwang-su said with a surprising smile.

It was the first time I realized he was a believer, too.

“He didn’t save your life from a firing squad so you could starve to death in these mountains.”

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The next five days were an odyssey of physical suffering and unexpected miracles.

We hiked during the day, guided by Kwang-su’s knowledge of the mountains and by the sun when it was visible.

At night, we took shelter in caves or under dense trees, trying to conserve body heat.

We found water in mountain streams, ate wild berries that Kwang-su identified as safe, and on one extraordinary occasion found a rabbit caught in an abandoned trap.

We cooked it over a small fire we lit in a deep cave where the smoke wouldn’t be visible.

On the third day, as our strength flagged and hunger weakened us, we arrived at a small abandoned hut.

Inside we found some basic supplies: some rice, salt, an old blanket, and most valuable of all, a detailed map of the border region.

“See,” Kwang-su said, “God goes before us, preparing the way.”

At dawn on the sixth day, we reached the banks of the Tumen River, the natural border between North Korea and China.

The river wasn’t very wide at that point, but the current was strong and the water was icy cold.

“This is the most dangerous time,” Kwang-su warned.

“The border is guarded. There are patrols, sensors, and guards with shoot-to-kill orders. We have to wait until nightfall and cross at the narrowest point.”

We spent the day hiding in bushes, observing the movements of the border patrols.

I watched as Kwang-su studied their patterns, calculating the intervals between each patrol.

When night fell, we prepared for the crossing.

The temperature had dropped dramatically and we could see our breath in the cold air.

“The water will be freezing,” Kwang-su warned me.

“But we must cross quickly and quietly. Once we are on the Chinese side, we won’t be safe yet. China deports North Koreans it captures.”

I took off my shoes and tied them together with Kwang-su’s, hanging them around our necks.

We entered the water slowly, trying not to make a sound.

The cold was so intense it took my breath away.

Every step was agony, with the current threatening to pull us down.

Halfway across the river, we heard voices.

A patrol was approaching along the North Korean bank.

We submerged ourselves up to our necks, moving as silently as possible.

The guards passed so close that I could hear their conversation.

They talked about soccer, oblivious to our presence a few meters away in the darkness of the river.

One false move, one noise, and they would shoot without hesitation.

When the guards finally moved away, we continued our advance.

My legs were numb from the cold, and the current seemed to be getting stronger.

At one point, I lost my footing, and the current began to pull me along.

Kwang-su grabbed me just in time, preventing me from being swept downriver.

After what seemed like an eternity, I felt my feet touch the opposite shore.

With the last of our strength, we dragged ourselves out of the water and collapsed on Chinese soil, shivering uncontrollably.

“We made it,” I stammered between shivering chills.

“Thank you, Lord,” Kwang-su murmured.

“But we’re not safe yet. We have to move.”

With superhuman effort, we stood up and began walking inland, away from the border.

Each step was a torment in our soaked clothes and the biting cold.

We walked for hours in the dark, guided only by the stars and the determination to survive.

At dawn, we arrived at a small rural Chinese village.

We hid in an abandoned barn, trying to dry our clothes and regain some warmth.

“What now?” I asked.

“There are aid networks,” Kwang-su explained.

“Christian organizations that help North Korean defectors. The problem is finding them without exposing ourselves.”

For the next few weeks, we lived as fugitives, moving only at night, occasionally working on remote farms in exchange for food, avoiding any contact with Chinese authorities.

Kwang-su, who had helped others escape before being arrested, had some contacts, albeit old ones.

Finally, in a small village near Yanji, we found help.

A Korean-Chinese Christian family took us in at the risk of their own safety.

They provided us with clothing, food, and most importantly, contact with a missionary organization that helped North Korean defectors reach South Korea or the United States.

The journey from China to safety was long and fraught with danger.

First to Mongolia, then to Thailand, and finally, thanks to a human rights organization, I received political asylum in the United States.

Kwang-su decided to go to South Korea, where he had distant relatives.

Before we parted, Kwang-su hugged me tightly.

“God kept you alive for a reason, Songho,” he told me.

“Never forget what you saw in that execution yard. Never forget that God silences the rifles when he wants to protect one of his children.”

Today, 5 years after that morning when I should have lost my life before a firing squad, I live in California.

I work with organizations that help North Korean refugees and fight for human rights in my home country.

And I share my testimony in churches, universities, and conferences so that the world may know not only the reality of religious persecution in North Korea, but also the power of God manifested even in the darkest places on the planet.

My experience has taught me profound lessons about God and his power, and today I want to share them with you.

I’ve learned that God acts when the situation seems absolutely impossible.

Not before, not after, but at exactly the right moment.

If the rifles had failed during training, they would have been repaired.

If they had failed a day earlier, others would have been brought in.

But God waited until the exact moment my life was about to be taken to manifest his power in a way so clear that no one could deny it.

I also understood that God’s interventions never have a single purpose.

He not only saved me, but he planted seeds of doubt in the guards and officers who witnessed what happened.

How many of them began to question what they had been taught about God?

How many unknowingly began their own spiritual journey after seeing the inexplicable with their own eyes?

I also discovered that faith is strengthened in adversity.

Before my arrest, I was just a new believer with a weak and wavering faith.

But after facing death, the labor camp, and flight, that faith became the rock on which my entire life rests.

As James 1:2-4 says, “We should consider ourselves blessed when we face trials, for they produce perseverance, and perseverance makes us mature and complete, lacking nothing.”

Another truth that shaped my life is that God uses unlikely people.

Kwang-su, a former border guard who ended up in a labor camp, was the instrument he used to complete my liberation.

We never know who the angel in disguise God will place in our path.

And I finally understood that true freedom depends not on external chains, but on what happens within.

Even in the labor camp, with my body weakened and surrounded by suffering, I experienced a freedom that many of my captors would never know, despite their apparent power.

As Jesus said, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Brothers and sisters listening to me, maybe you don’t live in a totalitarian regime like North Korea.

Maybe you haven’t faced a firing squad, but we all face our own prisons.

The prison of addiction, the prison of depression, the prison of fear, the prison of toxic relationships, the prison of illness.

And I want to tell you something with all the conviction of my heart.

The same God who silenced the rifles in Pyongyang can silence the voices that torment you.

The same God who gave me strength to survive a labor camp can give you strength to overcome what you are facing.

The same God who led me through mountains and rivers to freedom can guide you through your valley of the shadow.

If God could manifest himself in the heart of the most secretive regime in the world, what can’t he do in your life, in your family, in your situation?

His arm has not been shortened.

His power has not diminished.

But you need to take a step of faith.

You need to believe that the impossible is possible with God.

You need to trust, as I trusted when I stood before that firing squad, that he is in control even when all seems lost.

If you have never given your life to Christ, today can be your day.

You don’t need to stand before a firing squad to experience his saving power.

You just need a sincere heart willing to receive it.

I invite you to repeat this prayer with me.

“Lord Jesus, I acknowledge that I am a sinner and that I need your forgiveness. I believe that you died on the cross for my sins and that you rose again on the third day. I ask you to come into my heart and be the Lord of my life. Transform me and guide me on your path. Thank you for loving me and saving me. In your name, Amen.”

If you have prayed this prayer with sincerity, you have just taken the most important step of your life.

You have passed from death to life, from darkness to light.

The angels in heaven are celebrating for you right now.

For those who are already believers but are facing difficult trials, I want to remind you that the God who delivered me is the same God you serve.

There is no situation too difficult for him.

No problem too complex, no enemy too powerful.

If this testimony spoke to your life, I want to invite you to take a few simple steps that will make a difference.

First of all, make sure you’re subscribed to this channel and activate the bell.

Here you’ll find new true stories and messages every week that will remind you that God continues to work powerfully.

Don’t walk alone.

Let your faith be constantly nourished.

Share this video with others.

Perhaps you know someone who is struggling in silence.

Someone who needs to hear that they are not alone and that there is still hope.

Please also leave us a comment.

We want to know how this testimony touched your heart.

And if you’re going through a difficult time, don’t hesitate to write: “Jesus, intervene in my situation.”

We will be praying for you specifically.

Never forget that the same God who opened impossible paths and lifted me up in the midst of darkness can also do so in your life.

What he did for me, he wants to do for you.

Just trust and take the step of faith.

May the God of all grace, who called us to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered for a time himself perfect, establish, strengthen, and settle you.

To him be glory and power forever and ever.

Amen.