On a third-class Trans-Siberian train, I awoke near Krasnoyarsk craving a cigarette. As I made my way out, I was caught in a rush of boarding Asian workers, hauling suitcases and boxes. I assumed they were Chinese traders—loud, hurried, and organized.
Back at my seat, a small, quiet man from the group had taken the spot opposite mine. He was barefoot, crouched, and silent. Using gestures and broken Mandarin, I helped him store his suitcase. Something about him and the group felt… off. Reserved, almost spectral.
The next morning, as we passed the vast expanse of Lake Baikal, he surprised me by speaking a bit of Russian. Curious and cautious, he asked where I was from. “Greece,” I said, eventually showing him on my phone. Then, he revealed: “I am from North Korea.”
Over the next days, using a tiny Korean-Russian dictionary, hushed Russian, and Google Translate, he slowly opened up. He and his group were laborers, sent under an agreement between Pyongyang and Moscow. They worked long, brutal hours for meager wages—half sent directly to their government. It was his fourth time in Russia.
He showed me a hidden photo of his family. Having a family is part of their “insurance”—any sign of escape or rebellion and the family pays the price. They’re always watched. Even among themselves, there’s a secret police informant. No one knows who.
He was fascinated by my life, especially the internet—something he’d only heard rumors of. I tried to explain it, but it seemed too unreal to grasp.
On the final evening, I mentioned a new passenger from South Korea. “You should talk to her,” I suggested. He refused, visibly shaken. “That would be very wrong,” he said, pointing to a notebook where one word stood out: ideology.
Before we parted, he finally handed me the notebook. On one page he’d written: poverty, repression, fear, injustice… and then a plea: You must help. Your country must help. The world must help.
That night, his group vanished at some obscure stop before Vladivostok. I never saw him again.
