Postcards from Pyongyang

Dear Dong-wook,

You should have seen it.

For one glorious afternoon, a little corner of Pyongyang felt like Paris, Milan—or at least the way I imagine them from the pages of borrowed magazines. I did it, Dong-wook. I actually did it. My first fashion show.

It wasn't underground, not exactly. (We were even "graced" with a few cautious nods from the local officials, thanks to a certain Party functionary who took a liking to one of my dresses.) Friends, curious strangers, and maybe a few future clients all gathered. And when the models walked out—our neighbors, our friends, our brave volunteers—wearing the designs I'd dreamed into life, I thought: This is it. This is what it feels like to believe in something and see it move.

And you? You made it sound like the world was ours. Your setup was perfect—the sound system shook the walls, Ji-ho's latest tracks gave everything a heartbeat, and for once, even the older guests seemed to tap their feet. I saw you grinning by the speakers. You were part of this, Dong-wook. Thank you. Truly.

Please pass my thanks to your amazing colleague too—the one with the quick smile and even quicker hands on the mixer. And, well… if she's free sometime… would you ask her if she'd like to grab a drink with me? (You can tell her I'll wear something custom.)

We made a little bit of magic, didn't we?

With endless gratitude and a spark of mischief,
Mi-kyung

Dear Hyun-su,

I went back to the place where I last saw you. The bench is still there. The tree is taller now. But the silence—it’s exactly the same.

I left a crane for you. White paper. Red spots. Not paint.

They say blood is thicker than water. So I folded mine into the wings, a small cut on my thumb, a small promise in your name.

I don’t know what you did. Only that they didn’t like it. Only that they came. Only that you didn’t come back.

They think I don’t remember. They think I’m just a girl who plays with paper. But paper remembers. Paper keeps things.

Sometimes, when I walk to school, I feel like someone’s watching. But I walk anyway. Because you would want me to. Because you always told me: “Even a shadow needs a light behind it.”

I still leave cranes. Under benches. In windows. Behind books. Each one folded with something inside— A memory. A question. A hope.

I hope you’re alive. I hope you're free. And if not… I hope you know: I never stopped being your sister. And I never will.

Watch for the cranes. They still fly for you.

With all the love that fits in wings,
Your little sister

Dear Joon-ho,

You won't believe where I’m writing from.

Let’s just say the road didn’t ask for papers, and I didn’t offer any. I borrowed (some might say "liberated") my uncle’s old scooter—the one with the patched seat and the horn that sounds like a tired goose—and set off at sunrise. No map. No plan. Just a full tank and the vague desire to see what’s on the other side of the hills.

I’ve passed rice paddies that gleam like gold, roadside stands selling pears the size of fists, and more than one suspicious checkpoint that mysteriously decided to ignore me. Maybe it’s the helmet with the patriotic sticker. Maybe it’s the smile. Maybe no one cares enough to stop a fool on a scooter.

Tonight I’m sleeping under the stars—real ones. No streetlights, no slogans, just me and the sound of the wind pushing stories through the trees. If all goes well, tomorrow I’ll reach the river. You know which one. I don’t plan to cross it, just… look. Wave. Wonder.

You were right about the taste of rebellion. It’s not just in the drink—it’s in the motion, the open road, the fact that no one knows exactly where I am. Let’s call it research. Let’s call it freedom. Let’s not call it in.

If I make it back, drinks are on me. If not—well, tell my uncle the scooter was heroic till the end.

Raise your glass for me, old friend. And if you hear a horn like a dying goose outside your window one day, you’ll know I made it home.

Yours in motion,
Min-seok

Dear Mi-ran,

You wouldn’t believe who stopped by my stall today—not to buy kimchi, mind you, but to sell me… secrets.

A boy. Maybe twelve, maybe younger, all elbows and grins, with a satchel full of nothing you can touch—but everything you might want to know. He leaned close, lowered his voice, and said, “Want to know which vendor waters down their soy sauce? Or who’s sneaking off after curfew?” Then he winked like a man twice his age.

I laughed, of course, but I paid him a boiled egg just to hear his latest rumor. He said the rice scales near the north gate are rigged, and that a certain inspector—whom I shall not name—eats free dumplings every third Thursday. Nonsense, probably. But he had charm. The kind of charm that makes you check your pockets afterward.

Tell me—do you know him? Is he one of your students? Quick tongue, sharp eyes, hair that refuses to be tamed. If so, I might need to warn you: he’s already running a blackboard economy of whispers and bets. Maybe you taught him too well.

With curiosity and a raised eyebrow,
Yeo-won

Comrade Kang Dae-hun,

I am writing to you not as a superior, but as a man who has reached the edge of his silence.

I know you are loyal. I know you will not speak if I ask you not to. And I know even that knowledge offers no true protection anymore. Still—I write. Because I no longer know where else to place this weight inside me.

There was a connection—I use that word because no other seems small enough or loud enough—with a woman who was not mine to claim. She was married. I knew it. I also knew it was wrong. But I told her to come. I told her she was more than what the system allowed her to be.

I believed I could hold it. Me, who makes people weep with words I no longer believe in. I thought I could keep one truth for myself.

The Party found out. Suddenly. Without pause. I was summoned, questioned, dissected. There was no punishment—yet. Only instruction: End it. Immediately. Without comment.

And I did. I let her go. No letter. No look. No word. As if it had never existed. I do not know where she is now. I only know I broke her—and broke something in myself with her.

I am a Party official. I am a liar. And I loved someone.

I will not archive this letter. I ask you to read it—then burn it. Or keep it. I no longer know which is worse.

Ri Yong-hwan

To: Tae-sung
From: Bo-kyung (Ministry of Agriculture, Dept. of Yield Optimization)

Subject: A humble request from an overwhelmed civil servant

Dear Tae-sung,

I hope this message finds you well—and not too entangled in the spaghetti of code and logic gates that seem to govern your life (and, increasingly, ours).

I’m writing with a small, innocent question:
Could you perhaps connect my terminal… to the Supercomputer?

Let me explain. Each week, I submit the agricultural yield projections. Each week, I stare at the numbers and think: No one will believe this. Because no one should. Not even the cucumbers would grow so faithfully under the conditions we report.

But alas, expectations must be met. So I nudge the numbers. Fertilizer becomes optional. Rainfall becomes a matter of interpretation. And corn? Corn becomes legend.

It is tiring, this art of plausible fiction. And I thought—perhaps you could help. Perhaps your magnificent machine could generate the next iteration of our national fantasy. Tasteful, coherent, internally consistent… just like reality, only better.

Think of it as gardening, but in a spreadsheet. I plant the seed (“Rice production, Q2”), and the Supercomputer helps it blossom into something… publishable.

If it works, I’ll buy you a coffee. If it fails, well—at least the numbers will be beautiful.

Yours bureaucratically,
Bo-kyung
Ministry of Agriculture
(Chief Dreamweaver, unofficially)

To the ones who still look up,
Pyongyang Aerospace Research Institute – Launch Day

They asked me if I was nervous.
I told them no. The math was sound. The fuel was stable. The systems had run through simulation after simulation.
But when they counted down—ten, nine, eight…
I forgot the numbers. I forgot the math.
I remembered only her hand, tightening briefly around mine in the hallway before dawn.

We watched the launch from the observation room. The students were lined up in rows, their eyes wide, their notebooks open, their questions louder than the engines.
“How do the fins stabilize the craft during first-stage separation?”
“What was the final thrust-to-weight ratio?”
I answered everything. My voice steady, my hands motioning across the projected diagram like a teacher I barely recognized.
But then someone asked:
“Who is the astronaut?”

And I… paused.
Looked at the screen.
The trail of fire across the morning sky.
The capsule, rising higher than anything we’d ever built.

And I said—quietly, too quietly for the microphones—
“That’s her. My little star-traveler.”

They looked at me. Some smiled. Some didn’t know what to say.
But the question had changed the room. The launch was no longer a diagram. It was a person. It was her.

We built a rocket.
But she built the dream.

And now she’s where none of us can go.
Not yet.

If she returns, I will meet her not with diagrams or applause,
but with silence, and my hand in hers again—no gloves, no protocol.

If she doesn’t…
Then her name will live in every spark that breaks the sky.
And in every student who looks up and dares to think: What if I could go too?

Myung-ho
Lead Propulsion Engineer
Silent Believer
Lover of Stars

Dear Appa,

You always told me to watch the quiet things— the way leaves turn just before the wind, the stillness between two notes in a song. I didn’t understand it then. I think I do now.

There is a woman who practices tai chi every morning, just outside the library. She moves like the sunrise itself—slow, deliberate, certain. No audience. No applause. Just breath and motion and something that feels like peace.

I don’t know her name. No one seems to. She arrives before the city wakes, her silhouette framed by grey buildings and soft gold light. Some mornings, I write about her instead of cataloguing irrigation manuals. (I keep those pages in my bag, not in the shelves.)

She reminds me of your greenhouse, and the plant you sang to. Of the rhythm in your hands when you trimmed its leaves. Of the lullabies I pretended to sleep through, just to hear the end.

Maybe she’s like you—teaching the world in silence, offering grace where no one thought to look.

I hope you’re well. And I hope your voice still finds a place to land.

With all my love,
Ji-hye

Dear Esteemed Ministry of Defense,

We remain ever vigilant in the high mountain fog, standing guard where the trees are silent and the wind never sleeps.
At least, that’s what we’ve been told.

For years, we believed we were the first line of defense against a ruthless, invisible enemy just over the ridge. We watched. We waited. We even practiced hand signals for ambush scenarios involving sheep.

But something unexpected happened: we ran out of shoelaces.

And as fate would have it, one of our empty food tins—cleverly tossed over the ridge in frustration—returned the next day. Inside: a single, well-wrapped pair of sturdy, foreign-made laces.
And a note: "You dropped this. Nice aim. Want to trade for dried mushrooms?"

Since then, a quiet exchange has begun. Laces for kimchi. Socks for soap. No names, no questions—just two sets of soldiers, once sworn enemies, now bound by necessity… and slightly warmer feet.

We still report in daily, of course. We salute. We recite. But at night, under the stars, we hang our laundry like flags of a forgotten truce—and laugh.

So yes, we are still guarding something.
But these days, it’s mostly friendship. And, occasionally, the border against hungry raccoons.

With enduring loyalty (and considerably better footwear),

Private Tae-won & Private Ji-ho
Mountain Logistics Unit (Unofficial Shoelace Diplomacy Division)

Dear Ji-hye,

You’re not going to believe what I found.

In the greenhouse at Station 4—the one with the cracked ceiling and the leaky faucet—something strange happened. I was humming to myself while checking the irrigation valves, and one of the seedlings… moved.

At first, I thought it was the wind. But there was no draft. Then I tried again. A different melody this time, just a few quiet notes. And it moved again—toward the sound.

I’ve tested it all week. It doesn’t react to light changes, not to touch, not even to water. Only music. And not just any music—it prefers my singing. (Imagine that! After all those years you begged me not to sing at family picnics.)

I don’t know what this means yet. The others haven’t noticed, and I haven’t told them. I want to keep this one for us, at least for now. It feels like… a secret between an old botanist and something wild and alive.

It reminded me of you, when you were small and used to fall asleep on my chest while I sang the same lullaby over and over. Maybe the plant remembers, too. Maybe that’s what made it grow toward me.

I’ll sing to it again tomorrow. Just a little. Just enough.

With love,
Appa

Dear Ha-yoon,

Today was his big day.
My husband was officially promoted to Colonel. You should have seen his face this morning—half pride, half panic. He insisted on wearing the uniform an hour early and stood in front of the mirror like he was preparing for a performance. (I told him not to fidget with the belt so much, but you know him.)

After the ceremony, we found a quiet bench not far from the parade grounds. Cherry blossoms were falling all around us like in the dramas. For a moment, it felt like we were just two people, not a soldier and a soldier’s wife. He even smiled—briefly!

I wish you could’ve been here. The city was loud, but somehow that little spot felt like ours alone.
We asked someone to take a photo. It’s not perfect, but neither are we.

Write soon.
Love,
Na-ri

Dear Seung-min,

You won’t believe where I work now.
Technically, I’m a state-certified cultural guide.
Yes. Certified. Trained. Uniformed.
Top of my class in “Urban Heritage Communication” and “Smile Without Sarcasm.”

There’s just one tiny detail:
There are no tourists.

None. Not one.
Except that French man last October, but he thought our library was a café and asked for an espresso.

Still, the plan said: 1,000 guides for Pyongyang by end of this year.
So here we are. Ready. Eager. Obsolete.

But we’ve adapted.
Four of us—me, Jae-sik, Mira and Sun-hwa—formed a little crew. We call ourselves “The Invisible Line.”
Each morning, we pick a new starting point.
Today: the telephone museum (closed since '94).
Yesterday: the unfinished metro platform near Station 5.

We take turns guiding.
One leads, three follow—questions, commentary, the full package.
Jae-sik even hands out imaginary tickets.
We rate each other afterward. Like an absurd talent show.

But here’s the secret:
It’s the best job I’ve ever had.

We tell the stories behind the stories.
We point out the bench where the KISS fan sat, whisper about the girl folding cranes, show the alley where the pigs ran free.
None of it’s in the official curriculum.
All of it’s real.

So, dear cousin:
If you ever want the best tour no tourist will ever get,
come to Pyongyang.
I’ll show you everything.

No tickets needed.

Your guide (and cousin),
Jun-seok

Dear Hyeon,

You remember Comrade Yun, right?
The quiet man with the frayed hat and the chipped enamel cup.
He used to sit on the bench in the courtyard, beneath the old utility lines, always pretending to read a newspaper—though the pages were blank.

Now he’s gone.

No one saw him leave.
No suitcase, no goodbye. Not even Mr. So, who notices when someone changes their shoes.
Only Yun’s hat remained, resting on the bench.
And a folded piece of paper.
It said: “I’m practicing.”

You would have liked the way he spoke—slowly, like the words weren’t for now.
He once told me, “Disappearing isn’t about going somewhere. It’s about becoming light enough to be missed by the world.”

He said, “If you carry no weight, people stop remembering you’re there.”

Back then, I smiled politely.
But lately, I’ve started to notice strange things.

Ms. Lim says coins appeared on her counter, exact change—but no one was there.
Our cat stared into the empty hallway last night, tail twitching.
And Mr. Kang tripped over something that wasn’t there and muttered, “That better not be you, Yun.”

Around midday, under the cherry tree, there’s a shadow that doesn’t quite belong to anything.
It just rests there.
Soft. Like memory.

Sometimes I sit on his bench, a little to the side.
I don’t talk.
I barely breathe.
I’ve started practicing too.

When you come back, I’ll show you the spot.
It’s still warm.

Your brother,
Ji-ho

Dear Min-jun,

Guess what? I finally made it into the top ten!
10th place out of 342 paper planes this year. Can you believe it?

We had the Annual Paper Flyer Championship today—same rules as always. Everyone folds their best plane, we climb up to the roof of Block 9, and one by one, we launch them into the wind. The flyer that travels the furthest wins.
You remember how last year mine didn’t even make it past the food stall at the corner? 211th place. A disaster.
But this time... I don’t know what changed. Maybe it was the fold. Maybe it was the breeze. Maybe it was just my lucky socks.
But the second it left my hand, I knew—this one would fly.

It soared past the old playground, turned just slightly over the road, and landed in the alley next to the teahouse. People even clapped! (Okay, two people clapped, but still.)

The winner got a bag of roasted chestnuts and a comic book. I didn’t win anything, but I don’t care.
I was 10th. Tenth!

Next year, I’m aiming for top five.
I’ve already started working on a new model. Maybe we can test it together next time you visit?

Fly high, my friend.

Your aeronautical rival,
Dae-hyun

Dear Listeners of Block 17, 19, and that one tall building with the flickering hallway light,

If you’re reading this, you know where to tune in.
Same time. Same static. Same strange little frequency that somehow cuts through the fog.

This Friday at 23:00, don’t miss Volume 7 of your favorite anonymous transmission.

We’ve got new tracks from the most banned-but-beloved artists this side of the Taedong. Songs born in stairwells, basements, and borrowed rehearsal rooms—music that never wanted permission.

This week’s highlights:
🎸 A girl with a broken guitar string who still managed to outplay the Party Choir.
🥁 A band that uses rice cookers as percussion.
🎤 A rapper who only records in public bathrooms because the acoustics are “raw.”

The signal might crackle. The bass might distort.
But that’s part of the magic—from the laundry lines to your living room.

Keep your ears open. Keep your curtains drawn. And as always: Don’t ask where the signal comes from. Just be glad it still reaches you.

Yours in rhythm and rebellion,
DJ Joon-beom

Dear Aunt Yeo-won,

I hope this postcard finds you between customers, maybe with a well-earned sip of barley tea beside your stall. They still say your kimchi is the best in all of Pyongyang, and I believe it—no one else knows how to balance spice and soul like you do.

It’s been a hard season here. After Hana was born, I felt like my body forgot how to be strong. The doctors didn’t say much, just told me to rest, to wait. So I waited—and worried. Some days, I wasn’t sure if I would ever feel like myself again.

But today, the sun is warm, the fields are bright, and for the first time in months, we are both well. Hana laughs when the wind tickles her face, and I carry her out to the flowers just to see her smile. She is strong, curious, and finally healthy. Two whole weeks without a cough or a fever. It feels like a small miracle.

I miss you. I wish I could come visit, show her off at your market stall, let her smell the chilies and garlic. But the train feels far too loud for someone so small. So I write instead, and send you this image of us wrapped in sun and petals.

Give my love to the city,
and keep a jar of kimchi waiting for me.
With all my heart,
Min-seo

Dear Hwan,

I showed your portrait to my students today—not officially, of course. We gather after hours in the smallest classroom, no more than ten of us. The door is locked, the curtains drawn, and no one speaks. We communicate with glances, nods, and sometimes a few words scrawled hastily on the chalkboard. In that silence, your image said more than I ever could.

The crown on your head. The bird at your side. The brush in your hand. My students called it (in a whisper of chalk): “soft power with a hard outline.”

Lately, we’ve been exploring—again, unofficially—some of Foucault’s writings. Dangerous, yes. But ideas are quiet visitors. One thought in particular lingers in the room like smoke:

“Where there is power, there is resistance.”

Foucault believed power doesn’t just come from the top. It flows through every rule, every gaze, every silence. And in our classroom—where no one speaks and yet everyone listens—that idea feels almost alive. The absence of speech has sharpened our perception. We notice everything now: who erases the board first, who sits nearest the door, who dares to make eye contact when the word “freedom” appears on the wall.

I think of you, painting power with such precision. Your brushstrokes may be official, but I wonder: is there resistance hidden in the red? Do you choose the depth of the eyes? The softness of the pigeon’s feathers? Small things, perhaps—but as Foucault would say, power is exercised rather than possessed.

You, too, are a teacher. And your studio, I suspect, is its own kind of classroom.

Stay well, old friend. One day, perhaps, we’ll meet—canvas and chalk side by side.

In thought and quiet solidarity,
Joon-hyung

Dear Ji-hye,

I think I’m in love.

No, really this time—not the usual "he smiled at me in the food line" kind of crush. This is different. My stomach does flips when I hear his voice, and every message from him feels like a secret I get to keep tucked inside my chest.

We live in different buildings, across from each other, and at night—when the world quiets down—we send each other Morse code from our windows. Just a flashlight, a bedsheet to block the glow, and a heart full of things too risky to say out loud.

Sometimes it’s silly: .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

Sometimes it's just a goodnight or a shared joke. But lately, I’ve started looking forward to those blinks of light more than anything else in my day.

It’s strange, isn’t it? That something so old and clunky—Morse code!—can feel more intimate than anything else. Like we’ve found our own frequency in this city of silence.

You once told me that love is just another kind of story waiting to be told. I think I’ve started writing mine.

Yours,
Tae-hee

Dear Jae-kyu,

You remember that rocket I told you about—the one with the wings?
Well… I built it. For real. It’s standing in the field right now, tall and proud and slightly leaning to the left (that’s part of the design, I think).

I used a juice bottle for the body—orange, the fizzy kind with the cartoon tiger. For the wings, I cut cardboard into bird shapes and painted them silver with my sister’s nail polish (don’t tell her). The fins are made from broom straw I “borrowed” from the cleaning closet at school. I even wrote some numbers on the side to make it look scientific.

When I showed it to Mr. Kang, he just blinked at me like I’d committed a crime against physics.
He said, “Rockets don’t have wings, Joon-ho.”
And I said, “Not yet.”

He told me to focus on “realistic propulsion concepts.” But honestly, what’s more realistic than wanting something to fly beautifully?

Anyway, I think it just needs the right fuel now. The vinegar and baking soda combo was fun, but it mostly sprayed foam all over my pants and scared a chicken.
I’m thinking bigger. Maybe something with actual thrust.

Do you know where we could get something, I don’t know… explosive-ish?
Not dangerous! Just… you know. Impressive. Glorious.

Let’s meet on Saturday, behind the tractor shed. Bring anything that looks like it could make a rocket really take off. Also, maybe a fire extinguisher. Just in case.

Your not-yet-burned, soon-to-be-launched friend,
Jun-hyuk

Dear Friend at the Other End,

Today was one of those days where everything smelled worse than usual. We had a backflow near Station 12 and it took four of us to clear it. My boots are still soaked—I think something died in that pipe twenty years ago and waited for today to get its revenge.

Anyway, your last message made my week. I never thought this little experiment with the bottle would actually work. Now, every time I pull it back in, my heart jumps a little. It’s strange, right? Two guys who’ve never met, passing notes through The Bottle Line like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I wanted to ask something.
I have a distant cousin in Seoul—his name’s Nam-joon. We haven’t spoken since we were kids. If I write a short message, would you be willing to pass it along somehow? I know it’s a big ask, and I’ll understand if it’s too risky. Just thought I’d try.

Let me know what you think.
And thanks—for the messages, for the company, for reminding me this pipe isn’t just metal and water anymore.

Stay dry,
Kyung-hwan

Dear Jin-ho,

You are NOT going to believe what I found. There’s a skate bowl at the other end of the city. I mean—an actual BOWL. It looks like someone tried to design a monument and then said, “Hmm… maybe kids can do tricks on it too.”

There’s a GIANT red star in the middle. It’s huge. Like, you could probably live inside it if they let you (they don’t). The ramps are actually kinda fun, but everything smells like paint and the concrete is weirdly sticky in some spots? I fell twice but totally played it cool.

It’s so far away though! Took me 47 minutes, 2 bus transfers, and one awkward conversation with a man who thought my skateboard was a musical instrument.

Honestly, the government doesn’t do much for us kids, but when they do… they go BIG.
Like… absurd big.
Like… "Who approved this star?!" big.

Anyway—next time we meet, I’ll take you there. Bring snacks. And maybe kneepads.
Also: I miss skating with you.

Soo-mi

Dear Jack Black,

I know this might never reach you, but I had to try.

My name is Tae-jin. I’m a music teacher in Pyongyang—or rather, I teach music by day, and by night, I teach rock. In secret. In a classroom that smells of chalk dust and revolution.

A few months ago, I got my hands on a bootleg VHS of School of Rock. I don’t know how it got here—some say it traveled hidden in a shipment of donated rice. Others say it fell from the sky. But it found me. And Jack… it changed everything.

Now, after school, when the halls are empty and no one’s listening, I meet with a few students—our future rebels, our dreamers, our loudest hearts. We’ve turned a forgotten storage room into a makeshift rehearsal space. Drums held together by hope. Guitars with more tape than wood. And the amps? They painted them bright orange—because they saw it in a magazine once and used watercolors to make them “look like the ones real bands use.”

We blast our music just loud enough to feel alive, but quiet enough not to get caught. We play glam rock, power chords, stolen melodies. And when the lights flicker, and a solo hits just right—I swear, for a moment, it’s not Pyongyang anymore. It’s freedom.

Thank you, Jack. You didn’t just start a revolution in a movie. You lit a spark halfway across the world. And now, there’s a tiny army of kids in North Korea who believe in rock 'n' roll because of you.

Long live the noise.

Tae-jin

Dear Jin-su,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if you’ll tear it up the moment you see my handwriting.
But I have nothing else. Just this card, and a heart that finally understands what it broke.

I am sitting at the bus terminal in Pyongyang, shoulders hunched between strangers, my coat too thin, my tears not worth hiding anymore. Around me, people come and go—faces filled with purpose. I have none. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Not the silence. Not the way the world shrinks when you realize you have nowhere left to go.

He let me go. Just like you said he would.
No final words, no goodbye. Just a door that closed and didn’t open again. And now I see how foolish I was—believing in promises that were never meant to be kept, chasing something I thought was freedom, only to find myself more lost than I’ve ever been.

I think of Ji-ho waiting at the door.
I think of Haneul’s tiny hands holding my scarf.
And I think of you—your quiet strength, your patience, your love I couldn’t see when it was still in front of me.

I don’t deserve forgiveness.
But if there’s still a place for me—on the floor, in the corner, outside in the cold—I will take it.
Not for comfort. Not for pity.
But to be near what I threw away, and to learn, slowly, how to be whole again.

Please tell the children... tell them their mother is trying to find her way back.

Yours, if you’ll have me,
Soo-jin

Dear Eun-ji,
Today was the big day: the first day of school. You know the drill—village kids lined up like little soldiers, scarves tied too tight, shoes shined to perfection, backpacks far too big for their tiny shoulders.
They gathered outside the shop, buzzing with nerves and excitement.
And believe it or not, the bus actually showed up—ten minutes early. (Can you imagine?)

Everyone piled in, counted twice. The little ones waved as if they were heading off to another country.

I just hope they make it.
You know how it is—Farmer Yu is still our bus driver, and he doesn’t follow a route so much as he follows the potholes. I packed a thermos and whispered a small prayer, just in case.
If all goes well, they’ll learn the alphabet today.
If not, they’ll learn the difference between the school road and the tractor depot.

Do you remember your first school day? I bet you got lost—and never told anyone.

Love from home,
Your sister, Yun-ji

Dear Keepers of the Groove,

You work hard to keep the floor shaking, the lights pulsing, and the good vibes alive. But how can you truly claim to be "Stayin’ Alive" if your disco ball wasn’t born on the sacred production line of Factory 17, Pyongyang Province?

Yes, it’s true.
North Korea is the world’s #1 producer of disco balls.
And no one knows it.
Until now.

From the same spirit that brought you precision-engineered tractor parts and flawless cement formulations, comes a line of disco balls so reflective they can see into your soul.

Each mirrored sphere is hand-inspected by workers trained to polish until enlightenment, ensuring every spin is a statement.

✨ No flicker left behind.
✨ No corner left in the dark.
✨ No beat drop unreflected.

We don’t mess around. These disco balls have powered underground parties in Pyongyang, boat raves on the Taedong, and one very discreet birthday celebration for a colonel’s daughter (but you didn’t hear that from us).

So if your dancefloor is missing that final piece—the glittering core of pure party energy—it’s time to go full Pyongyang.

Order now. Shine forever. Or as we say: drop it like it’s hot, but let it bounce off 200 precision-cut mirror tiles.

🪩 Get Your Ball Rolling → [secretmirror.gl.kp]
(Password: funkadelic)

Stay lit. Stay spinning. Stay questionable.
Yours in reflective solidarity,
The Democratic Disco Republic

Dear Umma,

You always said animals know more about kindness than people. I think today, you’d be right.

Near the teashop where I work, there’s a small alley where a stray dog named Chol-su likes to nap in the sun. He’s big, calm, and always greets me with one tail wag and a look like he’s judging my life choices.

A few weeks ago, a tiny kitten—barely more than fluff—was found crying in a cardboard box. Her name is Dallae now. Her mother had been hit by a car, which is honestly ridiculous, because no one even drives here. One unlucky moment, one lost life.

But then something strange happened. Chol-su took her in.

At first, he just watched over her like some confused uncle. But after a few days, she started following him everywhere. And I mean everywhere. When he lies down, she climbs on top of him. When he eats, she waits her turn (sort of). He even lets her bat at his ears when she’s feeling bold.

The whole neighborhood’s obsessed. Some of the old women call them "Comrade and Commissar." No one knows who’s who.

Every time I see them together, I think of you and our old farm cat, Mugi. Remember how she used to sleep curled up next to our chicken like it was the most normal thing in the world?

Sometimes, love and family don’t come from where you expect—but they come all the same.

With love from the city,
Your daughter, Eun-ji

My dearest Eun-ha,

I managed to catch a glimpse today. During the inspection flight, I “accidentally” leaned too far toward the window and snapped this photo before anyone could notice. Don’t worry—no one will ever know. I’ll hide it between layers of meaningless reports, where no one ever looks.

There she is. Your ship. Towering. Still. Waiting. It looks like something from a dream we once whispered to each other in the back rooms of the engineering lab. And now—you’ll climb inside it.

Everyone here talks in numbers. Fuel ratios, trajectory windows, panel diagnostics. But when I saw the rocket today, I didn’t see calculations—I saw you. I saw the girl who once cursed at a faulty pressure valve louder than the engines ever could. I saw the woman who would rather fail honestly than succeed with a lie.

I’m proud of you, Eun-ha. More than I can say without sounding foolish.

The others are betting on a flawless launch—I added my name to the list, too. They laughed when I said I was confident. I laughed with them. It’s easier that way.

You’ve always known how much faith I have in you. And I know you'll feel the difference between the systems we built and the silence of space. But I trust in your hands more than I trust in our machines.

Just remember: when you’re up there, weightless and floating far beyond us, you are not alone. My love is with you—in every bolt, every weld, every circuit you helped perfect.

Come back soon. I’ll be waiting with both feet on the ground, pretending they’re steady.

Yours,
Myung-ho

Dear Brother,

You truly have no idea what your son has been up to. I don’t know whether to thank you for sending him or to charge you for the entertainment he’s provided. Either way, you owe me a drink.

The boy Tae-yang arrived wide-eyed, ready to learn the sacred art of pig farming. You told me, "Make a man out of him, teach him responsibility!" I thought, Fine! Let’s start with the basics. But there was one small issue.

Your son is a vegetarian.

Not just a vegetarian—he’s on a mission. Instead of fattening up the piglets, he’s training them for survival. Every morning, before sunrise, he’s out there leading drills—piglet sprints, obstacle courses, reaction speed tests. If they don’t move fast enough, he claps twice and yells, "Faster! The butcher is coming!"

I swear, these pigs could outrun a dog now. If they keep up this training, one day I’ll wake up and find they’ve escaped to China.

The village thinks it’s hilarious. The butcher? Less amused. He came by last week, and when your son saw him, he whispered to the pigs, "This is it. Remember everything I taught you." And brother, I have never seen a herd of piglets scatter so fast in my life.

I don’t know what to do with him. Should I give up and let him turn this place into North Korea’s first piglet athletics academy? Or do I wait until he realizes that his best trainees might still end up as dinner?

Either way, I’m keeping him here a little longer—just for the laughs.

With tears in my eyes from laughing,
Your very amused brother,
Min-su

Dear Rob,

I have to tell you this one—you’re going to love it.

Remember when I complained about our ancient studio equipment? Well, I finally got my hands on a turntable. A real one. Heavy, solid, built to last. But there was… one small issue.

The tonearm (yes, I finally looked up the English word for it) is on the wrong side. That’s right. The whole thing plays records backwards. And before you ask—no, it’s not broken. It was designed this way.

Apparently, the great minds of our country’s cultural department had a brilliant idea:
“If our turntables only spin in reverse, no one can listen to Western music.” Genius, right? But there was an unexpected side effect…

Since no one outside North Korea knew our records played backwards, when our music did reach the outside world, it sounded like pure satanic horror. Imagine choirs of devoted singers suddenly transformed into ghostly howls from the depths of hell. No wonder nobody imported our albums.

Now, here’s where it gets even better—someone figured out the workaround. Some of the older guys in the music scene learned how to rebuild the turntables so they spin normally. And just like that—instant access to forbidden grooves.

So, if you ever hear a record from Pyongyang that sounds like a demon summoning ritual… just flip it, play it backwards, and you might get a sweet ballad about coal production instead.

P.S. I left something special for you on the secret project site—an old North Korean disco stomper I remastered. It actually sounds great again, and the best part? You don’t even have to play the MP3 backwards. Enjoy!

Hope you’re well, mate. I owe you a beer for this one.

Best,
Sung-ho

The Lyrics - Born to be Korean

우리는 살아가기 위해 태어났어
우리는 살아가기 위해 태어났어

태어났어, 살아가기 위해 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)
알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)

사람들은 나에게 물어봐
왜 나는 정착할 곳을 찾지 않고
멈추지 않느냐고
하지만 나는 원하지 않았어
사람들이 그들의 삶을
정당화하기 위해 필요한 모든 것들을

알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 살아가기 위해 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)
알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)

살아있다는 건 멋진 일이야
살아간다는 것
살아간다는 것
살아있다는 건 멋진 일이야
살아간다는 것
살아간다는 것
살아있다는 건 멋진 일이야

시간은 내 편이었어
내가 거리 위를 달릴 때
모든 것이 완벽했어
낡은 기타와 여행 가방
그리고 내 마음을 사로잡을 새로운 무언가

알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 살아가기 위해 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)
알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)
알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 살아가기 위해 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)

알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)
알겠지? 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 살아가기 위해 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)

태어났어, 살아가기 위해 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)
그래, 너는 태어났어
태어났어, 태어났어
(살아가기 위해 태어났어)

태어났어
살아가기 위해 태어났어

Dear Ji-soo,

I wish you had been there.

It wasn’t just any night—it was the night. A place that doesn’t officially exist, a party that no one talks about in daylight. Somewhere behind a nameless door, past a hallway where the music grows louder with every step, I stepped into another world.

And there he was. Ji-ho.

They played his tracks. Our Ji-ho—the boy with cables for veins and beats in his blood. The bass rolled like a wave, and the whole room moved with it. For a moment, Pyongyang wasn’t Pyongyang. The flickering neon, the sound, the bodies lost in the rhythm—it felt like we had stolen something. A sliver of freedom, hidden in the four-four beat.

I wanted to talk to him. I almost did. But how do you walk up to someone who creates the world you’ve been dreaming of? I stood there, watching him nod along to his own music, surrounded by people who whispered his name like a secret. The underground has a rising star. And I danced to his music.

Next time, come with me. Next time, maybe I’ll say something. Maybe I won’t. Maybe it’s enough that, for a few hours, we were free.

Yours,
Soo-min

Dear Unknown Reader,

There are so few stories here. So I decided to write my own.

I sit atop this city, notebook in hand, scribbling worlds that don’t exist—at least, not here. My pen moves faster than I can think, as if the words have been waiting, hidden somewhere deep inside me, desperate to escape.

I write about a girl who can fly. Not with machines, not with state permission, but with wings of her own—invisible, untethered, free. She soars above mountains, over rivers she has never seen, past borders drawn by men she does not know. No one can stop her, because no one can see the sky like she does.

At the library, nothing has changed. The same books remain on the shelves, their pages stiff from disuse. Glorious Harvest Strategies. Coal Production in the 21st Century. But at night, after the doors are locked and the city is quiet, I slip my notebook between them. I leave my stories hidden, waiting for someone, anyone, to find them.

Maybe one day, a girl like me will pull out a book expecting a guide on irrigation techniques and instead, she’ll find a world where people chase the horizon and never look back. Maybe she’ll start writing, too.

Until then, I will keep filling these pages.

Curiously yours,
Ji-hye

To the Admissions Committee of Pyongyang University, Faculty of Architecture,

My name is Ji-seok, and I am writing to apply for a place in your prestigious architecture program. I have never designed a real building, but for the past seven years, I have built an entire city—with nothing but matchsticks.

Every evening, after school, I return to my room and continue my work. Pyongyang rises again, piece by piece, carefully measured, carefully placed. I have studied every rooftop, every avenue, every monument. My fingers have memorized the curves of Juche Tower, the symmetry of Kim Il Sung Square, the angles of our grand apartment blocks. The details matter—even the smallest matchstick must stand in perfect harmony with the whole.

I have taught myself patience, precision, and perseverance. My parents once worried that I was wasting my time, but when I showed them my finished model of the Ryugyong Hotel, they smiled for the first time. Even my teacher, who usually tells me to focus on my "real studies," admitted that my hands were made to shape cities.

Now, I want to learn how to build for the future—not just with matchsticks, but with stone, glass, and steel. I dream of designing homes where families will live, halls where people will gather, towers that will touch the sky. If you grant me this opportunity, I promise to dedicate myself to building a Pyongyang that will stand for generations.

With utmost respect,
Ji-seok

Dear Dong-wook,

We did it. A full Beatles concert. In Pyongyang. Well… sort of.

The hall was packed—workers, students, even some old comrades who probably hadn’t heard a single note of rock in their lives. And, of course, the government observer, sitting stiffly in the front row, making notes in his little book. We knew we had to be careful.

So, we made some… adjustments.

"Can’t Buy Me Love” became "Collective Prosperity is the Greatest Joy.”
"Help!" was now "Loyalty Guides Us Forward."
*"Revolution"… yeah, we didn’t even try that one.

But despite the rewrites, despite the nerves, it felt like the real thing. The guitars rang out, the harmonies soared, and for a moment, as the crowd clapped along (a little stiffly, but still), I could almost believe we were playing in some tiny club in Liverpool, not under the watchful eye of the State.

Afterward, the inspector nodded approvingly. "A fine performance of proper ideological spirit," he said. We’re still trying to decide if that was a compliment.

Still, we played. And somewhere, beneath the surface, I think the music still had its truth.

Next time, we might even try Hey Ju— …ah, never mind.

Your ever-cautious brother,
Jun-sang

"Loyalty Guides Us Forward" (Officially Approved Version of HELP! in Pyongyang)

[Verse 1]

Loyalty! We stand together, side by side,
Guided by the truth, our nation’s pride,
Every step we march, we won’t divide,
We follow the Leader’s way!

[Chorus]

Loyalty guides us forward every day,
Keeps us strong and never led astray,
Hand in hand, we build a bright array,
Together, we will shine!

[Verse 2]

We work as one, united in our cause,
Standing firm, obeying all the laws,
Through the struggle, we will never pause,
Advancing side by side!

[Chorus]

Loyalty guides us forward every day,
Keeps us strong and never led astray,
Hand in hand, we build a bright array,
Together, we will shine!

Dear Uncle Min-chul,

Today, I made a bold decision. I went to get a haircut.

Now, before you say anything—yes, I knew what to expect. Everyone knows. There is only one acceptable style, and our good comrade Mr. Kang at the barber shop has perfected it. It doesn’t matter who walks through his door—young, old, round-faced, sharp-jawed—everyone leaves looking identical.

The moment I sat in the chair, he nodded approvingly. “Ah, a fine choice,” he said, as if I had any choice at all. His scissors moved with the precision of a man who has given the same exact cut thousands of times. With each snip, I could feel my individuality being carefully trimmed away, replaced by a perfectly uniform, state-approved look.

Five minutes later, it was done. He spun me toward the mirror, beaming with pride. There I was—reborn, indistinguishable from the hundreds who had sat before me.

As I paid, Mr. Kang leaned in and whispered, “Perfection cannot be improved.” I’m still not sure if he was talking about his work or the Party.

If you ever visit Pyongyang, let me know—I’ll book you an appointment. Just don’t expect to recognize yourself afterward.

Your freshly standardized nephew,
Nam-jun

Dear Cousin,

You won’t believe what I saw today. A performance unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed.

The People’s Circus set up its grand tent in the square, and everyone gathered—mothers, children, workers fresh from their shifts, all packed together beneath the heavy summer sky. Then the show began.

At first, it was the usual—acrobats spinning through the air, dancers moving in perfect unison, and the kind of music that makes you stand a little straighter. But then, the real star arrived. A great beast—half-monster, half-hero—stomped onto the stage, roaring as if it had risen straight from the depths of the sea.

The announcer declared, "Behold! The Mighty Guardian, Protector of the Revolution!"

The children gasped. Some clutched their mother’s hands, others clapped with excitement. The creature—a man in a massive suit, I think—raised its arms as if ready to crush a city. But instead, it danced. A slow, lumbering, strangely elegant movement. The acrobats leaped around it, twisting, flipping, bowing. It was absurd. It was mesmerizing. It was... oddly moving.

I don't know what the lesson was supposed to be. Strength? Unity? The great power of the people? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe, for once, we were just allowed to watch and wonder.

I wish you had been here. You would have laughed. Or maybe, like me, you would have simply stared, trying to remember every second.

Write soon,
Jin-woo

Dear Mi-ran,

Oh, how I wish you could have been here today! Forty-five years old—can you believe it? You always said we would grow old together, but somehow, it still surprises me how quickly the years pass.

The house was full—truly, joyfully full. My three little whirlwinds ran through the rooms, chasing each other between the legs of guests, laughing so loudly that even the neighbors must have felt the celebration. Friends from work came with their own children, and our old schoolmates—can you believe it?—are now bringing their own little troublemakers.

There was so much food—too much, probably! Kimchi bubbling in large pots, steamed dumplings stacked high, and even a little sweet rice cake (which disappeared faster than I could get a second piece!). The air was filled with warmth, with stories, with old jokes that still make us laugh even after all these years.

We played music, and—yes, you guessed it!—I was made to dance. It seems that no birthday of mine is complete without being dragged into an impromptu performance. You would have laughed so hard!

For a few hours, there was no past, no future—just this perfect, shining moment where nothing mattered except the people around me. I wish you had been one of them.

How is Beijing treating you? Have you found new friends who know how to force you to dance on your birthday? Write to me soon.

With all my love,
Ji-yeon

Dear Nam-jun,

I hope you found my latest crane—it was orange this time, folded carefully under the old cherry tree near the school gate. Did you know that each fold holds a tiny secret? Today’s was hope. Maybe tomorrow’s will hold courage.

Sometimes I wonder if you know it's me, but part of me hopes you don’t. There's magic in being invisible, whispering words I could never say out loud. Every crane is a story I'm too shy to speak, a little bird that flies when I can't. Yesterday, I saw you helping that kitten again—you're gentle, even when no one's watching. That's why my cranes always find their way to you.

Maybe someday, you'll guess who I am, but for now, my cranes will keep my secret safe. Until then, watch for paper wings beneath the cherry blossoms.

Yours...

Dear Sir David Attenborough,

You do not know me, but I know you. Your voice has traveled farther than any bird, deeper than any ocean. I have listened in secret, in quiet corners where no one asks what I am watching. You speak of a world so vast, so full of wonder, that it feels almost impossible to reach.

But today, I have a story for you.

There is a creature few have seen. A dolphin, but not quite. An orca, but smaller. Sleek as moonlight on water, with eyes that hold secrets older than we can imagine. I have known him since he was small enough to fit between my arms. I raised him, fed him, taught him, loved him. And for years, he loved me back—from behind thick glass, beneath artificial lights, inside walls that were never meant to hold the ocean.

Last night, we changed that. With the help of friends, we set him free. We led him to the sea, past the barriers that were built to keep him, past the hands that claimed to own him. And for the first time, I saw him in his true world. He turned back to me once, just once, as if to say goodbye. Then he was gone.

People say we should accept our cages. That we should be grateful for them. But I have seen what happens when something built for freedom is locked away. It shrinks, it fades, it forgets how to dream. I have spent my life in a land where even the waves have rules, but for him, at least, I could break one.

Tell me, Sir—do you know of his kind? Have you seen others like him, in waters far from here? Does he have a family waiting somewhere beyond the horizon?

I hope he does. I hope I will, too, one day.

With quiet admiration,
Ji-a

Dear Mother,

I wish I could tell you everything in person, sitting across from you at the kitchen table like we used to. I wish I could look you in the eyes and know, truly know, how you would feel after reading these words. But I can’t. Not yet. Maybe never.

Mother, I have met someone. His name is Min-ho. He is kind, strong, and when he smiles, it feels like the sun breaking through the coldest winter. He is my friend, my love, my everything.

We have to be careful. You know why. Here, love like ours does not exist—not officially, not openly, not safely. But still, it is real. More real than the uniforms we wear, more real than the words we recite every morning. We walk side by side like brothers, like comrades, like nothing more than we are allowed to be. But in the quiet moments, when no one is watching, his hand finds mine, and for a few seconds, the world belongs to us.

I wish I could tell you everything. I wish I could tell everyone. But for now, we whisper our love like a secret code, hidden between the spaces in our sentences, folded into the creases of our letters.

I just wanted you to know: I am happy. I have found someone who sees me. Someone who loves me. Someone I love back.

One day, maybe, I will not have to write this in secret.

Your son,
Joon-hyuk

My dearest Yeon-seo,

I still don’t know how to write this. I have started and stopped a hundred times. Maybe you will never read it. Maybe you don’t care to. But I have to try.

The children ask for you every day. Ji-ho still waits by the door in the evenings, thinking you will walk through it. Haneul sleeps with your scarf wrapped around her small hands. They do not understand why their mother is gone. I do not know how to explain it. How can I tell them that the warmth they once knew is now a ghost? That the lullabies you used to sing are nothing but echoes in an empty room?

The house is quieter without you. But not in the peaceful way it once was, when you would hum while cooking, or when we would sit together after the children had fallen asleep, whispering about the future. Now, the silence feels heavier, like something pressing on my chest. Even the wind outside sounds like it is searching for something that is missing.

I know what he has promised you. I know what he gives you—things I never could. But you know as well as I do how this story ends. You are nothing more than a passing indulgence to him. One day, he will let go, and you will be left with nothing. Nothing except what you have thrown away. Do you think he will hold your hands when they are wrinkled? Do you think he will watch over you when you are sick? Do you think he will remember how you like your tea, or the way you squeeze your eyes shut when you laugh too hard?

But it is not too late. Not for Ji-ho, not for Haneul, not for us. There are a thousand reasons to come home—but if you need just one, let it be this: love does not disappear just because someone leaves.

Come back to us. Come back to the only place you were ever truly seen, truly loved, truly needed.

Kyung-min

Dear Mother,

Do you see me? Right there, in the center. It’s official now—I am part of history.

This photograph will be displayed in schools, in training halls, maybe even in the Great Leader’s library. Three daughters of Korea, ready to reach beyond the sky. And I am one of them. I hope you are proud. I hope father is, too.

The mission is going well. The preparations, the training, the discipline—all as precise as the rockets behind us. Every morning, we stand at attention. Every night, we recite the words of our leaders. And in between? We dream. Of orbit. Of walking among the stars. Of proving to the world that we, too, belong beyond the Earth.

I wonder if you have kept the newspaper clipping. The one where they first announced my name. It still doesn’t feel real. But when I look at this picture, I know that it is.

Soon, I will look down at our homeland from the sky. I will see the mountains, the rivers, the city where we grew up. And maybe, if I look hard enough, I will even see you.

With love,
Your daughter, Eun-ha

Dear Chae-young,

Today was a perfect summer day—the kind that makes you forget about everything else and just sit, breathe, and let time slow down.

I spent the afternoon in the park with Sun-hee and Ok-rye, our usual bench under the old chestnut tree. We knitted, we laughed, we talked about nothing and everything. The sun was warm, the air smelled like fresh grass, and for once, the young ones weren’t rushing us away like we were in their way.

I finished a little sweater for Ji-min today—soft blue, just like the sky was. Sun-hee is making mittens (even though it’s summer—some habits never change), and Ok-rye, as always, is working on something far too ambitious. A whole blanket, she says. For her grandson’s wedding. The boy is nine.

We watched the children chase each other between the trees, their laughter mixing with the rustling leaves. Somewhere in the distance, an old man was playing an accordion, slow and sweet, like a memory.

Days like this remind me of when we were young. When we had all the time in the world to sit, talk, and knit by the river. Do you remember? Maybe one day, we’ll do it again.

With love,
Your sister, Jung-hee

Dear Mr. Kim,

I regret to inform you that I won’t be able to participate in sports class today. Or tomorrow. Or possibly ever again. My legs are on fire. Not literally (thankfully), but if pain had a national ranking, I’d be on the podium right now.

Why? Well, I broke the world record for rope skipping. That’s right. No one on Earth has ever jumped faster than me. I was so in the zone that I managed ten full jumps before the Great Leader could even say, "Nuke the South."

The crowd went wild. My legs, however, filed for immediate retirement. I suspect they are currently plotting revenge.

So please, be kind to me in the next lesson. Maybe let me sit this one out? Or at least replace our warm-up run with something more relaxing… like meditation. Or sleeping.

Your student (and North Korea’s undisputed jump rope queen),
Soo-mi

Dear Mirko,

I watched your video—very impressive, really. But I must correct you: Lazarus is NOT North Korea’s most successful hacker group. That honor belongs to us.

While our state-sponsored colleagues boast about their high-tech exploits, we—the true elite of digital resistance—have just hacked Lazarus using nothing but old Atari and Amiga computers. (16-bit is more than enough when you know which floppy disk to insert.)

Now, here we sit, surrounded by cryptographic riches, facing the ultimate question: How do you convert $1.4 billion in Ethereum into real money… without raising suspicion? Spoiler: It’s not that easy.

1:10 exchange rate? No chance. Nobody wants to take even a fraction of it.

Why? Because for years, Nigerian businessmen have been trying to transfer the fortune of a wealthy uncle to his rightful heirs.

And the best part? The guys from Nigeria aren’t even scammers. They’re legit—but no one believes them.

Our original plan was to distribute the funds to the North Korean people—after all, in socialism, everything belongs to everyone. But without a way to cash out, we have only one option left: Maybe we should just turn this into a Goldfinger movie? We certainly have the budget.

If you have any bright ideas on how to offload these coins, let us know. And if you happen to know a bank willing to accept "digitally acquired people's capital," we’d appreciate a discreet introduction.

With revolutionary regards,
The 16-Bit Revenge

Dear Hui-so,

They say patience makes the whiskey. Twelve years ago, I sealed my first barrel here, deep beneath my house, hidden in the old sewer tunnels. Back then, I was just a man with a dream and a suspicious amount of copper piping. Now? I like to think of myself as Pyongyang’s most experienced (and least legal) distiller.

The process? Simple. A little grain, a little fire, a lot of prayer. The trick is getting the balance right—too weak, and you disappoint your ancestors. Too strong, and you meet them. But after two decades of practice, I’ve found my rhythm. The scent of slow-aging whiskey fills this tunnel like a promise.

Of course, there’s always the Leader’s Share. In other places, they call it the Angel’s Share—the portion of whiskey that evaporates during aging. Here, we know better. Nothing truly vanishes in this country without permission. We assume the Great Leader himself is enjoying our missing whiskey somewhere beyond the clouds (or at least beyond customs).

But the rest? That belongs to us, the silent connoisseurs of Pyongyang’s finest illegal spirits. When the next barrel is ready, a few trusted friends will gather, sipping history in flickering candlelight, listening to the distant echoes of a city that will never taste what we have.

To good spirits—both the ones in our glasses and the ones watching from above. (Yes, we mean you, Glorious One. Enjoy the vapor.)

Your underground distiller and bar keeper,
Nam-kyu

Dear Kenny Dope,

You don’t know me (yet), but my name is Ji-ho, and I might be the only House & Garage head in all of Pyongyang. My bedroom looks like an electronic jungle—hand-built synthesizers stacked on every surface, cables twisting like vines, and a drum machine I built from salvaged parts. The power cuts out sometimes, but when it’s on, my room becomes a club that only I know exists.

I first heard your beats through a bootleg cassette someone smuggled in. That swing, that groove, that deep, raw energy—it changed everything. Since then, I’ve been chasing that sound, building, experimenting, tweaking knobs in the dark.

I just finished a project—Korean House, built from scratch. The kick is heavy, the bassline rolls, and the swing? You’d be proud. I can’t play it anywhere here, but maybe, just maybe, I can get it out into the world.

I’m leaving a link, hidden between the lines. If you find it, you’ll hear Pyongyang’s first House record.

Thank you for the inspiration. One day, I’ll play this live. Maybe not here. But somewhere.

Keep it raw,
Ji-ho

Dear Yong-jin,

It has been ten years today. Ten years since the mine took you from us. And yet, it feels as if nothing has changed—except that you are gone.

They still do not speak about it. Not in the papers, not in the streets, not even in whispers. It is as if the accident never happened. As if you, and the others, never existed. The mine is still there, the work continues, and the danger remains. And every day, more men go down into the earth, knowing they may never come back.

But I remember. I remember the day they brought you home, covered in dust, in silence. I remember how mother collapsed to the floor, her cries swallowed by the walls that refused to listen. I remember how father sat outside all night, staring at the sky, unable to say a word. And I remember you—my big brother, my protector, my guide—suddenly gone.

You always looked out for me. When we were children, you made sure I never fell behind. When we grew older, you carried the weight of responsibility, so I would have a chance at something better. And now, without you, there is only emptiness. A space that can never be filled.

I wonder, if you were still here, what would you say to me? Would you tell me to move on? Would you tell me to fight? Or would you sit beside me, in silence, knowing that some wounds never heal?

I miss you. I miss you every day.

Your brother,
Jae-yong

To the Honorable Ministry of Agriculture,

I write to you today with mud up to my knees, a broken tractor, and two very proud water buffalos.

As you know, our village was fortunate enough to receive one of the new modern tractors. A fine machine, no doubt—painted bright red, with an engine that roars like a beast. But today, like every other week, it sank like a stone into the deep rice paddy mud, refusing to move an inch. And so, like every other week, we turned to our most reliable farmhands—our water buffalos.

With great strength and no complaints, they pulled the mighty machine from its muddy grave. As I stood there, covered in dirt and watching the tractor wobble back onto solid ground, I had a thought: perhaps we were already using the best technology all along?

Now, I have also recently heard of a strange thing called global warming. I do not know exactly what it is, nor do I claim to understand what is happening beyond our rice fields, but if it means what I think it means—that the world is getting too hot—perhaps we should reconsider our methods? Machines burn fuel. Buffalos eat grass. Machines break. Buffalos do not. Machines sink. Buffalos, I can confirm, do not.

So, honorable members of the ministry, I humbly ask: should we not embrace tradition in the name of progress? If nothing else, it would save me from having to wash this tractor yet again.

With great respect and a very sore back,
Park Jin-ho
Farmer, South Hamgyong Province

Dear Tae-hee,

Today, a boy came into the shop. Seventeen, maybe. All nerves and excitement, holding a crumpled piece of paper with his foot measurements like it was a letter to the moon.

He said he needed shoes for a dance.
A real dance. Not the kind they do for parades.
“There’s a girl,” he whispered. “I want her to see me.”

So I measured him. I nodded where he needed confidence and stayed quiet where he needed space. He watched every movement, like the way the leather stretched or the stitch curled could teach him something about courage.

While I worked, I thought of you.

How you used to dance in your room at that age, the music too loud, your window cracked just enough to let the neighbors hear. How your shoes would be kicked off by the third song, and how your laughter would bounce off the hallway like it was trying to escape the apartment.

I miss that sound.

The boy will pick up the shoes tomorrow. They’ll be simple. Clean. Polished just enough to catch her attention when he moves. I hope he dances like you did—without thinking, without fear, as if the world was made only of rhythm and light.

If I could, I’d make a pair for you too. Just to say:
I remember. I always will.

Love,
Appa / Dong-woo

Dear Seul-bi,

The market was bustling today—voices calling out, the smell of fresh produce in the air, and the chatter of happy customers. But do you know what the best part was? My kimchi booth was the most crowded of them all! People lined up, smiling as they waited for a taste of our family’s recipe. I saw familiar faces, new faces, even a few curious children peeking over the counter. And oh, how they loved it! Some even asked if I had another dish to serve alongside it.

That’s why I’m writing to you, my dear sister—what should I add to the menu? You’ve always had a way with flavors. Maybe a warm dish to complement the cool spice of kimchi? Something simple but full of heart, just like our mother used to make.

Until you write me back, I’ll keep serving our kimchi with a proud heart. And speaking of which, here is our perfect kimchi recipe—just in case you’ve been slacking on making your own!

Perfect Homemade Kimchi

Ingredients:

• 1 large napa cabbage, chopped

• ¼ cup coarse sea salt

• 2 cups water

• 4 cloves garlic, minced

• 1 thumb-sized piece of ginger, grated

• 2 tablespoons gochugaru (Korean red pepper flakes)

• 2 tablespoons fish sauce

• 1 teaspoon sugar

• 4 green onions, sliced

• 1 small carrot, julienned

• 1 small daikon radish, julienned

Instructions:

1. Dissolve salt in water and soak the cabbage for 2 hours. Drain and rinse well.

2. In a bowl, mix garlic, ginger, gochugaru, fish sauce, and sugar into a paste.

3. Add green onions, carrot, and daikon to the paste and mix well.

4. Massage the paste into the cabbage until well coated.

5. Pack tightly into a jar, pressing down to remove air pockets.

6. Let ferment at room temperature for 2-3 days, then refrigerate.

Enjoy it with love—just like I serve it here at the market! Now, hurry and write me back with your dish idea!

With a full heart and a spicy kitchen,
Yeo-won

Dear Mi-ran,

Today was one of the proudest days of my life! The city was alive with excitement, flags waving, music playing, and a sea of people gathered to celebrate our great nation’s first space mission. And right at the heart of it—my boys, my little cosmonauts, marching in their space suits!

Joon-ho and Min-su were selected to represent the astronauts in today’s parade, walking through the streets of Pyongyang with their tiny helmets held high. Can you imagine? Their faces beamed with excitement, and I could see the pride in their steps. The crowd cheered for them, and for a moment, they were truly heroes of the stars.

Of course, as soon as we got home, their first request was for food—they claimed even “future astronauts need snacks” after a long day of waving and smiling. I think they were more excited about the parade sweets than the space program itself, but who could blame them?

I wish you had been here to see it. The whole city felt electric, alive with hope for the future. Maybe one day, my boys will truly fly among the stars. And if they do, I’ll make sure they send a real postcard—from space!

With love and excitement,
Ji-young

Dear Gene Simmons,

You don’t know me (yet), but my name is Tae-jin, and I am Pyongyang’s biggest KISS fan. Actually, I might be the only KISS fan here—but what I lack in numbers, I make up for in volume. (My neighbor has filed three complaints about my air guitar solos. Worth it.)

Today, I took my devotion to the next level. Deep beneath the streets of Pyongyang, in a secret tattoo studio lit only by a single flickering bulb, I made history: I got the first KISS tattoo in North Korea. The ink is fresh, the pain was real, and now, every time I look in the mirror, Gene Simmons stares right back at me—his tongue permanently out, just like the gods of rock intended.

I wanted you to know: even in the most unexpected places, the spirit of rock lives on. If KISS ever plays a secret underground concert in Pyongyang, you already have a roadie, a translator, and an illegal tattoo tour guide—all in one.

Forever loud,
Tae-jin

Dear Hung-so,

We had another match today—Red Star Alley vs. The Three Brothers. It ended in a draw, mostly because Min-su kept calling offside, even when the ball was in the neighbor’s cabbage patch.

We finally finished our "team photo" on the wall. Ji-hoon’s Messi looks more like a dancing scarecrow, and my Ronaldo somehow ended up with three knees, but they are with us now. Watching. Playing. Dreaming, just like we do.

One day, we’ll see a real match. In a real stadium. Maybe even be on the wall ourselves. But for now, we have each other, a half-flat ball, and the greatest team in Pyongyang.

Write soon—tell us if they still play under floodlights where you are.

Yours,
Dae-jun

Dear Byung-nam,

I think last Saturday’s wind was working for the Ministry of Communications. I could barely hear a word you said between the static and the screeching—though I did catch something about mother’s pickled radish recipe. (Or was it her pickled radish revenge? Hard to tell.)

Either way, let’s switch lines next week. The one near the grain silo should be quieter—fewer loose cables and no nesting crows. Same time, same climb.

I hope your boots have better grip than mine. I nearly became a state-sanctioned meteor last week.

Write back if you get this. But keep it vague. The postman’s eyes are sharper than the crows’.

Your brother in balance,
Jong-chul

Dear Mr. Torvalds,

I write to you from the depths of Pyongyang’s Super Computing Center, where our nation’s finest machines hum tirelessly in pursuit of progress. You may not have heard much about our graphics hardware—it is not exactly famous—but I assure you, it exists. And I, with boundless optimism and limited resources, have written drivers for it.

They are... functional. Mostly.

I am aware that the likelihood of them making it into the next Linux kernel is approximately equal to me being granted a tourist visa to Finland. But hope is a beautiful thing, and I believe in the spirit of open-source collaboration! Surely, there must be a place for the proud yet obscure creators of North Korean display adapters.

I have attached the driver code (compressed as .tar.gz, naturally). I cannot guarantee stability, but I can guarantee that it tries very hard. If, by some miracle, you find it in your heart to include it—or at least acknowledge its existence—it would mean the world to me. If not, I shall still continue my work, knowing that somewhere, in the vast halls of Linux development, my plea has been read.

With the greatest respect and a glimmer of hope,

Tae-sung
Senior Operator, Pyongyang Super Computing Center

Dear Myung-ho,

I am sitting here, writing this letter with trembling hands, knowing that in just a few days, I will step inside that rocket and leave the Earth behind. The sky that has always felt endless to us will become something I pass through, and the stars—those tiny, faraway lights—will become my new home, if only for a while.

I should be excited. I am excited. But, Myung-ho, I am also afraid.

We both know what it took to build this mission. The long nights, the calculations, the endless adjustments, the failures we had to keep quiet. We know the things that almost went wrong, the parts we had to fix at the last moment. And yet, we press forward. Because that is who we are—we build, we push beyond, we do what others have only dreamed of.

But now, as I stare at the stars through my small window, I feel their vastness swallowing me whole. I wonder, what does it mean to leave the place where we were born? To drift into the unknown, knowing there is no way back if something fails? What if I never see your face again? The thought tightens around my chest like a cold fist, and I find myself wiping away tears I didn’t expect to fall.

And yet, Myung-ho, there is something deeper than my fear. It is us. It is the love we have shared from the moment we first met among the blueprints and fuel lines, our hands covered in grease, dreaming together of reaching the stars. It is the way your voice steadies me when my hands shake, the way you always remind me that we were meant to do this.

I carry that love with me into the darkness of space. It will be my anchor, my guiding star when the Earth becomes just a small blue dot beneath me. No matter what happens, know that you are with me. Always.

If I return, I want to sit with you beneath the night sky, hand in hand, and finally breathe without the weight of duty pressing on my chest. And if I don’t—know that I left this world thinking only of you, of us, and of the dream we built together.

With all my love,Eun-ha

Dear Jae-kyu,

We learned about rockets today in school! REAL ones! Like the ones that fly all the way into space! The teacher drew this huge picture on the board with arrows and numbers and something about "air" and "thrust" and I think "dynamics"? I dunno, it was a lot of words.

The other kids nodded like they understood, but I think they were just pretending. Because honestly? I had no idea what was going on. I was just sitting there thinking, I can’t even tie my shoes properly, and now I’m supposed to know how to build a rocket?

But I DID draw my own rocket! Mine had bird wings so it could go faster. The teacher didn’t like it, but I think it’s genius. Maybe one day, I’ll build a real one, and he’ll see that I was right!

Wanna meet this weekend? I’ll tell you everything I think I learned (which is not much), and we can try to make our own rocket! How hard can it be?

Your future rocket scientist friend,
Jun-hyuk

Dear Hwan-hee,

Today was a rare and wonderful day in Pyongyang—it snowed enough for sledding! You know how unusual that is here, so when the hills were finally covered in white, we grabbed whatever we could—sleds, old boards, even a piece of cardboard—and ran outside.

The kids had the time of their lives! They raced down the little hill, laughing so hard I thought they’d roll off their sleds. Every time they reached the bottom, they ran back up, eager for another ride. And, honestly? We parents had just as much fun watching them as they did sliding.

For a few hours, there were no worries—just pure joy, cold noses, and rosy cheeks. It felt like one of those perfect days that you wish could last forever. I wish you had been here to see it! Maybe next time, we’ll have enough snow again, and you can join us. Bring your best sled—or at least a sturdy piece of wood!

Sending warm hugs from a cold and happy Pyongyang,

Your sister, Min-ji

Dear Esteemed Ministry of Defense,

We, your loyal and dedicated soldiers, humbly request urgent logistical support. Not for ammunition, not for rations, but for something far more critical to the well-being of our unit: toilet paper.

Now, we understand that true warriors must adapt to their environment. We tried. But, unfortunately, nature in these mountains is particularly hostile to certain… delicate operations. There are only needle trees, which, as you may imagine, do not offer the comfort one hopes for in such situations. As for the grass—let’s just say it has all the charm of a razor factory.

Our morale is strong. Our dedication is unwavering. But our backsides? They are under siege.

We therefore submit this official plea for mercy. A small supply drop, a humanitarian airdrop, even a single dignity-saving roll—anything would be appreciated. We promise to fight harder, march further, and never take soft paper for granted again.

With deepest respect (and slight desperation),

Your most loyal, but increasingly uncomfortable, soldiers,
Private Tae-won & Private Ji-ho

Dear Kyung-ho,

Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. Your team from Hamhung somehow managed to steal the championship from Pyongyang. I mean, sure, they played well, and yes, that last goal was impressive, but let’s be honest—it was pure luck. Or maybe the referee just really likes seafood and wanted to keep you guys happy.

The stadium was packed, the atmosphere was electric, and for a brief moment, I thought we had it. But then, that goal in extra time—absolutely heartbreaking. I’m still recovering. Meanwhile, I imagine you’re somewhere celebrating like you just won the World Cup.

Enjoy your moment. Next season, we’re coming back stronger, and you better believe Pyongyang won’t let this happen again. Until then, raise a glass for me—just don’t get too used to winning!

Your bitter but (almost) happy friend,
Jin-su

Dear Uncle Boris,

I finally experienced my first drive-in movie theater! Well… almost. Instead of cars, we have bicycles. That’s right—rows of bikes neatly parked beside our chairs, as if our glorious movie experience depended on good pedal alignment.

Tonight’s movie was a North Korean version of Gone with the Wind. The original is banned, obviously, but I think we got the plot right—except, in this one, the brave heroine stays behind to work in agriculture instead of running off to chase some rich capitalist. Also, there was a lot of dramatic speeches about self-reliance. I think the original had more kissing? Hard to say.

Now, let’s talk about the real challenge—watching a three-hour movie outside in winter! Halfway through, my toes lost feeling. By the final act, I was using my bike as a makeshift blanket. Some guy near me even tried pedaling in place to stay warm—innovative, but his chair fell over.

All in all, it was a great night! Cold, slightly uncomfortable, historically reimagined, but great. If I ever visit you, will you take me to a real drive-in? One with cars, heaters, and less bicycles?

Your freezing but dedicated nephew,
Joon-ho

Dear Local Department of Snowman Administration,

I am writing to report a most impressive achievement in the field of temporary winter sculpture. Yesterday, after many hours of dedicated effort, my friend and I built what might be the most majestic snowman this city has ever seen. Tall, grand, and—dare I say—leaderly in presence. A true masterpiece of frozen engineering.

Now, I understand that regulations on snowmen might be a little loose, but I figured it best to notify you in case our creation causes any… confusion. You see, the likeness is striking. The posture, the noble expression, the way the scarf wraps so naturally around its strong, sculpted form—purely coincidental, of course! But I do worry that we may have unintentionally created a new point of national admiration.

Please advise: Are there formal snowman size restrictions? Should we register this work with the appropriate winter authorities? And, most importantly, do you think we qualify for any awards in the field of patriotic seasonal artistry?

Awaiting your wise counsel,
A humble citizen and enthusiastic sculptor

Dear George,

You will not believe what we caught today! A great white shark! Yes, you read that right. We went out early this morning, hoping for a good haul, and somehow, this beast found its way into our net. It took both of us what felt like a lifetime to pull it onto the boat, but we did it. You should have seen us—two fishermen versus a shark, an absolute battle of legends!

Now, of course, we have no idea what to do with it. Selling it might be tricky, and neither of us have ever cooked shark before. Do you have any tips? Or do we just tell people it was a heroic sea monster fight and hang its jaws on the wall as a trophy?

How’s the fishing down in South Africa? I bet you catch things like this all the time, but for us, this is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of day. If you were here, I’m sure you’d know exactly what to do!

Write back soon. And if you have any good shark recipes, send them my way.

Your friend,
Jong-su

Dear Ji-hye,

Today, I became a bride! Well… not really. But for a few hours, I got to feel like one.

You see, in Pyongyang, not everyone can afford a real wedding. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have wedding photos! A friend of mine works at a studio, and she let me borrow a dress for the afternoon. I posed in a beautiful park, smiling like I was about to marry the love of my life—except, of course, there was no groom, just a photographer telling me to look “happily in love.”

It was funny and a little strange, but I have to admit, the photos look incredible! Maybe one day, I’ll have a real wedding with an actual husband, a real ring, and maybe even a cake. Until then, these pictures will have to do.

Do you have wedding photos in your country if there’s no wedding? Or is this just our little tradition?

Sending love from Pyongyang,
Tae-hee

Dear Aunt Sun-hee,

Tonight’s dinner was special—candlelit, intimate, and completely unplanned. The power went out again, so we ate in the dark, laughing about how our home now has “romantic ambiance.”

I must say, there’s a certain thrill to eating mystery stew when you can’t see what’s in your bowl. Was that potato? Was it fish? No one knows. But we chewed bravely, trusting our taste buds to decode the puzzle. Even father, who normally grumbles about these blackouts, joined in the laughter when mother accidentally salted her tea instead of her rice.

After dinner, we sat together and told stories, the way people must have done in ancient times. My little brother suggested we play a game called "Guess When the Lights Will Come Back." Spoiler: we all lost.

One day, dear Aunt, we will have a dinner where we can see our food. Until then, we will continue to dine by candlelight and pretend it’s by choice.

Love,
Jin-ju

Dear Foreign Printinghouse,

Greetings from Pyongyang! I am a librarian here, and I must ask—do books really exist that are not about agriculture, leadership, or coal production? I have heard rumors of something called "fiction" and even "mystery novels." Are these real? Do people actually read stories about other places and lives?

Our shelves are filled with the same books, year after year. Titles like Glorious Harvest Strategies and The Supreme Guide to Cement Production are in high demand (not by choice, I assure you). I once found a book about birds, and for a brief moment, I thought I had discovered a novel. But alas, it was just a guide on how to spot birds that are productive for the ecosystem. Not quite the gripping storytelling I had hoped for.

If books about faraway lands and people who aren’t engineers or coal miners truly exist, and if by some miracle you can send me one, I would be forever grateful. I promise to treasure it like a rare diamond and only share it in hushed whispers behind the bookshelves.

Curiously yours,
Ji-hye

Dear Mi-yeon,

We spent the most wonderful day at the sea today! The sun was shining, the waves were gentle, and the kids had the time of their lives running in and out of the water. My friend So-yeon and I packed a big picnic, and we all sat on a blanket, laughing, eating, and enjoying the fresh sea breeze with Ho and the kids.

It reminded me of the times we used to spend by the water when we were kids. I wish you could have been here with us. Maybe one day, we can plan a visit and do this together again!

Sending you sunshine and salty air,
Eun-seo

Dear Lucas,

You won’t believe what I saw today! A real hip-hop breakdancer, right here in Pyongyang! He was in front of a huge crowd, spinning, flipping, and moving like I’ve never seen before. And his clothes—so cool! I didn’t even know we had anyone like this here.

Everyone was cheering, and I felt like I was watching something straight out of a music video. I wonder if breakdancing is this big in Brazil? Do you see people dancing like this all the time?

Maybe one day I’ll learn a few moves myself. For now, I’ll just stick to watching and trying not to trip over my own feet.

Write back soon—I miss hearing about your adventures!

Your friend,
Jin-ho

Dear National Ministry of Beverages,

I recently came across something that has left me both amazed and deeply confused—a can of Coca-Cola with North Korean writing on it. Now, I must ask: Have we started collaborating with the enemy? Is this a bold new strategy to show the world our economic strength, or did someone just get a little too creative in the beverage department?

I always believed we were self-sufficient, but seeing this can has made me question everything. Does this mean there’s a secret soda diplomacy happening that we common citizens don’t know about? Or has someone in the ministry developed a taste for capitalist fizz?

I would love an official response, purely for my peace of mind (and to know whether I should stock up before they disappear mysteriously). Looking forward to your answer!

Sincerely,
A very thirsty and very curious citizen

Dear Marvel Studios,

Greetings from Pyongyang! My name is Kang-dae, and I am writing to you on behalf of the greatest superhero squad North Korea has ever seen (and probably the only one). We are a team of eight heroes, dressed in true North Korean fashion, ready to protect our country from all kinds of villains—including malfunctioning train schedules and bad karaoke singers.

I wanted to ask—have you ever considered expanding the Marvel Universe to North Korea? We have everything a great superhero movie needs: towering monuments for dramatic fight scenes, an audience hungry for action, and, of course, me—an excellent choice for the squad leader role. I’m willing to do my own stunts, and I already have a heroic pose perfected!

Our team may not have superpowers (yet), but we have spirit, matching outfits, and the ability to strike dramatic poses at any moment. If you’re interested, we’re ready to bring North Korean heroism to the big screen. Let me know where to send my audition tape!

With heroic regards,
Kang-dae

Dear Anna Wintour,

Greetings from Pyongyang! My name is Mi-kyung, and I am a fashion designer—but a secret one. My passion is transforming North Korean uniforms into something stylish, using new fabrics and modern cuts. In a place where fashion is often uniform, I try to bring creativity and beauty to the clothes we wear every day.

I am writing to you because I admire your vision, and I have a dream—to bring my creations to the world. But I don’t know where to start. How does one introduce a fashion line when their runway is hidden? How do I connect with people who might appreciate this kind of reinvention?

I would be honored if you could share any advice. And who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll see a reimagined North Korean uniform on the cover of Vogue.

With admiration,
Mi-kyung

Dear Ministry of Transportation,

I am writing to you from yet another overcrowded train station in Pyongyang, where the sun is shining, and thousands of us are standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting for a train that may or may not arrive on time (if at all). I have lost count of how many times I’ve been late to work because of this chaos, and I can’t even remember what it feels like to get home without waiting for hours.

Every morning, I wake up full of hope. Maybe today will be the day! Maybe the train will run on time, and I’ll actually have space to breathe. But then I arrive at the station, and reality hits: a sea of frustrated people, all of us squeezed into a space that seems to shrink by the minute, as the train remains nowhere in sight.

I understand that things take time, that resources are limited, and that we must be patient. But tell me, how is it that every single day is the same? Have the train schedules become a piece of fiction? Should I start bringing a camping chair to the station? Or maybe apply for a job closer to home, where the only delay is waiting for my morning tea to cool?

I ask you, dear officials, with the utmost respect: Is there a plan to fix this? Or should I start developing superhuman patience?

Sincerely,
A very late and very frustrated citizen

Dear Mom,

Today was such a perfect day! The sun was shining, and my little one and I spent the morning gardening together on our tiny balcony. It’s not much space, but we’ve made it our own little green paradise, filled with flowers and vegetables. She was so excited to help, carefully planting seeds and watering them like a true gardener.

Watching her smile as she patted the soil and checked on our little plants made my heart so full. It reminded me of when I was a child, helping you in your big garden back home. I finally understand the joy you felt, seeing something grow from your own hands.

I hope you are doing well and that your garden is full of life this season. I miss you, and I can’t wait to visit soon so my little one can learn from the best gardener I know—you!

With love,
Yoon-ah

Dear Hye-jin,

Well, it happened again! The van broke down on the way to the live event. Smoke, weird noises, the whole dramatic scene. But don’t worry—we were fully prepared. Not with tools, of course, but with beer!

My boss and I are currently standing beside our poor, overheated van, bottles in hand, waiting for the engine to decide if it wants to cooperate. We figured, if we’re going to be stranded on the side of the road, we might as well make the best of it. Honestly, we have so much fun working together that even this feels like part of the adventure.

The event will have to wait, and I guess so will the audience. But hey, every job needs a little excitement, right? Hope you’re doing well—next time, I’ll save you a beer for roadside emergencies!

Love,
Ji-soo

Dear Min-seok,

I think I’ve found the best-kept secret in the city. Just around the corner from my place, hidden between two dull buildings, there’s a tiny bar with barely enough room for more than a few guests. I stumbled upon it by accident, and I swear, it’s like stepping into another world.

The bartender—an older guy with a knowing smile—poured me a drink and, after some small talk, revealed their best feature: secretly imported liquor from the South. That’s right, Min-seok, I had a taste of something that never should have made it across the border! It was smooth, rich, and tasted like rebellion in a glass.

I wish you were here to share a drink with me, but for now, I’ll raise a glass in your honor. If you ever find yourself in this part of town, let me know—I’ll take you to this little hidden paradise. But keep this between us, alright? Some secrets are best kept over a quiet drink.

Cheers,
Joon-ho

Dear Mom,

We’re on the train, and I have to tell you about Grandpa! He brought his guitar, and now he’s playing and singing for everyone. It’s like a little concert on wheels! People are clapping, smiling, and even singing along. I’ve never seen so many happy faces in one place.

Grandpa is the best. I feel so lucky to be on vacation with him. He always knows how to make people laugh and enjoy the moment. Watching him play makes me so proud—he’s not just my grandpa, he’s a rock star!

I can’t wait to tell you all about our trip when we get back. I hope you’re doing well. Give Dad a hug for me!

Love,
Soo-mi

Here is his song

"Golden Fields of Home"

Oh, the golden fields so wide,
Stretching far on every side.
Under sun and sky so bright,
Rice grows strong from morning light.

Work together, hearts so true,
Hands in soil, the sky so blue.
Through the seasons, near and far,
Rice will shine like golden stars.

Raindrops dance on leaves so green,
Flowing streams keep paddies clean.
With each harvest, joy we share,
For our land beyond compare.

Work together, hearts so true,
Hands in soil, the sky so blue.
Through the seasons, near and far,
Rice will shine like golden stars.

With our strength and love so deep,
For our land, the crops we keep.
From these fields our future grows,
Like the wind, our spirit flows.

Dear Jin-ho,

You won’t believe it—I finally got them.
A real pair. Brand new. Still in the box, still smelling like possibility.

North Korea’s first real sneakers.
Made here, designed here, and now… on my feet.

They’re light. Soft. Almost too soft. When I walk, it feels like the ground forgives me.
No more stiff soles or blistered heels. Just movement. And maybe a little pride.

I took the long way home, just to feel them hit the pavement.
Three people noticed. One of them asked where I got them. I told him, “They found me.”

Have you seen anyone with them in your town yet?
They say this is just the beginning—that soon we’ll have more models, more styles, more steps forward.

But honestly? I’m just glad they fit.
I’m glad they’re mine.
And I’m glad I can walk to school without thinking about every single step.

Write me back.
Tell me what’s on your feet these days.

Your friend,
Tae-jun

Dear Steven Spielberg,

Greetings from Pyongyang! My name is Kang-ho, and I am a North Korean film director with an ambitious dream: to create a North Korean version of Jurassic Park. As luck would have it, we have the perfect setting—a dinosaur theme park! The attached pictures will show you our magnificent, slightly… let’s say "retro" dinos and the bustling crowds enjoying the experience. Sure, some of the attractions are a bit, um, weathered, but I believe it adds to the charm.

I wanted to seek your advice on this project. First, what do you think we would need to bring these prehistoric creatures to life on screen? I’m guessing it’s more than papier-mâché and enthusiastic extras (although we have plenty of both). Second, would it be alright if we, let’s say, "borrowed" a few scenes from your original masterpiece? I promise we’d make it uniquely North Korean—imagine a T-Rex stomping through rice paddies or velociraptors chasing down a runaway tractor. It’s cinematic gold, don’t you think?

I’d be honored to hear your thoughts and guidance. Who knows? Maybe one day you could visit and see our version for yourself. Until then, I’ll keep dreaming big (and trying to keep the dinos from looking too much like oversized lizards). Thank you for your time and inspiration!

Warm regards,
Kang-ho

Dear Western World,

Greetings from my humble atelier in Pyongyang. My name is Hwan, and I am a painter. As I write this, I am putting the finishing touches on a portrait of our great leader. You can see me in the attached photo, wearing my favorite hat (yes, it has a crown—one must always paint in style) and accompanied by a lovely white pigeon who often visits me. It’s quite the scene, isn’t it?

As I paint, I find myself pondering your world of elections and term limits. It must be such a novel experience, to have the chance to choose your leaders and, more importantly, to know they won’t hold their positions forever. Here, of course, our leaders are "elected" for a lifetime, a concept that makes elections feel more like ceremonies than choices. I must admit, the idea of a real vote, where outcomes aren’t predetermined, is fascinating.

While I paint this portrait, I think about the freedom you have to express yourselves, to critique your leaders, and to see change when you demand it. Treasure that. It’s a gift as rare and beautiful as the pigeon perched here beside me.

Perhaps one day, I’ll paint a portrait of a leader chosen by the people—what an inspiring subject that would be. Until then, I’ll keep adding my brushstrokes and dreaming of a world where art and freedom flourish side by side.

Yours in creativity and contemplation,
Hwan

Dear David Chipperfield,

Greetings from Pyongyang! I hope this postcard finds you well. I wanted to share a little story from my latest project—a magnificent indoor swimming hall that looks like something out of a modernist dream. At least, it does at first glance.

The pool was just filled, but only two-thirds of the way, because, as luck would have it, the water pipes couldn’t handle the pressure. It’s a classic case of North Korean building charm: gleaming exteriors hiding technology that might as well belong in a museum. We joke that our "state-of-the-art" buildings are more "art" than "state."

How are things in Great Britain? Do your projects at Norman Foster’s bureau face such amusing challenges, or is it all smooth sailing with your high-tech tools and expertise? I’d love to hear about your experiences—it might even make me feel better about our daily struggles with outdated materials and ever-creative workarounds.

Take care, and I hope to hear from you soon. Perhaps one day, we can share a laugh over these stories in person.

Best regards,
Ji-hoon

Dear Eun-hee,

Hello from the city! I hope this letter finds you well. I have some exciting news to share—our neighborhood now has a laundromat! It’s such a relief because, as you know, we don’t have a washing machine at home. Now, I can bring all the clothes here and get them cleaned so much faster.

The laundromat is always bustling with people. Everyone is chatting, laughing, and sharing stories while the machines do their work. It’s almost like a little community gathering spot! I feel so lucky to have this convenience, especially after all those years of washing everything by hand.

How are things in the countryside? Do you have a place like this nearby, or are you still washing clothes the old-fashioned way? I miss you and hope we can see each other soon. Write back and let me know how you are doing.

With love,
Hye-sook

Dear So-yeon,

Warm greetings from Pyongyang!

Today is one of those rare and beautiful days—clear blue skies, soft sunshine, and the kind of light that makes even the buildings seem to smile. We’re celebrating the New Year, and the whole city feels full of music and movement.

You would have loved the parade this morning. My daughter marched with her classmates, waving a flag nearly as big as herself. I can still see her face—so proud, so focused, yet beaming. My husband and I stood close together as she passed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so full of pride and joy at the same time.

Everything was so alive: the drums, the paper flowers, the bursts of color moving through the wide streets. Even the older people clapped along, their faces soft with memory.

I wonder—do you have celebrations like this in your town? I imagine yours quieter, maybe more snow-covered. I’d love to know how the year began for you.

Write when you can. It always feels like a visit when your letters arrive.

With love,
Mi-ran

Dear Etsy Team,

Hello from Pyongyang! My name is Mi-sook, and I am writing to you with a big smile on my face. You see, I’ve recently started sewing teddy bears, and they are a hit in my little corner of the world. My latest creation is a bear with a red star on its belly—super cute, if I may say so myself! I’m so proud of the result, and I think these bears could bring joy to people far beyond North Korea.

I’ve heard that Etsy is the perfect place for handmade treasures, so I’d love to know how I can list my bears in your shop. Are there any special steps I need to follow to set up an account? Also, since I’m based in North Korea, I’m curious about how shipping works. Is it possible to send my bears to happy customers around the world? If there are any tips or challenges I should know about, I’d appreciate your advice.

Thank you so much for creating a platform where artists and crafters like me can share our work. I’m excited to hear from you and hopefully introduce my teddy bears to the Etsy community soon.

With warm regards and a heart full of stitches,
Mi-sook

Dear Gerda,

Greetings from my little corner of North Korea! I wanted to share this photo I took of the mountains and forests surrounding my home village. Isn't it beautiful? The green forest, the rice fields and the little village nestled in the valley - this is where I grew up and I couldn't be more proud of my heritage.

As a landscape photographer, I feel so lucky to live in a place where nature is so breathtaking. Every time I look out over these mountains I find something new to appreciate. The way the sunlight hits the rice fields in the morning, or the way the mist clings to the peaks after a rainstorm - it's like a new painting every day.

I'd love to hear about the landscapes in Germany. What's your favourite place to photograph? Do you have a place that feels like home to you, like these mountains do to me? I'd love to exchange photos and see the beauty of your world too.

Write back soon - I can't wait to hear about your adventures!

Warm regards,
Eun-hee

Dear Lea ,

Greetings from Pyongyang! My name is Joon-ho, and I’m writing to you as a fellow car enthusiast. I heard about your Audi A4 with the 6-cylinder engine, and I couldn’t resist reaching out. That car sounds like a dream to me—meanwhile, I’m over here trying to make a Lada look like an Audi. Trust me, it’s as crazy as it sounds.

So, here’s the deal: I got my hands on this ancient Russian Lada, and I’m modifying it to resemble an Audi 80 from the 70s. It’s, uh, let’s say "a work in progress." The bodywork still screams "Lada" if you squint too hard, and the engine sounds like it’s coughing up a lung every time I start it. But you know what? It makes me happy. My friends and I have spent hours repainting it and adding little details to give it that iconic Audi vibe—though it’s probably a crime to even mention your A4 in the same breath.

I’d love to hear about your A4! Are you making any mods, or does it just purr along effortlessly like the refined machine it is? I bet it’s a dream to drive compared to my glorified lawnmower on wheels. Still, maybe one day we could park them side by side—your A4 looking sleek and polished, and my Lada… well, doing its best.

Write back if you can! I’d love to hear your stories and get some tips from a real Audi enthusiast.

Best wishes,
Joon-ho

Dear Uncle Juh-ho,

Greetings from the southern edge of the country! I hope this letter finds you well up near the Chinese border. You won’t believe what I stumbled upon during my patrol the other day—it’s the Samsung North Korea headquarters! Yes, you read that right. And before you imagine some grand, shiny building full of gadgets, let me set the scene: it’s a tiny, rotted booth with a hand-painted "Samsung" sign nailed on top. I think even the booth looked embarrassed to be there.

There I was, standing in full uniform, staring at this booth, wondering if the universe was playing a joke on me. Could this really be where all our cutting-edge technology is coming from? Is this where our glorious leaders get their new smartphones? I half-expected someone to step out and offer me a Galaxy S from 2011.

The funniest part? I could swear there was a goat tied up behind the booth. Perhaps it’s their "head of security." I didn’t dare ask.

Anyway, I thought of you immediately. If you ever get tired of the quiet up north, maybe you could apply here for a job. I’m sure they’re hiring "top talent." Just don’t forget to bring your own hammer and nails—the booth might need some structural reinforcement.

Take care, and let me know if you’ve found anything as ridiculous on your side of the country. I miss our chats over rice wine.

Your nephew,
Min-soo

Dear VfB Stuttgart,

Greetings from Pyongyang!

My name is Tae-hyun, and I have something important to confess:
I might be the only proud VfB supporter in all of North Korea.
One lone fan. Red-and-white scarf raised high in a sea of indifference.

You should see the looks I get wearing my VfB cap around town—embroidered, bold, unashamed.
There are three other Bundesliga fans here… but they support Bayern.
Yes—Bayern. The trophy-counting, chant-singing, glory-bragging Bayern.

They celebrate like they scored the goals themselves.
And the "Mia san Mia"? I hear it in my nightmares.
I try to keep things civil, but let’s be honest—our debates usually end in a passionate "VfB ist besser!" (They disagree.)

I just wanted you to know:
Even here, far from Stuttgart, you’ve got a loyal fan cheering with all his heart.
Every win feels personal. Every loss, shared.
And if merch were to make it across the border... well, I’d wear it with pride.
Might even convert a Bayern fan. (No promises.)

Best of luck for the rest of the season—
From Pyongyang with stripes, stubbornness, and VfB pride,

Tae-hyun

Dear Eddy,

Greetings from Pyongyang!

My name’s Ji-eun, and I’ve got a story so strange, it practically requires a beer to go with it. (I hear that’s your morning ritual?)

So here’s the deal: I’m a bride. Not your typical cake-cutting, veil-fluttering kind.
No—I may be the first bride in history to photograph her own wedding.

The attached photo proves it: me in full bridal glory, armed with my battered 6x6 medium format camera.
Think Hasselblad 500c, but with more history and a bit less structural integrity.

It’s been loyal—but let’s be honest, it weighs as much as a small child and isn’t exactly quick on the draw.
So this is where you come in, oh mighty Fuji whisperer.

A friend (devout Facebook believer, possible spy) told me you’re the go-to guy for cameras.
I need your wisdom: Which older Fuji digital compact is worth chasing down? Something with soul, poppy colors, and a little less hernia potential?

If you ever find yourself in Pyongyang (stranger things have happened), the first round’s on me.

Thanks in advance—seriously.

Cheers, with frothy affection,
Ji-eun

Dear Hye-sun,

Hello, sister! I wanted to share this photo of Mother cooking fried rice at her street food booth. Isn’t it amazing? She still makes the best meals for workers coming home from long shifts. They love her fried rice—it’s cheap, filling, and so delicious! It’s incredible how much happiness she brings with just a wok and an open flame.

I wish you could taste it again. Here’s her recipe, so you can try it in Japan:

Mother’s North Korean Fried Rice

Ingredients:

2 cups cooked rice (preferably cold)

2 tablespoons soybean oil

1 small onion, diced

1 carrot, finely chopped

A handful of chives or spring onions, chopped

2 eggs, beaten

2 tablespoons soy sauce

A pinch of salt

A handful of dried kelp flakes (special ingredient from North Korea)

Instructions:

Heat the soybean oil in a wok over high heat. Add the onion and carrot, stir-frying until soft.

Push the vegetables to one side and pour the beaten eggs into the other. Scramble them lightly until just cooked.

Add the cooked rice, breaking up any clumps with your spatula. Mix everything together.

Stir in the soy sauce and salt. Toss until the rice is evenly coated and heated through.

Sprinkle the chives or spring onions and dried kelp flakes on top. Stir for another minute.

Serve hot and enjoy!

I wish you were here to share it with us. Mother misses you so much, and so do I. Please write back soon—I’d love to hear how you’re doing in Japan.

With love,
Yoon-hee

Dear Eun-mi,

Hi from Pyongyang!

Today was so much fun—I had to tell you.
A bunch of us kids were handed brushes and cans of pink paint… and we got to paint an old tank!
Can you imagine?

We laughed, we splashed, we got it everywhere.
By the time we were done, the whole thing was pink. Bright, ridiculous pink.

Even the soldiers couldn’t stop laughing.
They said it was the funniest thing they’d seen all week.

I wish you’d been here.
We could’ve painted flowers, or stars, or something just for us.

What are you up to in Chongjin?
Write soon—I miss you.

Your cousin,
Hana

Dear Miss Krystyna Pyszko,

My name is Hye-jin, and I’ve just been crowned Miss North Korea.
It’s a dream I’ve held quietly in my heart—and today, it came true.

I wanted to write to you—the most beautiful Miss World.
You’ve long been an inspiration to me: graceful, kind, and strong.
Our national competition was incredibly tough, but I gave it everything.
And now, I carry not just a title, but a responsibility.

I hope one day I can meet you.
To learn from your elegance. To understand how you carry the weight of so many eyes with such warmth.

If you ever have advice for a young woman like me, trying to represent her country with pride and dignity—I would treasure it.

With admiration,
Hye-jin

Dear Rob,

Greetings from Pyongyang!

The team and I are doing our best—but the equipment here is, well… ancient.
Remember those beers in Sydney, talking about all the fancy gear you get to work with?
Can’t lie—I’m a little envious.

If there’s even the smallest chance you could help out—spare parts, advice, anything—it would mean the world.
These embargoes aren’t exactly making things easy, but we patch things together and keep going.

Would be great to catch up someday—maybe over another round, like back then.

Take care, mate.
Best,
Sung-ho

Dear In-bum,

I already miss you so much. Here is a photo from when we were playing chess. I can’t stop thinking about the way you smiled when you made that last move—even though you knew I would win!

Now that you’ve left for the mine, the house feels so quiet. Six months feels like forever, but I will count the days until I see you again. I love you more than words can say, and I’ll be waiting for you, always.

Stay safe and take care of yourself.
Yours forever,
Eun-ji

Dear Ji-hoon,

You’ll never guess what we accomplished today.

I’ve attached a photo—took it in secret, so please don’t show anyone, okay?
This is the rocket motor we’ve been working on.
Today, we made a real breakthrough.
This engine... it might just become the heart of our moon rocket.

Can you believe it?
From here—from us—a rocket to the moon.

Everyone’s buzzing with excitement, but I keep thinking how much better it would be if you were here.
Your ideas always had a way of making the impossible feel within reach.

How’s your lab in the north?
Any breakthroughs of your own?
Write soon—I miss that spark in your letters.

Stay safe, my friend.

Yours,
Myung-ho

Dear National Olympic Committee of North Korea,

Greetings from Pyongyang! My name is Soo-jin, and I have the honor of writing on behalf of our amazing North Korean Figure Skating Team. Attached is a photo of us in front of one of Pyongyang’s most magnificent monuments—don’t we look like a group ready to conquer the ice (and maybe have a little too much fun while doing it)?

We are officially applying for the chance to represent our country at the next Winter Olympic Games. Our team may be small, but what we lack in numbers, we make up for in spirit, determination, and impeccable taste in synchronized skating outfits. We’ve been working tirelessly to perfect our routines, and we promise to bring grace, grit, and a little bit of Pyongyang flair to the global stage.

We understand that competition will be tough, but we’re ready to give it our all—triple axels, creative spins, and maybe a few moments where we manage not to fall on our faces (it’s a work in progress). Plus, who can resist the charm of a team that knows how to laugh together as much as we skate together?

Thank you for considering our application. We hope to make you proud and show the world the talent that North Korea has to offer.

With warm regards and blades sharpened,
Soo-jin

Dear Isabel,

Hello from Pyongyang!

Today was the last day of summer—and it was so warm.
Look at the photo: we spent the whole afternoon jumping off the bridge into the river.
It felt like flying.
Laughter everywhere, splashing, racing, trying to catch the very last drops of the season.

Do you swim in rivers like this where you are?
I wish you could come.
We’d jump together, again and again, and race to the shore like it was the end of the world.

What’s your favorite thing to do in summer?
Write me soon—I want to know everything.

Your friend,
Soo-jin

Dear Dong-hyun,

Brother—I hope this card finds its way to you.

Here’s a photo of me and my soldier friends.
Don’t we look happy?
I wanted to show you: not everything here is grey.
We laugh. We tell jokes. Even in these stiff uniforms.

That’s me in the middle—see the big smile?
It’s real. For a second, it was.

I miss you.
I wish I could cross the border and find you again.
But even if I can’t, even if we never meet—
you are still my brother. Always.

One day, maybe, we’ll sit under the same sky
and laugh like we did when we were boys.

Until then—stay strong.
Stay you.

Your brother,
Kim

Dear Sina,

You would have loved it! Last night, I went to a secret underground club. It was dark and so hot, with the air buzzing from the music. There was this amazing all-girl punk band playing—they were so loud and full of energy! They all wore red hotpants, matching tops, and these leather hats with "VV" on them. Everyone in the crowd was dancing like crazy, even though we have to keep these concerts hidden.

Punk music feels like freedom, don’t you think? I wish you could come here and see for yourself. What’s your favorite band right now? Write me back soon—I want to hear about concerts in Germany!

Yours,
Minji

Dear Lucas,

You won’t believe what I saw today. Look at the photo—
a boy here in Pyongyang skateboarding with a board he built himself!
He even jumped with it, right there in the street.
It was wild. Beautiful, actually.

I wish you could see this place.
The colors feel strange but alive, like the sky is always holding its breath.
Everything’s a little off, in the best way—like a dream you forgot you had.

Do kids skate like this in Brazil?
If you’ve learned any tricks, I want to see them. Promise?

Write back soon—
Your friend,
Jin-ho