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India’s ‘Solar Man’ lights path out of poverty with clean power

India’s ‘Solar Man’ lights path out of poverty with clean power
India’s ‘Solar Man’ lights path out of poverty with clean power


Since he was a child, Santipada Gon Chaudhuri had sought ways to help India’s rural poor, so when the electrical engineer was invited to visit a co-worker’s home in the Himalayan village of Herma in the early 1980s, he saw his chance.

“I was appalled to see how local communities were living in darkness after sunset,” remembered Chaudhuri, 71, who then worked for the government in the northeastern state of Tripura.

“Some used kerosene lamps, but even kerosene was not always easy to get. Since I had both the skill and position to try and provide power to them, it made me act,” he said.

The villages of Tripura are located on tough, hilly terrain, where Chaudhuri realized it would be hard to put up power lines.

“But they had solar energy in abundance,” he said in an interview.

In 1983, he used government funding to install solar panels for 70 homes, as well as running a community television and water pump — the first time anyone in the hamlet had seen electric light.

That small project sparked a career dedicated to bringing energy to people in impoverished, remote communities, a mission that earned Chaudhuri the moniker of India’s “Solar Man.”

Today, more than 100 homes and businesses in Herma are lit by an updated solar energy system, allowing villagers to be more productive while reducing their use of expensive, polluting fuels like kerosene.

“Life in the village would come to a complete standstill after sunset. But with light in our homes now, our children are studying until night,” said villager Sumoti Riyang, 33.

“Shops and business establishments remain open in the evening. We can work more. All this is generating more income for us,” she said.

In his Kolkata office, adorned with awards he has won since his first project nearly 40 years ago, Chaudhuri said he gets “great satisfaction” from seeing how solar power has changed lives in Herma, connecting residents to the modern world.

Career of firsts

Herma was the first tribal village in the country to gain access to solar power, and by 1989 Chaudhuri had led the installation of solar technology in nearly 40 villages across India’s northeastern states.

Four years later, he developed India’s first centralized solar power station with a distribution network on Sagar Island in the Sundarbans, home to one of the world’s largest mangrove forests, supplying 100 households through power lines.

The project was considered a breakthrough at a time when solar technology “was largely confined to laboratories and prototypes”, said Samrat Sengupta of the New Delhi-based Centre for Science and Environment (CSE), a nonprofit think tank.

By 2000, more than 400,000 people in villages around the Sundarbans national park were using solar power, through a mix of mini-grids and domestic solar power systems.

At the time, the area had the highest per-capita consumption of solar power in the world, Chaudhuri noted.

The project earned him an Ashden Award, known as the “Green Oscars,” and the Euro Solar Award from Germany.

In 2006, it also inspired India’s then-President A.P.J. Abdul Kalam to invite Chaudhuri to design a captive solar unit for the presidential palace.

“Chaudhuri’s work is a classic example of empowerment of indigenous communities through solar power,” said Arun Tripathi, director general of the National Institute of Solar Energy, an autonomous body under the renewable energy ministry.

In 2009, Chaudhuri installed the country’s first grid-connected solar plant in West Bengal’s Jamuria village, a 2-megawatt (MW) project serving 5,000 families.

This was lauded as an “environmental breakthrough” because, until then, solar power had been limited to remote areas without access to electricity, said CSE’s Sengupta.

Jamuria was the first location to use solar to replace coal power in the grid, bringing clean energy into the mainstream, he said, noting it cut the amount of coal burned locally by 2,000 kilograms per hour and decreased carbon emissions.

Floating solar

Sengupta and others said Chaudhuri’s work helped pave the way for India’s National Solar Mission, launched in 2010.

The initiative, on which Chaudhuri consulted, had an initial target of producing 20 gigawatts of solar power by 2022.

Having already nearly doubled that ahead of time, India has set a new goal of 100 gigawatts.

But as its solar power expansion has gained pace, a growing population and increasing urbanization have made finding enough land for big projects more difficult.

In response, Chaudhuri came up with India’s first floating solar power station.

In 2014, after joining the nonprofit NB Institute for Rural Technology, which he now heads, he led construction of an experimental 10-kilowatt government-funded floating solar panel on a lake in Kolkata’s New Town.

“Designing the floating structure of the panel and anchoring it in the water body were major challenges,” he said.

That project grew into a national program that now generates more than 1,700 megawatts of solar power from floating panels in various coastal states around the country.

Despite its progress, India’s solar push has some limitations including high capital costs, scarcity of land and the need for sunny weather, said Partha S. Bhattacharyya, former chairman of Coal India Limited, the world’s largest coal producer, which is also investing in solar energy projects.

“Thermal (coal) power is reliable and consistent, due to greater grid stability,” he added.

Chaudhuri and his team are currently experimenting with solar-powered pumps that push water up to a higher storage reservoir that can then generate hydro-electricity using micro turbines, supplying villages when needed.

“The very concept of solar power has changed from simply providing lights to controlling carbon emissions,” Chaudhuri said. “It is time that we seriously think about how to leave behind a more livable world for future generations.”

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South Korea takes aim at microchip supremacy

South Korea takes aim at microchip supremacy
South Korea takes aim at microchip supremacy


South Korea aims to be “a semiconductor powerhouse” and is planning to spend US$450 billion through 2030 to achieve global chip dominance.

Samsung and SK Hynix are two of the major beneficiaries of the new bill, but there are 153 companies named in total, ExtremeTech.com reported, citing Bloomberg sources.

These companies are expected to drive the semiconductor industry forward, securing South Korea’s relevance in the global market.

South Korea builds more memory than any other nation on Earth, but not much logic (CPUs, GPUs, other types of microprocessors), the report said.

Taiwan holds the largest share of the logic market by far thanks to TSMC, while companies like Intel and Micron account for large shares of the US’ manufacturing capacity.



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Taiwan tightens curbs after surge in domestic COVID-19 cases

Taiwan tightens curbs after surge in domestic COVID-19 cases
Taiwan tightens curbs after surge in domestic COVID-19 cases


Taiwan raised its coronavirus alert level on Saturday in Taipei and the city around it, bringing curbs for a period of two weeks that will shut many venues and restrict gatherings in the wake of 180 new domestic infections.

The new rules will not mean offices, schools or restaurants have to close, but will cause the shutdown of cinemas and other entertainment spots, while limiting family get-togethers to five people indoors and 10 outdoors.

Taipei’s government has already ordered bars, nightclubs and similar venues to shut.

Since the pandemic began, Taiwan has reported fewer than 1,500 cases out of a population of about 24 million, most of them imported from abroad, but a recent rise in community transmissions has spooked residents.

The island has never gone into a full lockdown and its people are used to life carrying on near normal, despite the pandemic raging in many other parts of the world.

Late on Friday, several universities, including the elite National Taiwan University, said they would immediately switch to remote learning, telling students to stay away from campuses.

“As COVID-19 is still wreaking havoc, please be reminded to wear a mask at all times when you go out, wash hands frequently, and keep appropriate social distancing,” National Taiwan University said in a statement.

The Taipei Fine Arts Museum, outside which people have queued for a hugely popular exhibition by Japanese artist Shiota Chiharu that opened this month, said it would close from Saturday to comply with the city’s prevention rules.

“The re-opening date will be announced according to the epidemic situation and city regulations,” it said.

Taipei’s National Palace Museum, home to one of the world’s best and most extensive collections of Chinese art, said it too would close from Saturday.

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Faith in the magic of capitalism fueled India’s Covid crisis

Faith in the magic of capitalism fueled India’s Covid crisis
Faith in the magic of capitalism fueled India’s Covid crisis


While the incompetence of the Indian government is starkly visible in its handling of the second wave of the Covid-19 crisis, its performance has been far worse on the vaccine front.

The government led by the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) under Prime Minister Narendra Modi, which seems to believe in the ideology of free-market capitalism, thinks that the market will magically produce the number of vaccines the country needs.

This would explain why it has starved seven public-sector vaccine manufacturing units – according to an April 17 article in Down to Earth – of any support instead of ramping up much-needed vaccine production.

The rights to produce the public-sector vaccine Covaxin, which has been developed by the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR) and National Institute of Virology (NIV), in collaboration with Bharat Biotech, have been given to the private-company partner on an exclusive basis.

The government also believed that the Serum Institute of India, another private-sector company and the world’s largest vaccine manufacturer, which has tied up with AstraZeneca to produce Covishield, would make vaccines according to the country’s requirements without any prior orders or capital support.



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China lands on Mars, closing gap with U.S. in space exploration

China lands on Mars, closing gap with U.S. in space exploration
China lands on Mars, closing gap with U.S. in space exploration


China’s probe to Mars touched down on the Red Planet early Saturday to deploy its Zhurong rover, state media reported, a triumph for Beijing’s increasingly bold space ambitions and a history-making feat for a nation on its first-ever Martian mission.

The lander carrying Zhurong completed the treacherous descent through the Martian atmosphere using a parachute to navigate the “seven minutes of terror” as it is known, aiming for a vast northern lava plain known as the Utopia Planitia.

The mission “successfully landed in the pre-selected area,” state broadcaster CCTV said, launching a special TV program dedicated to the mission called “Nihao Mars.”

The official Xinhua News Agency cited the China National Space Administration (CNSA) in confirming the touchdown.

It makes China the first country to carry out an orbiting, landing and roving operation during its first mission to Mars — a feat unmatched by the only other two nations to reach the Red Planet so far, the U.S. and Russia.

China has now sent astronauts into space, powered probes to the moon and landed a rover on Mars, the most prestigious of all prizes in the competition for dominion of space.

Chinese President Xi Jinping issued a message of congratulations to all the people involved in the mission.

“You were brave enough for the challenge, pursued excellence and placed our country in the advanced ranks of planetary exploration,” he said. “Your outstanding achievement will forever be etched in the memories of the motherland and the people.”

The Long March 5 Y-4 rocket, carrying an unmanned Mars probe of the Tianwen-1 mission, takes off from Wenchang Space Launch Center in Wenchang, China, last July. | REUTERS
The Long March 5 Y-4 rocket, carrying an unmanned Mars probe of the Tianwen-1 mission, takes off from Wenchang Space Launch Center in Wenchang, China, last July. | REUTERS

Zhurong, named after a Chinese mythical fire god, arrives a few months behind America’s latest probe to Mars — Perseverance — as the show of technological might between the two superpowers plays out beyond the bounds of Earth.

Six-wheeled, solar-powered and roughly 240 kilograms, the Chinese rover is on a quest to collect and analyze rock samples from Mars’ surface.

The launch of China’s Tianwen-1 Mars probe which carried the rover last July marked a major milestone in China’s space program.

The spacecraft entered Mars’ orbit in February and after a prolonged silence state media announced it had reached the “crucial touchdown stage” on Friday.

The landing was set to be a nail-biter for the CNSA, with state media describing the process of using a parachute, rocket to slow descent and buffer legs as “the most challenging part of the mission.”

It is expected to spend around three months there taking photos and harvesting geographical data.

The complicated landing process is called the “seven minutes of terror” because it happens faster than radio signals can reach Earth from Mars, meaning communications are limited.

Several U.S., Russian and European attempts to land rovers on Mars have failed in the past, most recently in 2016 with the crash-landing of the Schiaparelli joint Russian-European spacecraft.

The latest successful arrival came in February, when U.S. space agency NASA landed its rover Perseverance, which has since been exploring the planet.

The U.S. rover launched a small robotic helicopter on Mars which was the first ever powered flight on another planet.

The country has come a long way in its race to catch up with the United States and Russia, whose astronauts and cosmonauts have decades of experience in space exploration.

China successfully launched the first module of its new space station last month with hopes of having it crewed by 2022 and eventually sending humans to the Moon.

Last week a segment of the Chinese Long March 5B rocket disintegrated over the Indian Ocean in an uncontrolled landing back to Earth.

That drew criticism from the United States and other nations for a breach of etiquette governing the return of space debris to earth, with officials saying the remnants had the potential to endanger life and property.

In a commentary published on Saturday, Xinhua said China was “not looking to compete for leadership in space” but was committed to “unveiling the secrets of the universe and contributing to humanity’s peaceful use of space.”

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Deep inside China’s Big Tech data caves

Deep inside China’s Big Tech data caves
Deep inside China’s Big Tech data caves


A remote, underdeveloped agrarian province in southwestern China is now a testing ground for Beijing’s new tech and data regulatory regime.

A state-owned entity has transformed paddy fields and karst caves into state-of-the-art data centers where racks of servers are leased to tech giants ranging from Alibaba to Apple. 

The massive amounts of data from Chinese citizens as they chat, browse and shop online are kept and crunched in the mountain reaches in Guizhou.   

The ethnically mixed western province, still among China’s least-developed regions and a big recipient of poverty alleviation funds, ticks all the right boxes to host such data centers, despite lagging behind better-off provinces in internet and smartphone penetration. 

Tech firms looking for secure locations for their vital storage and backup systems say Guizhou’s cool climate, clean air and abundance of hydropower appeal. Guizhou’s combination of natural advantages can help lower operating costs and energy use since storage devices on an industrial scale can use as much electricity as a small city. 



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The digital detectives searching for North Korea’s disappeared

The digital detectives searching for North Korea’s disappeared
The digital detectives searching for North Korea’s disappeared


Lee Han-byeol has a favourite memory of her elder brother.

They were both teenagers in the 1990s, during the famine that devastated North Korea and is estimated to have killed hundreds of thousands of people. Impoverished, tired and hungry, the pair were travelling to pick up rice from relatives. They had been on the road overnight.

Lee’s eyes mist when she recalls how, as they walked through the darkness, Lee Se-il had swung her on to his back. As dawn broke, she clung wearily to his bony shoulders. “He really adored me,” she whispers, clutching a small black-and-white photo of him. By now, the tears are flowing steadily. “I hope I can see his face again.”

Lee, who fled North Korea through China in 1999, is now 38. Speaking in her small office in the northern outskirts of Seoul, South Korea’s capital, she says the last clear sighting of her brother was in 2009, when he was in the custody of the Kim regime after attempting to escape.

China’s security forces had apprehended him in the borderlands and he was transported back to North Korea. The owner of a guesthouse who had briefly harboured him relayed that he was beaten savagely, and that his hands and feet were wrapped in bandages because of acute frostbite.

Lee Han-byeol in a park outside of her home
Lee fled North Korea in 1999; the last sighting of her brother was a decade later © Ashley Crowther

A few years ago Lee attempted to find out more. She made phone calls and sent messages through a network of middlemen in China, and her family still inside North Korea bribed officials for information. The only result was a second-hand glimpse: he was apparently still in a prison camp in North Hamgyong province, near the country’s borders with China and Russia. Since then, no word. If her brother is still alive, he would be in his mid-forties.

As a statistic, Lee Se-il fits into a number of classifications. He is one of thousands of refugees who have escaped from North Korea into China only to be arrested and returned. He is one of hundreds of thousands to be detained in the kwanliso, the Kim regime’s political prison camps. And he is one of an unknown number, possibly millions, who have disappeared inside North Korea and who are feared lost to their families, and to history, for ever.

“There is no way to truly know whether they are alive or not,” Lee says. “I feel so heartbroken.”

Now entering its eighth decade, the “hermit kingdom” of North Korea remains heavily guarded from international observers; even western intelligence agencies struggle to acquire reliable information. Defectors such as Lee Han-byeol, who now spends much of her time working to bring other North Koreans safely to South Korea, are often the best sources, though details are scarce.

But just as North Korea’s disappeared seem on the point of vanishing from memory altogether, technology and the determination of a tireless group of activists are providing something that has evaded the families for years: hope.

In a small, bright office a few hundred metres from the presidential Blue House in Seoul, the Transitional Justice Working Group (TJWG) is building a digital database. The ambition of this group of mostly South Korean academics, lawyers, cyber experts and human rights activists is to create an archive of every single person thought to have been detained, abducted or disappeared in North Korea since the 1950s.

The effort involves bringing together tens of thousands of documents, records, images and more. Working slowly and painstakingly, the group is also compiling and mapping other lists: the secret prisons, the execution sites, the mass graves, the identities of perpetrators. The project has been going for three years now; almost 20,000 files are already online and freely available, with an estimated 100,000 more waiting to be processed. It is named Footprints.

One of the early batches of documents loaded into the system included a UN Human Rights Council report that mentioned Lee Se-il. It noted that he had allegedly been “arrested by members of the national security service” after his repatriation. Lee Han-byeol’s hope is that, as the database expands and is used by others, more and more will be revealed. “Anyone can check the database. Someone might know about my brother’s situation,” she says. “It does give me a glimmer of hope.”


The story of North Korea’s mass disappearances dates back to the country’s beginnings. In early August 1945, Tokyo was on the point of surrendering to Allied forces and the question of what to do with Japan’s colonial empire loomed large. Korea had been occupied by the Japanese since 1910; the Americans’ fear was that, once Japanese forces departed, the Soviets would “occupy the entire peninsula and move quickly toward Japan”, as historian Don Oberdorfer has written.

Working late into the evening on August 10, just a day after the bombing of Nagasaki, two young US army officers, using a National Geographic map, proposed a solution: dividing Korea along the 38th parallel, about halfway down the peninsula. The southern zone would be controlled by Washington, the north by Moscow.

Map showing North and South Korea

For their puppet, the Russians chose a jowly 33-year-old guerrilla fighter who had waged war against the occupying Japanese forces in Manchuria. His name was Kim Song Ju, but he styled himself Kim Il Sung.

It was always Kim’s ambition to take back control of the peninsula. In June 1950, Soviet-built tanks stormed across the border, through Seoul and further south, igniting the Korean war. The surprise attack was almost successful, driving ill-prepared South Korean and US troops to a small enclave. It was only the bravery of South Korean suicide squads and US general Douglas Mac­Arthur’s daring landing in September that forced a North Korean retreat.

During that months-long occupation by the north, about 90,000 South Koreans are estimated to have been abducted, remaining in enemy hands as they moved back towards Pyongyang. While many were taken as slave labour, others were also targeted for specialist skills and experience.

One of those taken was Lee Seong-hwan, a young factory manager and army interpreter with a wife and two young children, who was snatched from the family home in eastern Seoul by North Korean soldiers. His daughter, Lee Mi-il, was just 18 months old when he was kidnapped; now 72, she still lives in the same neighbourhood and has dedicated her life to finding him and others. “My mother talked about my father a lot,” says Lee Mi-il in a thin rasp. “She believed that he was the greatest person in the world.”

Lee Mi-il in her office
Lee Mi-il photographed in her office; she still lives in the same neighbourhood as when her father was taken prisoner during the Korean war © Ashley Crowther

Lee Mi-il’s father, who was abducted when she was 18 months old
Lee Mi-il’s father, who was abducted when she was 18 months old © Ashley Crowther

The conflict became a brutal war of attrition; about three million Koreans on both sides — one in 10 — were killed, injured or went missing. When an armistice was finally signed in July 1953, the two sides were essentially back where they started, on the 38th parallel, with a demilitarised border zone between them. The agreement included provisions for the repatriation of prisoners of war, but 50,000 South Koreans were never released. Over the years, a small fraction of these PoWs and their families have made successful defections, carrying with them stories of slavery, torture and summary executions.

North Korea has remained in the grip of the Kim dynasty ever since. In 1994 Kim Il Sung was succeeded as supreme leader by his son Kim Jong Il, who in turn handed over to his son, Kim Jong Un, who has ruled for the past decade. An obsession with control and an intense fear of foreign influence have been hallmarks of the Kim ideology.

As Jung Pak, a former CIA officer and now a top adviser to US president Joe Biden, notes, Kim Il Sung began indoctrinating the North Korean people as early as 1955 with the doctrine of juche, or self-reliance, and his position as the suryong, sole leader. Pak writes that “the regime’s opaqueness, self-imposed isolation, robust counter-intelligence practices, and culture of fear and paranoia” make even “some of the most mundane pieces of information” difficult to obtain. International observers’ hopes that Kim Il Sung’s Swiss-educated grandson would prove a reformer have so far proved unfounded.

Photos of those missing after the Korean War on the wall of the Korean War Abductees’ Family Union
Photos of some of those missing after the Korean war on display at the Korean Abductees’ Family Union © Ashley Crowther

From the 1960s to the 1980s, hundreds more foreigners, mostly South Korean and Japanese citizens, were seized, often by North Korean agents. Some were abducted for particular skills: to teach foreign languages to North Korean spies, for instance. Among the most notorious cases was the 1969 hijacking of a South Korean passenger plane with 50 people on board; 11 never returned and their fate remains mysterious.

Others were abducted as brides for the few foreign men in the country; local women, raised on a diet of xenophobic propaganda, were repelled by foreigners. Charles Robert Jenkins, an American soldier detained in North Korea for four decades after drunkenly crossing the demilitarised zone in a brazen attempt to desert in 1965, was required to live with a Japanese woman who had herself been snatched while walking with her mother near her home. Women abducted from Thailand and Romania were forced into marriage with detained American soldiers.

There is also a third class of abductees: North Koreans who have disappeared inside the country into a vast system of labour and prison camps, usually sent there for committing crimes against the regime. Although the precise number is unclear, it is likely to be enormous: of more than 33,000 North Koreans who have managed to defect to South Korea since the late 1990s, nearly one in three has an immediate family member who has suffered this fate, according to surveys.

The void left by these disappearances is stark, and families often spend decades attempting to find some form of closure. Son Myung-hwa was born in North Korea in 1962 to a father who had been abducted by North Korean forces as a prisoner of war and spent his life as a forced labourer in a coal mine near Musan by the Chinese border, eventually dying in his fifties.

When Son succeeded in escaping to South Korea in 2005, she spent eight years attempting to get hold of her father’s remains — in the end making a risky trip to China to meet North Korean brokers who had promised to transport them. On July 4 2015, his bones were finally buried in a national cemetery in South Korea. “I had to restore my father’s honour,” she says.

Son Myung-hwa sheds tears as she talks about her father’s case
Son Myung-hwa was born in Korea in 1962 to a father who had been abducted by the regime © Ashley Crowther

Son Myung-hwa shows a picture of her father’s final burial after his remains were returned to his family in South Korea
Son shows a picture of the interment of her father’s remains when they were returned to South Korea © Ashley Crowther


For other families, getting hold of the most basic scraps of information — names, dates, details of disappearances, where bodies are buried — is as much as they can hope for. This is where the Footprints database comes in.

The TJWG, a non-governmental organisation, was set up after a 2014 special inquiry by the UN, which declared that the “gravity, scale and nature” of North Korea’s crimes against humanity “does not have any parallel in the contemporary world”.

With funding from the US government, and other private and public sources, plus technological support from a Geneva-based NGO, the group began by attempting to locate execution and burial sites in North Korea using a combination of eyewitness interviews and satellite imagery. It now employs digital tools including data visualisation and geolocation software, as well as providing secure storage for legal documents (in the hope of future trials) and photos of those who have disappeared. Sources range from public and private archives to new interviews and testimonials from defectors, including former North Korean officials.

A search for “Lee Se-il”, Lee Han-byeol’s brother, produces data such as the date and location of his disappearance, and which victim “type” he falls into: “Forced repatriation of escapee. Current status: unknown.” Another search tells a different story, equally threadbare. “Name: Lee Seong-hwan. Victim type: Korean war abductee. Current status: unknown.”

Lee Soon-geum, 59, an advocate for the families of those taken as prisoners of war, was among the first to record a video testimony for the archive. She says her father, a South Korean soldier, was sentenced to a life spent shovelling coal in mines at Aoji near the Chinese border.

As a child growing up in the mining town, she hated her father for having served in America’s “puppet army”; guilty by association, the family were constantly monitored. “We resented him,” she says. “I thought he should have died in the war.”

His fate was grim: in 1996, he was executed along with her younger brother. Labelled “spies and reactionary scum”, the pair were tortured, possibly for months, before being displayed to relatives, bound and gagged, then shot. Their crime, she believes, was speaking out against the regime. Lee Soon-geum was forced to watch.

“My brother looked down at me and looked into my eyes, and I saw him shedding tears,” she says, her words punctuated by pain-filled sobs. She eventually managed to flee to South Korea in 2004.

Lee Soon-geum in her office
Lee Soon-geum works as an advocate for the families of those taken as prisoners of war © Ashley Crowther

A South Korean flag hangs in Lee Soon-geum’s office
A South Korean flag hanging in her office © Ashley Crowther

First-hand evidence such as this, researchers hope, is a means of pressuring Pyongyang to address human rights issues thought still to be widespread in the country of 26 million people.

By obtaining GPS co-ordinates of hundreds of sites where they believe bodies have been disposed of, and linking them with documents, researchers now think they can track where some kwanliso prison camps are located, as well torture and execution facilities. (For fear of tipping off the authorities in Pyongyang, many of the details they have acquired have not been made public.)

The database also has another purpose: to draw international attention to the plight of the Korean missing. When it comes to writing about North Korea, argue activists, the global media all too often prefer to focus on rocket launches and nuclear tests, oddball haircuts and militaristic parades, rather than the human stories of those who have disappeared. “No one listens to us, no matter how much we shout about it,” says Lee Soon-geum.

Even people in South Korea often have little inkling of their close connection to events. When Daye Yoon, an IT expert, was hired by the TJWG in 2018 to help with data security (including threats from North Korean hackers), she knew little about her own family history — just sketchy details of her paternal grandfather, who died in an incident somehow related to the north. Her parents wouldn’t be drawn on the details.

After chatting in the office, her colleague looked up a list of South Korean fishermen abducted in 1968: among them was her grandfather.

The discovery has persuaded her of the value of the work the TJWG is doing, she explains, but she still can’t bring herself to discuss what happened with her parents. “I don’t want to make them sad,” she says. “But when I started working here, my mother told me that this was probably my destiny.”


As the Footprints database reveals more and more of the internal architecture of North Korea’s shadowy apparatus of repression, activists hope that it can help prepare for a future in which the country is no longer a dictatorship but some form of democracy, and in which there might finally be a legal reckoning.

“We are sending a signal to the North Korean elites,” says Ethan Hee-Seok Shin, one of the TJWG’s co-founders. The message is that “one should tread carefully, otherwise you can be subject to a criminal-justice mechanism after the transition”.

The Transitional Justice Working Group in their office
The Transitional Justice Working Group wants to build an archive of every person detained, abducted or disappeared in North Korea since the 1950s © Ashley Crowther

The team in Seoul are following in the footsteps of transitional justice researchers in places such as the former East Germany, where archivists have spent years reconstructing and combing through Stasi files — sometimes piecing together shredded documents by hand — to track the activities of the communist regime and help Germans come to terms with the past.

Another inspiration for Footprints was research done in Guatemala after its civil war, which ended in 1996. Tracking down people who had perpetrated killings, disappearances and other war crimes was difficult: high-ranking officers’ names had often been left off authorisation documents. But researchers were ultimately able to use government records of promotions to ascertain who had been in charge. TJWG interviewers make sure to ask every defector questions about official records, in the hope that one day their locations might be accessed.

Scott Stevens, a Canadian who co-founded the TJWG and is now its communications director, found himself in the field after moving to Seoul in 2012 and working in education. After volunteering with defectors and activists, and visiting North Korea as a tourist in 2013, he became fascinated by the country and its people. Even apparently innocuous pieces of information can be precious, he explains: “Everything from chain of command to responsibility or who’s making these decisions at what level. All of that can be really useful for accountability processes down the line.”

Again, Stevens draws lessons from history: people who worked in Cambodia in the 1990s after the fall of the Khmer Rouge learnt how important it was to locate grave sites as early as possible “so that investigations can proceed more quickly when the opportunity comes”. In the end, more than 20,000 grave sites were uncovered there after the regime’s collapse.

Not everyone believes the TJWG’s approach is the right one. By publicising individual families and stories, there are real dangers that people still living in North Korea might suffer reprisals, say experts.

Figures in South Korea’s foreign policy establishment instead advocate a “trade-off”: try to improve the lives of ordinary North Koreans through engagement and economic interaction, rather than by advocating for human rights. “Once we raised the human rights issues up-front, then North Korea regarded it as a hostile effort to undermine the regime,” says one former senior official in Seoul who has dealt with North Korea. (They asked not to be named.) “I can tell you one thing for sure: ‘megaphone diplomacy’ for human rights will never improve human rights conditions in North Korea.”

There is also a risk that identifying perpetrators and apportioning blame at this stage might undermine efforts from within to encourage reform, says Sokeel Park, a Seoul-based activist who leads a group called Liberty in North Korea that has helped many people escape and build lives elsewhere. Efforts should focus on how, in places such as Egypt under Hosni Mubarak or communist Europe, the wider world signalled to people within those societies that it was in their interests for regime change to happen.

Maps from North Korea used by the TJWG
Maps from North Korea used for research by the TJWG © Ashley Crowther

Powerful people in North Korea must be won over to the cause of change, says Park: “We need to try and make sure that we don’t unwittingly persuade the relevant people inside the country that that transition would be very bad for them.”

Shin isn’t convinced. Activists such as TJWG can’t afford to wait until after the regime collapses, he says, as happened in other countries. Moreover, many people with first-hand knowledge of atrocities are in their final years. “People weren’t ready. Everything was happening so fast and nobody was really prepared in advance,” he says of post-war Germany and Japan. “We want to avoid that kind of scenario by having these records, having the personnel files of the victims and perpetrators ready,” he says, adding, “It is a race against time.”


When South Korea’s national assembly building was constructed in the early 1970s, the architects were given a unique instruction for the fan-shaped debating chamber: leave space so that representatives from the north might one day be included.

These dreams have faded for many: the two countries have travelled such different paths since 1945 that it is hard to see how they might one day be united. But over the past four years, South Korean president Moon Jae-in, a former human rights lawyer and the child of North Korean refugees, has staked his legacy on making reunification a priority.

With the unlikely support of US president Donald Trump, the two sides edged closer. In late April 2018, Moon hosted Kim at a lavish summit at Panmunjom, where the armistice was signed in 1953, and the two leaders embraced. As well as voicing lofty commitments to disarm and denuclearise the Korean peninsula, they agreed to “solve” the reunion of separated families and relatives.

But there has been little practical progress, with Seoul’s Ministry of Unification struggling to negotiate with its counterparts in Pyongyang. In the past 20 years, only about 60 families have participated in brief, temporary state-organised reunions. Now, as Moon reaches the final months of his presidency, reunification appears as far away as ever.

Meanwhile, international attention has waxed and waned. Neither admonishments by the US government nor frequent calls by the UN for North Korea to address the situation of those in prison camps or who have suffered torture have resulted in significant change. Biden has signalled North Korean human rights will be given more prominence under his administration. But analysts expect Kim’s nuclear weapons to remain his focus.

Time is of the essence, and not just politically. In the aftermath of the Korean war, the search for those abducted was led by parents looking for lost children and wives for husbands; later the task was taken on by grown-up children hoping to one day meet parents they never knew. But memories of that era are disappearing fast. South Korean cities are unrecognisable even to those who grew up there in the 1960s and 1970s; young people feel more remote from the past, and from family connections they once had to North Korea.

According to a survey that tracks South Korean attitudes towards “peace and reconciliation” run by the state-backed Korea Institute for National Unification, it is not just interest in the idea of reunification that is fading, but in the topic of the split altogether. People in their twenties and thirties ranked highest on “the division not affecting their lives”.

Leighanne Yuh at Korea University in Seoul says she has been “genuinely surprised” by the pace at which disconnection from North Korea has become mainstream. “There was this affinity with North Korea, and this general sense that we’re all the same people,” she says. “But as more and more time has progressed, that feeling has waned. My students have even expressed that they feel like North Koreans are a different ethnicity — which I found pretty shocking — and the cultural differences, they feel, are also too great.”

Lee Han-byeol holds an image of her brother outside her apartment in Seoul
Lee Han-byeol holds an image of her brother outside her apartment in Seoul © Ashley Crowther

The TJWG is under no illusions about how hard it is to remind people of the past. But the group insists there is progress. Its data have already been deployed in direct questions to the North Korean government at the UN, for example probing Pyongyang’s use of the death penalty. Publicising testimonials from escapees has helped rekindle public attention.

Possibly the most tangible impact is memorialisation, argues Stevens: allowing families the opportunity to mark what has happened to loved ones. Many relatives no longer hope for a family member to be returned or even that they’ll be able to exhume a body, he says: it’s enough for a disappearance to be officially noted. “They were just happy to tell someone and if they’re going to pass away, then maybe this information will be recorded.”

Recording and reminding are Lee Han-byeol’s tasks too. Holding the photograph of Lee Se-il, her lost brother, and talking of the countless others who have gone, she says: “I just hope people remember them by their name, not just as numbers.”

Edward White is the FT’s Seoul correspondent and Kang Buseong is an FT reporter in Seoul

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