“Don’t Forget Who You Are” – My Life as an Intercountry Adoptee
Written by | Song Jong-geun (Overseas adoptee)
“Never forget who you are and where you come from.”
Just before I was sent to the orphanage, my grandfather left me with these words. They were short but profound. Those words became the only thread that held my identity together for the rest of my life.
I lost my father when I was three. My mother took care of me and my younger brother for a while, but eventually left us with my paternal grandfather. My mother later remarried and passed away soon after. My younger brother was adopted domestically, and unfortunately, he also passed away at a young age.
I had a relatively large amount of information about my family. Thanks to this, I was able to reconnect with my Korean family when I was eleven. Through letters and photos, I began to learn about my past little by little. I heard that both my parents were deaf, that I was a bit of a troublemaker, and that my grandfather wanted me to go to college. It must have been very difficult for my mother to raise her children alone in such a poor situation.
I am the eldest grandson, and my father and grandfather were both eldest grandsons.
However, there was a lot of manipulation in the adoption process. My family home was listed as 'Hanyang' on the adoption documents, but it was actually 'Jincheon'. The parent section was blank, but my parents' names were clearly on other documents. My resident registration number was also manipulated, but I was originally listed on the family register, and I know my real resident registration number because I inherited land from my grandfather.
The only thing that was true in the adoption papers was that the father was dead.
When I was in the orphanage, I didn't speak. I think my father's death was a big shock. I was bullied a lot, and I was pushed down the stairs and fell. Then one day, the orphanage told me to get in a white van. 'Why?' 'I don't want to get in.' I thought that, but before I knew it, I was on a plane, and my destination was the Netherlands.
When I arrived at the Dutch airport, unfamiliar faces that I had never seen before were waiting for me. Their appearance was scary and I did not want to go with them. I cried for hours at the airport and threw away the teddy bear they gave me as a gift. Most other adoptees were happy to see their new parents, but I was not.
Other adoptees have had similar experiences. One said that upon arrival, he ran to a pay phone and started dialing numbers to call his Korean mother. Another said that he held on to the railing of the airport stairs to keep himself from falling. We were all probably about the same age.
When I was five years old, I went to court. The judge asked me, “Do you want to continue living in the Netherlands?” It was probably a final confirmation of adoption. I thought to myself, “No… I don’t want to be here…,” but I reluctantly said, “Yes,” because I didn’t know what would happen.
Life after adoption was never easy. My adoptive parents were verbally and physically abusive to me. I was told, “You shouldn’t have been adopted,” “You ruined our lives,” and “I’m going to destroy you.” Racist comments were also common. I lost contact with them for years. I finally changed my last name in 2009.
Nevertheless, I thanked my adoptive parents. There were good times too. But they never once regretted or apologized. I already forgave them in my heart because I now understand why they did that. But if they sincerely apologized, I would sincerely forgive them.
In 2011, I first set foot on Korean soil again. From then on, I faced the Korean adoption system head-on.
I still do not trust the National Child Rights Commission (NCRC). This agency is violating the government's "Special Adoption Act." There is a regulation that requires the disclosure of birth family information when an adoptee has a genetic disease or the biological parents are dead, but the NCRC does not follow this. As in the case of Mathieu, Alice, and a Danish adoptee, they hide information even in life-threatening situations.
The disclosure rate is extremely low, and trust has long since been broken. After the MBC documentary in January, the NCRC announced that it would launch a criminal investigation into itself, but there is no sign of any real change.
The last Korean I remember was my grandfather's words.
“Don’t forget who you are.”
Those words still ring in my heart. And they will ring in the hearts of countless adoptees who, like me, are searching for their roots.
By Jonggeun Song (Korean Adoptee)
“Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget where you came from.”
Just before I was sent to the orphanage, my grandfather said these words to me. They were brief, but they stayed with me all my life. That sentence became the only thread that kept my identity from unraveling.
My father passed away when I was three. My mother took care of my younger brother and me for a short while, but eventually entrusted us to our paternal grandfather. Later, she remarried and passed away not long after. My brother was adopted within Korea, but sadly, he also passed away at a young age.
Fortunately, I had quite a bit of information about my family, which made it easier to find them. Around the age of 11, I was able to reestablish contact with my Korean relatives. We exchanged letters and photos. Through them, I learned about my past. Both my parents were deaf. I had been a bit mischievous as a child. My grandfather had dreams of me going to university. But because of his poverty, and my mother's difficult situation as a single parent, raising me was not sustainable.
I am the eldest son. My father was also the eldest son, as was my grandfather. We carried that line.
But my adoption process was riddled with fraud. In my papers, my family origin (bon-gwan) was listed as “Hanyang” instead of the correct “Jincheon.” The names of my parents were left blank, even though they appeared on other pages of the adoption file. My social security number was falsified as well, but I knew my real one because I was registered in the original family register and even inherited land from my grandfather.
The only fact my adoption file got right was that my father had passed away.
At the orphanage, I didn't speak. Perhaps I was still in shock from the trauma of my father's death. I was bullied. I remember being pushed down the stairs. Then one day, without warning, they told me to get in a white van. I thought, “Why? I don’t want to go.” But before I realized what was happening, I was on a plane to the Netherlands.
When I arrived at the airport in the Netherlands, unfamiliar people with strange faces stood waiting for me. I felt scared. I didn't want to go with them. I stayed at the airport for hours, crying. I even threw away the teddy bear they brought for me. Other adoptees seemed happy to meet their new parents—but not me.
I've heard similar stories from fellow adoptees. One child, upon landing, ran to a payphone and started frantically dialing numbers—desperately trying to call his Korean mother. Another child held onto the stair railing and refused to let go. We were probably around the same age.
When I was five, I was taken to court. The judge asked me, “Do you want to stay in the Netherlands?” I suppose this was to confirm the adoption. I thought, “No. I don’t want to stay here.” But I didn't understand what was happening, so I hesitantly said “yes.”
Life after adoption was far from peaceful. My adoptive parents were abusive—both verbally and physically. They told me, “We should have never adopted you,” “You ruined our lives,” “I want to destroy you,” “I don’t care if you’re here.” They were also racist. For many years, I didn't speak to them. In 2009, I changed my last name.
Still, I expressed my gratitude to them for the good moments we shared. They never showed regret or said they were sorry. In my heart, I have forgiven them—because I've come to understand why they were the way they were. But if they ever say sorry, I will truly forgive them.
I returned to Korea in 2011. Since then, I've been confronting the truth about Korea's adoption system—and I no longer trust the Korea Central Adoption Resources (NCRC).
The NCRC is violating the very Special Adoption Law established by the Korean government. According to this law, if an adoptee has a genetic disease, or if a birth parent has passed away, the adoptee is entitled to receive information about their birth family. Yet in multiple cases—including Matthieu, Alice, and a Danish adoptee—NCRC refused to release the information.
The disclosure rate is extremely low. When NCRC withholds critical information even when lives are at stake, how can we trust them?
Following an MBC documentary that aired in January, NCRC announced on their website that they would initiate a "criminal investigation" into their own practices. But trust is not built by press releases.
The last Korean words I remember before being sent away were the ones my grandfather spoke to me:
“Don’t forget who you are.”
That voice still echoes within me. And I know it echoes within many other adoptees searching for their roots.
출처 : 대한매일신보(https://www.kmaeilsinbo.kr)
