When Ji-Hoon* finished high school in North Korea, he didn’t scroll through job listings or prepare for interviews. He waited. Not for a reply from an employer—but for an assignment from the government.
One day, a notice arrived. It wasn’t an offer, it was a directive.
“You will report to a textile factory outside Pyongyang. Bring your government-issued ID and your work record book.” That was it. Ji-Hoon had no say, no negotiation. His career—if it could be called that—was already decided.
In North Korea, the idea of “choosing” your job doesn’t exist. The state chooses for you. From the moment a student finishes school, or a soldier returns from the military, the government steps in. You don’t apply for a job—you’re sent to one.
The Assignment Game
It starts with paperwork. Graduating students hand over their school records. These aren’t just transcripts—they’re files filled with behavioral evaluations, family history, and political remarks. Teachers and local party officials comb through them. After that, recommendations are passed to the regional labor department. From there, assignments are made—quietly and without discussion.
For some, the assignment may mean working at a power station, a rail depot or a mine. For others, it’s a farm in a remote province or a construction site in harsh weather. Skill or interest matters little. The central concern is need—what the country needs, not what you want.
“They don’t ask you if you like welding or nursing” said a defector interviewed by the BBC in 2017. “They tell you where the country needs you. That’s where you go.”
The Shadow of Songbun
Beneath the surface of job assignments lies a hidden system—songbun. It’s not officially acknowledged in the North Korean constitution, but it shapes lives like gravity shapes planets. Songbun is a socio-political caste system based on your family’s background and perceived loyalty to the ruling regime.
Have a relative who fought for the revolution? That’s good songbun. Did your grandfather defect to the South? Bad news. That stain follows you for life.
Your songbun can determine where you live, whether you can attend university and yes—what job you’re assigned. A family with “hostile” classification might never see their children work in high-ranking fields like foreign trade, science, or government. Those doors simply stay shut.
In theory, Article 70 of North Korea’s constitution promises the right to “choose occupations in accordance with one’s wishes and skills”. In practice, that promise holds as much weight as wet paper.
Labor Without a Way Out
Once placed in a job, leaving isn’t just discouraged—it’s nearly impossible.
There’s no LinkedIn in Pyongyang. No career changes. No quiet quitting. Workers must show up every day, sometimes for decades, unless granted rare and tightly controlled permission to transfer.
Trying to leave without approval isn’t just a bad idea—it’s dangerous.
A 2020 report by the UN Human Rights Office described the conditions of labor in North Korea as “akin to slavery.” It went on: “These people are forced to work in intolerable conditions – often in dangerous sectors with the absence of pay, free choice, ability to leave, protection, medical care, time off, food and shelter”
Workers are often under surveillance. Refusing to work or being late repeatedly can result in a pay cut—if pay is given at all—or being sent to “labor training camps.” These are not office retreats. They’re brutal, correctional facilities where people are often beaten, overworked, and underfed.
Everyone Works—Even the Children
Labor doesn’t stop with adults. Kids are drafted too.
Seasonal agricultural work is mandatory in many schools. One defector told Radio Free Asia “We had to go to the farm every weekend. If you didn’t go, your parents were called in, and you got punished in front of everyone.”
Middle-schoolers, some barely strong enough to lift a shovel, are ordered to harvest corn or dig irrigation ditches. It’s unpaid and when there is money involved, it’s often funneled back to the school, not the student.
The Black Market Escape
There is, however, a crack in the system. A quiet one. While official jobs are mandatory, a growing number of North Koreans—especially younger ones—are slipping out the back door.
They avoid assigned jobs entirely—risking punishment—to try their luck in the jangmadang, the informal markets that have quietly become the backbone of the North Korean economy.
Here, people sell vegetables, used clothes, smuggled electronics or homebrewed alcohol. It’s illegal but it pays.
An investigative report by the Database Center for North Korean Human Rights (NKDB) found that “as many as 72% of defectors said they engaged in market trade before escaping the country.”
Still, avoiding your assigned job can carry real consequences. Government inspectors sometimes raid markets, arrest vendors, or force young adults back into their “official” workplaces. Some get off with a bribe, others are less lucky.
A Life Assigned
In North Korea, the path from childhood to adulthood doesn’t wind or branch—it runs in a straight, state-mandated line. You go to school, you go to the military, then you go to work—wherever the government tells you.
A foreign observer once described it plainly: “The unit controls most aspects of a person’s life.”
That word—unit—refers not just to your job but to your assigned group: your factory, your housing block, your surveillance circle. The unit tracks your attendance, your behavior, your loyalty. To change jobs is to change units—and that requires a kind of permission few ever receive.
For most North Koreans, life isn’t about chasing a dream. It’s about surviving a plan—one you never agreed to.
