BTS Has Fans in North Korea Too! BBC: Kim Jong-un Was Supposed to Be the People's Only Idol—Until They Discovered K-pop

On a sunny Saturday in June, Lee Yeon-su (a pseudonym) took time off work and boarded a train from Seoul to Busan to attend yet another concert by the pop group BTS. This was her third in three months. In March, when the seven-member group resumed activities, she squeezed into the crowds flooding into downtown Seoul—but the stage was too far. In April, on the first day of their world tour, heavy rain drowned out the singers' voices. But this time in Busan, it was "simply incredible."

"Every time I come to a BTS concert, I'm happy that I can freely choose to like and support someone," said Lee Yeon-su, not her real name. "That's unimaginable in North Korea."

She was born there, in the so-called 'hermit kingdom,' just north of the heavily militarized border with South Korea. The outside world was distant, cut off by a regime built on fear, surveillance, and loyalty. "You have to be selected to attend events. If you're not chosen, you stay home and close the curtains."

Now in South Korea, she can decide who to cheer for and how. In Busan, she screamed, jumped, and sang loudly with a massive fanbase, especially for her former favorite songs—the energetic 'Fire' and the hip-hop hit 'Mic Drop.'

Raised in a military family, Lee was taught from childhood that South Korea was the enemy. After defecting, she tried to distance herself from South Korean culture. But music found its way into her life.

She successfully defected in 2011, before BTS debuted and before K-pop became a global phenomenon. Today, in North Korea, even listening to K-pop or watching South Korean programs is a crime punishable by imprisonment or worse.

Some defectors like Lee say they didn’t hear South Korean music until they crossed the border. When they did, a whole new world of freedom and joy opened up, helping them adapt to a completely unfamiliar life of their own.

Yet other defectors told the BBC that despite restrictions, K-pop has penetrated Kim Jong-un’s suffocating dictatorship.

They say they secretly listened to songs, often not knowing who sang them, but clinging to the mysterious, hopeful lyrics. Some even managed to watch K-pop performances and were shocked by idols with dyed blue hair and makeup: "How can men look like that?"

"The entire system in North Korea is designed to have only one star, one idol—Kim Jong-un," said Hannah Oh, a 25-year-old defector.

Yet North Koreans have discovered other idols—like BTS and Blackpink. Before them came Girls' Generation, Teen Top, and 2PM.

BTS’s Korean name 'Bangtan Sonyeondan' has even become part of everyday slang in North Korea, one defector said: "People say, 'Have you worn a bulletproof (bangtan) vest?' or 'Have you carried a bulletproof (bangtan) backpack?'

"They’re Koreans like us, but different."

For Kang Gyu-ri (a pseudonym), who fled North Korea in 2023, one BTS hit stood out: 'Dynamite.'

When BTS released 'Dynamite' in 2020, it broke streaming records—a disco-flavored song meant to uplift a world weary from Covid, the band said. Though it was their first fully English single, it still reached North Korean ears.

"I didn’t understand the lyrics, but the melody was so beautiful and exciting. Everyone hummed along," said the 26-year-old Kang.

At the time, she lived in Kyongju County on North Korea’s coast, where households could pick up TV signals from across the border. When the signal was strong, they watched weekend shows where K-pop idols competed, their hair dyed in bright colors, dancing sharply.

"Everything was shocking. I thought they were Koreans like us, but they looked so different."

Rapping was novel. "At first I thought, 'Is this even music?' But the way they rapped and danced was so cool, boys started imitating them."

She said learning the song’s signature dance moves became a trend among teens. Those who loved dancing looked up to BTS, and before them, Teen Top, a group that rose to fame in the 2010s for their electro-pop dance tracks.

As she spoke, Kang pulled out her phone and played an old YouTube video of Teen Top performing 'No More Perfume on You.' "Like this," she laughed, mimicking the song’s iconic perfume-spraying gesture. "Soon, all the boys around me were doing it. Puff, puff. It was so fun. Once you see it, you can’t forget it."

Because she secretly listened to so many songs, she can’t recall the titles. She heard Girls' Generation, South Korea’s biggest and most iconic girl group, and later became a fan of Blackpink’s Jennie: "It’s hard to explain, but her music has something very energetic and powerful."

She said she couldn’t compare it to North Korean songs, which "felt like they were hitting my ears." Most songs she heard as a child were about revolution or politics. "We even had to keep the state broadcast on at home."

Kang quickly learned popular songs from frequent TV exposure. But many North Koreans used MP3 players or small SD cards. Music, though easier to spread than dramas, still circulated slowly.

In the late 2010s, as K-pop went global, new songs coexisted with decades-old ballads on SD cards circulating in North Korea. File names were often corrupted, so Hannah Oh rarely knew the song titles, artists, or release dates.

"Back then, knowing didn’t mean much to me. So I focused more on the lyrics," said the 25-year-old, who defected in 2019.

One song truly stuck with her. She listened repeatedly, copying down every Korean word. Years later, after arriving in South Korea, she discovered it was 'It’s Not Too Late' by Green Zone (also known as Noksaek Jidae), a popular male duo from the 1990s when emotional ballads dominated Korean music charts.

"It was all in Korean, so much easier to understand than the K-pop I was hearing then," she said. "It was the first time I thought, 'So this is how people express love.'"

A Window to the Outside World

Listening to South Korean music always carried risk. As a teenager, Hannah carried two SD cards. "One had South Korean music. The other was empty, so I could hand it over if caught."

Hannah said whenever a student was caught watching South Korean content, all schools in the city would gather for a 'criticism session.' "They’d announce exactly which Korean videos the person watched and publicly declare they’d be sent to a youth detention center. It was meant to show others what would happen if caught."

But Hannah kept listening, kept watching: "Once you’ve seen that world, it’s hard to turn away."

Cutting North Koreans off from the outside world has been central to the Kim family’s survival. Their propaganda carries one message: Pyongyang excels in everything from economy to art, so life under the Kims is unmatched. Any hint that freedom lies just across the southern border is dangerous.

Now that the Korean Wave has become a soft power giant, Kim Jong-un has intensified crackdowns. In 2022, three teenagers were reportedly publicly executed for spreading South Korean content.

Yet a 2023 survey found that 98% of defectors said they had watched South Korean TV dramas or films while in North Korea. About 80% said it increased their curiosity about South Korea and influenced habits like speech and fashion.

Hannah believes this is exactly what the regime fears. "Some started wearing shorter skirts or dyeing their hair. Once people start expressing themselves, it affects a system that demands everyone think and act the same."

Kang was the same. She said she didn’t leave North Korea because life was hard. Rather, exposure to South Korean music and TV made the contrast unbearable. "Whenever I watched TV and then stepped outside, I couldn’t stand it," with surveillance officers watching for signs of foreign influence.

Kang said there was a time when knowing South Korean content was a source of pride. "It made you seem a bit trendy. People would say, 'They know how to have fun.' But after laws tightened, people became much more cautious."

She said you’d first hear someone got caught. Then you’d hear about executions. These messages, she added, were deliberately spread as warnings. "I heard two boys I knew were executed. One was about my age, the other younger, around 19."

But she continued: "They didn’t stop consuming the banned content. This was our breathing hole, our window to the outside