GYODONG ISLAND, SOUTH KOREA — For North Korean refugees living on South Korea’s Gyodong Island, the most tangible connection to the homeland they left behind are telescopes pointed across the heavily fortified border.

During the autumn harvest festival Chuseok, refugees like Ryh Jae-hong perform rituals at altars along the border, offering fruit, dried fish, and alcohol in remembrance of relatives who remained in the North. Just two kilometers away, North Korean farmers work the land beneath red flags, their slogans proclaiming, “Long live socialism!”

“They are there, I just hope they are doing well,” said Ryh, whose father fled south at the end of the Korean War, while other family members remained behind and have never been heard from.

Gyodong Island became a refuge during the war, with many crossing the Han River by boat—or even swimming—to escape advancing Chinese and North Korean forces. For many, that journey marked the last time they would see home.

Legends of swallows serving as messengers bring some solace, but telescopes at the Manghyangdae altar are now the only way for survivors to glimpse the land they once knew. Most first-generation refugees have passed, yet the sorrow lingers for those still alive.

“We are a people with broken hearts,” said 94-year-old Chai Jae-ok. “Even though we live in abundance today, my parents, my brothers, and sisters all remained in North Korea. I have never stopped hoping for reunification. Before my eyes close forever, I would like to see it happen.”

Efforts at reconciliation remain elusive. North Korea recently expressed interest in dialogue with the U.S. but maintains that discussions with the South are off-limits, labeling it a “hostile state.” Pyongyang has dismantled reunification institutions and destroyed roads and railways built during periods of detente in the 2000s.

For Chai, the greatest wish is simple: “Even if reunification does not happen in my lifetime, I hope for exchanges that allow me to mourn at my parents’ grave. It is only six kilometers away—it would take ten minutes by car. Is there greater pain?”

Other elderly refugees, like 92-year-old Min Ok-sun and her husband, 96-year-old former fighter Kim Ching-san, cope differently. Some find solace in small comforts, while others remain haunted by memories of their homeland.

On festive days, refugees gather to sing old Korean ballads from the Japanese occupation era (1910–1945), shared by both North and South Koreans before the division. “These songs reflect the aspirations and emotions of the people of that time,” said volunteer Chang Gwang-hyuck. “For those who left home at 20 and never returned, they are a way to soothe nostalgia. Seeing their longing fills me with deep sadness.”