The last time Han Tae-soon saw her daughter, Kyung-ha, she was just six years old, playing near their home in Seoul back in May 1975.

“I asked her if she wanted to come to the market with me. She said no, she was going to play with her friends,” Ms. Han recalls. But when she returned, her daughter was gone.

For more than four decades, Ms. Han did not see Kyung-ha again. When they finally reunited, Kyung-ha was no longer the little girl she remembered but a middle-aged American woman named Laurie Bender — nearly unrecognizable.

Ms. Han believes her daughter was kidnapped, taken to an orphanage, and then illegally sent to the United States to be adopted by another family. Now 71, she is suing the South Korean government for failing to stop her daughter’s illegal adoption.

Her story is part of a growing wave of allegations exposing fraud, kidnappings, and human trafficking within South Korea’s overseas adoption program — a program that has sent more children abroad than any other country in the world.

A Controversial Adoption Program Under Fire

Since the 1950s, between 170,000 and 200,000 South Korean children have been adopted overseas, mostly by families in Western countries. The program began after the Korean War, when the country was devastated and many children were orphaned or displaced.

For decades, private agencies handled the adoptions with little government oversight. A landmark inquiry in March revealed that successive governments had failed to regulate the process, allowing children to be “mass exported” for profit.

Many of the children sent abroad had been taken without consent — some kidnapped, others falsely declared abandoned. Parents like Ms. Han were left desperate, searching for decades for their lost children.

A 44-Year Search Ends with DNA

Ms. Han spent years visiting police stations, orphanages, and appearing on TV to find Kyung-ha. “I searched so hard, my toenails fell out,” she says.

In 1990, she thought she had found her daughter but was heartbroken when the woman admitted she was not Kyung-ha.

The breakthrough came in 2019, when Ms. Han joined 325 Kamra, a DNA-matching group for Korean adoptees. The match came quickly — Laurie Bender, a nurse living in California.

They reunited in Seoul, sharing a tearful embrace at the airport.

“I’m a hairdresser. When I touched her hair, I knew it was my daughter,” Ms. Han said. “The first thing I told her was ‘I’m so sorry’ — for all the years we were apart.”

Kyung-ha, who now goes by Laurie, said their reunion “felt like a hole in my heart was healed.”

The Dark Truth Behind the Adoptions

Kyung-ha was kidnapped near her home by a woman who falsely claimed her mother didn’t want her anymore. After being taken to a train station and abandoned, Kyung-ha was picked up by police and sent to an orphanage before being flown to the US with forged papers.

This heartbreaking case is far from unique.

At the height of the program in the 1980s, thousands of Korean children were sent abroad annually — many taken under questionable circumstances. Adoption agencies, driven by profit and minimal government control, often falsified documents and hid fees.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s report described the process as a “mass transportation of children like cargo” — with little regard for their wellbeing. Some children died during transit; others were swapped in paperwork to avoid refunding fees.

Accountability and a Path Forward

Despite the evidence, some agencies deny wrongdoing. Holt International, South Korea’s largest adoption agency, is facing lawsuits but denies claims of illegal adoptions under its former chairman.

Experts say the government must share responsibility for enabling the system, describing it as “the captain while the agencies rowed the boat.”

The government has since enacted reforms, aiming to tighten adoption regulations and reduce overseas adoptions. Numbers have dropped dramatically — only 79 children were adopted abroad in 2023, compared to thousands in the 1980s.

Healing the Wounds, But the Journey Continues

Even after their reunion, Ms. Han and Laurie face challenges — living continents apart, with language barriers and years of lost time.

Ms. Han studies English daily, desperate to reconnect with her daughter beyond occasional texts.

“Finding her doesn’t feel like truly finding her. I know where she is, but we can’t communicate. My whole life was ruined, and no money can make up for that,” she says.

Their story is a powerful reminder of the human cost behind South Korea’s overseas adoption program — a painful legacy that the country is only just beginning to confront.

Source: BBC – Her daughter was kidnapped and sent abroad – 44 years later, they found each other

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For decades, caramel-colored mutts, affectionately known as “vira-lata caramelos,” have roamed Brazil’s streets—overlooked, abandoned, and undervalued. Today, these resilient street dogs are enjoying an unprecedented moment in the spotlight, celebrated in pop culture, social media, and even legislation.

A Symbol of Brazilian Spirit

The caramelo’s rise to fame highlights its status as a symbol of resilience and resourcefulness, reflecting the spirit of Brazil’s 213 million people. Once dismissed as stray “trashcan tippers,” caramelos now embody a sense of national pride, representing the diverse, “crazy mixture” of Brazil’s history and culture.

Netflix’s upcoming film Caramelo captures this zeitgeist. Directed by Diego Freitas, the movie portrays a plucky caramel-colored mutt navigating life’s challenges, symbolizing the resilience and charm of these beloved dogs. “The caramelo is the spirit of our time,” Freitas said, emphasizing its significance as a cultural icon.

From Memes to Cultural Movements

The caramelo’s rise began online in 2019, with memes and tributes praising their antics. Videos of caramelos performing CPR in training drills or playfully disrupting events went viral. Petitions followed, urging the government to feature the caramelo on currency. While the campaigns didn’t succeed, they reinforced the dog’s cultural status.

Even international figures like Bruno Mars joined the craze, posing with caramelos during his Brazilian tour. Meanwhile, Rio de Janeiro’s Sao Clemente samba school plans to feature the caramelo in its 2025 Carnival parade, highlighting themes of animal abandonment and resilience.

A History of Heroism

The caramelo’s cultural significance isn’t new. One of Brazil’s most iconic caramelos, Bruto, accompanied troops in the Paraguayan War 150 years ago. Bruto’s heroics—alerting soldiers to danger and surviving gunfire—earned him posthumous fame. Today, his taxidermied form is a cherished relic at Rio’s military police museum.

Caramelos continue to bond with Brazil’s police forces. One Rio battalion adopted a caramelo in 2018, granting it the rank of sergeant—a testament to the enduring connection between these dogs and the communities they serve.

Challenges Persist

Despite their fame, caramelos often remain overlooked for adoption. Shelters report that caramelos are still passed over in favor of smaller, fluffier breeds. At the Indefesos shelter in Rio, about half of the 217 dogs in care are caramelos. Puppies are often adopted last, and adult caramelos face slim chances of finding homes.

Rosana Guerra, president of Indefesos, laments this reality. “It’s absurd. When a caramelo grows up, it rarely gets adopted. They wait for homes that never come.”

Hope Through Storytelling

Netflix’s Caramelo aims to change that narrative. The film tells the heartwarming story of a stray dog transforming the life of a career-focused chef, promoting a message of compassion and action. Six dogs featured in the film have already found loving homes, adopted by crew members after filming wrapped.

Diego Freitas hopes the movie will inspire Brazilians to embrace these incredible dogs. “They change our lives,” he said, with his own caramelo by his side.

As Brazil continues to celebrate the caramelo, its story serves as a powerful reminder of resilience, kindness, and the transformative power of love—qualities that resonate far beyond its caramel-colored fur.

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Tamuna Museridze had always dreamed of calling the woman she believed was her biological mother. After years of searching, she finally made the call, but the response she received wasn’t what she expected.

The woman on the other end of the line screamed, denying any connection to Tamuna, claiming she hadn’t given birth to a child and wanted nothing to do with her. “I was ready for anything, but her reaction was beyond anything I could imagine,” Tamuna recalls, still shocked by the coldness in her mother’s voice.

Despite the harsh response, Tamuna wasn’t ready to give up. She needed to know more about her adoption—and most importantly, the name of her father.

Tamuna’s journey began in 2016 after the death of the woman who had raised her. While cleaning out her house, Tamuna discovered a birth certificate with her name, but the birth date didn’t match. This led her to suspect that she was adopted. She launched a Facebook group, “Vezdbe” (which means “I’m Searching”), hoping to find her birth parents.

Instead, Tamuna uncovered a larger issue—baby trafficking in Georgia, which affected thousands of families. For decades, parents were told their babies had died, only to later discover that their children had been sold.

Though Tamuna was a journalist investigating the issue, this was a deeply personal mission for her, as she wondered if she, too, had been one of the stolen children. “It was a personal mission as much as it was a professional one,” she says.

Her breakthrough came in the summer when someone from rural Georgia messaged her, claiming to know of a woman who had secretly given birth in September 1984, around the time Tamuna was born. They believed this woman was Tamuna’s birth mother and gave her a name.

Excited, Tamuna searched for this woman online but found nothing. She then made a public post on Facebook, asking if anyone knew her. Shortly after, a woman responded saying the pregnant woman was her aunt. She agreed to a DNA test, and Tamuna called her mother in the meantime.

A week later, the DNA results confirmed that the woman Tamuna had contacted was her cousin. With this proof, Tamuna convinced her mother to admit the truth and share the name of her father: Gurgen Khorava.

Tamuna was stunned. “The first two months were shocking—I couldn’t believe these things were happening to me,” she recalls.

With her father’s name, Tamuna quickly found him on Facebook. It turned out that Gurgen had been following her work for years without knowing they were connected. “He had been on my friend list for three years,” she says, amazed. “He didn’t even know my birth mother had been pregnant.”

Gurgen was just as surprised. They arranged to meet in his hometown of Zugdidi, about 160 miles from Tamuna’s home in Tbilisi.

When they met, it was an emotional moment. “When he looked at me, he knew I was his daughter,” Tamuna recalls. “It was strange, but it felt like he recognized me instantly.”

Despite the shock, they quickly discovered they had common interests. Gurgen, a former dancer with the State Ballet of Georgia, was excited to learn that Tamuna’s daughters also loved dancing.

Gurgen invited his extended family over to meet Tamuna, introducing her to half-siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Everyone remarked on how much Tamuna resembled her father. “Out of all his children, I look the most like him,” she says.

The family shared stories, ate traditional Georgian food, and even sang along as Gurgen played the accordion.

Although Tamuna had met her father, a lingering question remained: Had she, like many others in Georgia, been stolen as a child and sold? With her adoptive parents no longer alive, she couldn’t ask them.

The answer came in October when a Polish TV company filming a documentary about Tamuna arranged a private meeting with her birth mother. Unlike many of the families Tamuna had helped reunite, she learned that she had not been stolen. Her mother had given her up in secret, ashamed of her pregnancy.

Her mother explained that they were not in a relationship and that the pregnancy had been hidden. In September 1984, she traveled to Tbilisi, telling people she was going for surgery, but in reality, she gave birth to Tamuna. Afterward, arrangements were made for Tamuna’s adoption.

“It was painful to learn that I spent 10 days alone with her before the adoption,” Tamuna reflects. “I try not to think about that.”

Her mother also asked Tamuna to lie about her story and say that she had been stolen. “She told me that if I didn’t lie, everything would end between us,”

Tamuna says. “But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie for her or for the other parents who had been lied to.”

Tamuna’s mother insisted she leave, and they haven’t spoken since.

“Would I do it all again?” Tamuna asks herself. “Of course. I’ve learned so much about my new family.”

Source

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