When people talk about strange or extreme traditions across the globe, North Korea almost always makes the list. Known for its massive, synchronized military parades, heavily censored media, and an atmosphere of secrecy that outsiders can barely penetrate, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea has long cultivated a reputation for being both enigmatic and unsettling. Yet even among its many rigid and surreal customs, one stands out as especially shocking: large-scale, state-organized body checks and regimented health inspections of young women.
A photograph that recently went viral online offered a rare glimpse of this practice. In the image, rows upon rows of young women stand silently in a cavernous hall. They are dressed in nearly identical uniforms, postures straight, expressions carefully neutral, as though waiting for instructions. To an uninformed observer, the scene might resemble a dance audition, a military drill, or even a shot pulled straight from a dystopian film. But for those who have studied North Korean society, the photo reveals something darker and deeply ingrained in the state’s system of control: the regime’s obsession with regulating not just minds, but bodies.
Defectors and experts have shed light on what lies behind such images. These gatherings, though never publicly acknowledged by the government, are understood to be physical inspections often targeting women in their late teens or early twenties. Many are college students or applicants for coveted positions in state-run institutions. The purpose varies. In some cases, the checks are intended to determine fitness for military service or labor assignments. In others, particularly those connected to national spectacles like the Mass Games, the inspections serve as a way to select “ideal” physiques for propaganda performances.
The deeper question is why the state invests such energy in assessing appearance at all. To outsiders, it may sound like little more than an authoritarian beauty contest. But to North Korea’s leadership, physical uniformity is far more than an aesthetic preference—it is a tool of ideological control.
Since its founding, the regime has built its power on the projection of unity, perfection, and strength. Every parade, concert, or performance is meticulously choreographed to erase individuality and replace it with collective identity. Citizens become interchangeable parts of a larger machine, moving in harmony under the watchful gaze of the leadership. In this context, a slim, symmetrical body is not simply attractive; it becomes a symbol of loyalty, purity, and belonging.
This obsession connects directly to North Korea’s entrenched caste-like social system, known as “songbun.” Songbun assigns citizens a status based on family background, political reliability, and social behavior. Those with the “wrong” lineage or history face lifelong discrimination, barred from good jobs, universities, and even decent housing. Within such a rigid framework, appearance itself becomes a political tool. Looking the part—healthy, fit, obedient—can sometimes smooth the way to better opportunities. Failing to meet those unspoken standards can relegate someone to obscurity or exclusion.
For the young women subjected to these inspections, the consequences are profound. Passing them can mean entry into elite schools, jobs in prestigious cultural troupes, or the honor of performing before Kim Jong Un himself. Failing them can result in being funneled into backbreaking labor or being quietly pushed aside, never to be seen in public-facing roles again.
It is important to recognize that this is not just about aesthetics or health. In North Korea, the body is politicized in the most literal sense. The state asserts ownership over how citizens eat, dress, and move, framing conformity as patriotic duty. Personal identity and private choice are eroded until even the shape of one’s body becomes a reflection of the regime’s will.
That is why the viral photo struck such a chord internationally. For those who have never lived under such conditions, it is difficult to comprehend what it means to have even one’s physical form scrutinized and judged by the government. But to many North Koreans, especially women, this is routine. The image captured not only their silence but also the weight of that silence—the knowledge that nonconformity can close doors, or worse, draw suspicion.
Critics point out that while these practices might seem unique to North Korea, they echo more subtle patterns visible elsewhere. Societies across the world have long placed pressure on women to meet certain physical standards, often linking beauty or fitness to worthiness. What makes North Korea’s case distinct is the sheer force of the state behind it—turning cultural pressures into codified, state-enforced rituals.
In the end, these regimented body checks are not about health or fitness in any real sense. They are about discipline. They are about reminding every young woman standing in those endless lines that her body does not belong solely to her. It belongs to the state, to its propaganda machine, and to the narrative of perfection it insists on selling both to its citizens and to the outside world.
The viral photograph, unsettling as it is, offers a rare window into that reality. It is a stark reminder that authoritarianism does not stop at controlling speech or thought. In North Korea, it seeps into the most intimate space possible—the body itself.
And for those young women standing silently in that hall, the truth is as heavy as the air around them: in a country where even a smile or a stance can be interpreted as loyalty or defiance, the body is never just the body. It is the stage upon which the regime demands its performance of power, unity, and obedience.