They gather in cramped living rooms, televisions flickering late in the day, and settle in to watch what appears to be a typical Premier League clash. Look closer, though, and everything is different. Matches arrive weeks or even months after they’ve been played. Each game is trimmed to exactly 60 minutes, the English text replaced by Korean overlays, and any moment involving South Korean players disappears. It’s still football. Just North Korean football.
“Once the broadcast starts, there is no studio,” said Martyn Williams, a senior fellow at the Stimson Center, who has tracked sports coverage in the country. “It’s straight into the game, with Korean commentary dubbed over the crowd noise.”
In January, Korean Central Television revealed a heavily censored take on the world’s most popular soccer league. Tottenham’s Son Heung-min, Brentford’s Kim Ji-soo, and Wolves’ Hwang Hee-chan never appear on screen. LGBTQ+ symbols vanish. The entire spectacle is carefully curated to fit the regime’s narrative. That means no live play, no mention of outside broadcasters, and heavy-handed editing on everything from scoreboard graphics to pitch-side ads.
An unexpected glimpse beyond North Korea’s borders
Some fans still manage to enjoy what is left of the game. Anthony Macfarlane, who recently visited Pyongyang for the local marathon, was stunned to learn that certain clubs are permanently blocked. “I met people who follow the Premier League, but they accept not seeing Tottenham or Wolves,” he said. “It’s a big culture shock,” he told The Mirror.
International law experts say the broadcasts likely breach copyright rules, but North Korean authorities appear untroubled by that. They remain focused on shaping the content to protect the nation from “hostile” influences. That often entails layering state-approved propaganda between segments or re-editing entire halves to highlight the discipline of foreign squads rather than the star power of individual players.
Despite the constraints, soccer resonates deeply in a country that still celebrates its 1966 World Cup quarterfinal triumph. Today’s fans have fewer opportunities to see a full match, but they remain fascinated by the slices of action that do appear. “Most homes get Korean Central Television, so people tune in,” Williams noted. “It might not be real-time football, but it’s a window to the outside world.”
At the final whistle, North Koreans are left with just enough highlights to fuel their curiosity, yet not nearly enough to challenge the strict messaging imposed by the state. Football, or at least a version of it, reveals as much about North Korea as it does about the game itself.
