[Interview] 'Goryeo saram' doctor in Korea advances global patient care at SNUBH International Healthcare Center

For two years, a 57-year-old entrepreneur from Moscow, Russia, whose identity remains undisclosed for privacy reasons, had lived in a body that betrayed him. His days were marked by a growing storm of neurological symptoms—numbness, weakness, and a loss of control in his arms and legs.

Initially diagnosed with chronic inflammatory demyelinating polyneuropathy (CIDP), a disorder that causes nerve swelling and irritation, he had hoped for a treatment plan that would stem the gradual loss of strength and sensation. But as his condition worsened, he sought help beyond Russia’s borders. Experts in Israel and Germany offered their expertise, yet nothing seemed to alleviate his symptoms. By the summer of 2024, hope had become a distant memory.

On a sweltering August day, with nothing left to lose, he arrived at Seoul National University Bundang Hospital (SNUBH) in Korea, a last resort in a two-year odyssey. He had heard of the hospital’s reputation for handling the most complex and urgent cases through a network of international referrals.

Clutching a stack of medical records, the man entered SNUBH’s International Healthcare Center, where Professor Sergey Kim, the center’s deputy director and the only Russian-speaking doctor among Korea’s leading tertiary medical institutions, awaited.

Kim’s initial review of the patient’s records—spanning years, countries, and conflicting diagnoses—immediately raised red flags. The man had undergone a bone marrow test in Israel, but Kim soon discovered an oversight: the test had been incomplete. Only tissue samples had been analyzed; no aspirated bone marrow fluid—the key to diagnosing many conditions—had been tested. 

It was a critical omission that could explain years of misdiagnoses.

Kim recommended another bone marrow aspiration, a painful and invasive procedure the man had already endured. The man was hesitant, but Kim persisted. Hours of reassurance and quiet negotiation followed. Eventually, the patient agreed.

The results turned the case on its head. Kim uncovered evidence of POEMS syndrome, a rare blood disorder that affects multiple body systems and had gone undetected for years. “His initial diagnosis—and the treatments that followed—had been entirely wrong,” Kim later told Korea Biomedical Review in an interview last Friday.

For two years, the wrong diagnosis had led the patient down countless dead ends. Without intervention, his future seemed grim—his mobility would be limited, possibly confined to a wheelchair. 

But within days, a new treatment plan was in place, and by Sunday morning, he was discharged from SNUBH. “Had he continued with the wrong diagnosis, he wouldn’t have been able to walk,” Kim said. “Or worse.”

Kim's journey from childhood survival to medical aspirations

Kim’s pursuit of the truth was more than a professional obligation—it was personal. It was a reminder of why he had chosen this path. As a child growing up in Kazakhstan, he had nearly died from pneumonia at age six. His lungs had filled with fluid, leaving him gasping for air. His parents, overwhelmed by a family crisis, almost waited too long to seek medical help. “I remember the suffocating weight in my chest,” Kim, now 54, recalled. “The doctors told my parents that one more day without treatment would have been fatal.” A local doctor had drained his lungs just in time, saving him.

It was during those difficult months that Kim found his calling. “When I was lying in a hospital bed and struggling to breathe, I watched doctors save my life. I wanted to be like them,” Kim said. 

Nurses gave him syringes to play with, and he’d pretend to treat his dolls, dreaming of the day he’d save lives. That memory of survival, of fragile second chances, shaped his every interaction with patients—including this one.

Born in Uzbekistan during the final years of the Soviet Union, Kim’s identity was a complex mosaic of cultures and displacement. His mother, a descendant of the "Goryeo saram" —ethnic Koreans exiled to Central Asia under Joseph Stalin—carried the weight of forced migration in her bones. His father, born in Kazakhstan, shared the same legacy of resilience.  

For Kim, growing up in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan was a constant balancing act between the country that raised him and the heritage his mother refused to let him forget.

He became fascinated with Uzbek culture, learning the language fluently and immersing himself in its traditions. But a conversation with his mother changed everything.

“Why are you so interested in Uzbekistan?” she asked one day.

“Because I’m Uzbek, aren’t I?” Kim replied, confident in the only truth he knew.

“What do you mean you’re Uzbek? You’re Korean,” she corrected him. “You may have been born there, but your bloodline is not Uzbek. You are Korean.” 

That moment, Kim recalled, reshaped Kim’s understanding of his identity. For years, the question of "Who am I?" had been tied to geography. But his mother’s words revealed that his identity was rooted not in where he was born, but by the bloodline passed down through generations of hardship and displacement.

But even as he embraced that truth, Kim’s connection to Uzbekistan, where he was raised, remained strong. He spoke Uzbek fluently, celebrated its rhythms and festivals, and cherished the warmth of its people. 

Marveling at Korea's medical transformation

However, his journey would take him beyond Central Asia. After graduating from medical school in Russia and working as an intern, he was tasked with interpreting for President Shin Il-hee of Keimyung University, who was receiving an honorary doctorate from Saint Petersburg State University. Impressed by Kim’s skills, Shin suggested he consider studying in Korea—a small nudge that would set Kim’s life on an entirely new path.

In 1997, Kim arrived in Daegu for medical school, where the dialect was foreign, streets alien, and the sense of disconnection overwhelming. “For months, I felt like a stranger again,” he said, reflecting on the paradox of belonging yet feeling isolated.

Still, Korea embraced him. And Kim, in return, marveled at its relentless drive for progress. When he arrived, the nation’s medical field was a shadow of its current self—hospitals were modest, infrastructure fragile, and the promise of advancement seemed distant.

By the time Kim had fully settled into his role at the International Health Center at SNUBH, Korea’s medical system had undergone a transformation beyond recognition. Within two decades, the country’s healthcare system had become a global leader in healthcare, rivalring giants like the U.S. and Germany. Kim, who had witnessed this meteoric rise firsthand, still marvels at its speed.

“This kind of leap is rare,” Kim said, reflecting on the rapid progress. “It’s not just the technology—it’s the people. Korean medical schools select only the brightest—often the top one or two students in their class. Their passion and commitment have fueled this extraordinary growth.”

The roots of this revolution reach back decades, to a time when Korea’s healthcare system was barely functional. After the Korean War, the nation’s medical standards lagged far behind developed countries. 

But the seeds of change were sown through initiatives like the Minnesota Project in 1954, which sent Korean doctors to train under American physicians at the University of Michigan. These doctors returned with advanced medical knowledge and a vision for what Korea’s healthcare system could become.

“Our mentors who studied abroad shared everything they learned,” Kim said. “They worked tirelessly to build the foundation we have today. It’s because of that support we now stand as a global leader.”

That legacy has turned Korea from a recipient of global aid into a nation ready to give back.

One project exemplifying this shift is the Tashkent General Hospital in Uzbekistan. Backed by a $10.27 million initiative through the Export-Import Bank of Korea, SNUBH is overseeing the construction of a six-story, 300-bed hospital specializing in cardiology, neurovascular diseases, and women’s cancer.

This isn’t just about erecting a building. The project includes training local staff and implementing advanced medical protocols. “We’re not doing this for profit,” Kim emphasized. “It’s about repaying the support we once received. Uzbekistan’s healthcare system is still developing, and our goal is to help them build something sustainable.”

For Kim, these efforts carry a personal weight. In Uzbekistan and neighboring Kazakhstan, where medical resources are scarce, the stakes were often life and death. “When our expatriates fell ill, they couldn’t communicate their symptoms to local doctors,” Kim explained. “This led to misdiagnoses and, in some cases, unnecessary surgeries.” 

He recounted stories of patients who, after being told they needed urgent operations, boarded six- or seven-hour flights to Korea only to learn that surgery was never required.

These experiences exposed a systemic gap and inspired the development of telemedicine. Initially designed for embassy staff and expatriates, the service grew through word of mouth, eventually reaching local patients in Uzbekistan.

SNUBH's global outreach and future goals

The International Health Center’s roots were planted under Chung Chin-youb, a former Minister of Health and Welfare and president of SNUBH from 2008 to 2013. Chung envisioned an international patient care program at SNUBH—a bold ambition for a hospital with limited experience in treating foreign patients. When Kim joined the team in 2014, that vision began to materialize.

“At the start, the International Healthcare Center had three people: me, another doctor, and one nurse,” Kim said. Today, the department has expanded to 18 staff members, handling everything from consultations to patient care, with a focus on family and internal medicine.

The center had become a beacon of patient-first care, with a team that coordinated everything from airport pickups and accommodations to medical billing and follow-ups. In 2019, SNUBH became the first hospital in Korea to receive global healthcare accreditation (GHA), joining an exclusive club of only 11 hospitals worldwide, including the Cleveland Clinic. Four years later, it earned its second GHA accreditation.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Kim said. “But today, SNUBH is where innovation meets compassion. It’s a rare combination.”

Telemedicine extends that ethos beyond Korea, enabling patients to continue receiving care long after returning home. “We’re not just their doctors when they’re here,” Kim said. “We’re their doctors all the time.”

In a country like Korea, where the national average for outpatient visits lasts just eight minutes, Kim’s team spends a full 15 minutes on average with each patient. “It’s not just about solving the immediate issue,” Kim added. “It’s about understanding the whole person—who they are, what they need.”