Intercountry, or International, adoption has often been romanticized as a noble act—rescuing children from poverty, war, or unstable conditions, and giving them a "better life." However, this narrative can sometimes overshadow a more troubling reality: the complicity of governments, falsified records, deceitful practices involving birth families, and in some cases, the outright abduction of children. All of this has been done to meet the demand for adoptable babies from Western countries.
Samoa (2003), Cambodia (2005), Nepal (2007), Chad (2007), Guatemala (2008), Vietnam (2009), Ethiopia (2011), Nigeria (2014), Haiti (2017), Sri Lanka (2017), Bangladesh (2023), Georgia (2024). And now, South Korea (2024).
The pattern of unethical and illegal intercountry adoption practices has persisted for decades, with the most recent revelation coming from South Korea. This month, in a groundbreaking investigation by the Associated Press, it was uncovered that the largest adoption agency in South Korea had falsified the records of a significant number of adoptees during the 1970s to 1990s. Korean adoptees comprise the largest intercountry adoptee diaspora, with over 200,000 people adopted out since 1953.
This was not simply a matter of inaccurate documentation; it was a systemic issue where children were stolen or their identities altered by adoption agencies to supply a demand from Western nations. This disturbing pattern, reflected in scandals across multiple countries, urges us to confront the uncomfortable reality that international adoption, in many instances, operates as a business—one where children become commodities.
As an intercountry adoptee myself, I believe it’s crucial to shift the narrative to focus on the voices of adoptees and their experiences, particularly around the trauma of realising they may have been stolen or separated from their birth families under false pretences.
It is estimated that over the last six decades, over a million ‘orphans’ were shipped to Western nations from around the world. Often, from some of the poorest countries recovering from war, drought and famine. In the aftermath of the Korean war, American adverts from adoption agencies implored American people to adopt “a needy, neglected Korean orphan”. Many people in the West were deeply moved by these pleas, driven by the desire to offer children a chance at a life far removed from the hardship of war-torn nations (Source).
According to the Associated Press, during the 1980s, as birth control and legal access to abortion became more widespread, the number of domestic adoptions declined. However, the demand for babies from Western nations remained high, fueling the growth of intercountry adoptions. South Korea saw this as an opportunity to alleviate financial burdens, but as most wartime orphans and mixed-race children had already been adopted, adoption agencies—both private and government-run—began looking for children from other parts of the population. Similar scenarios were being replicated worldwide, with The Telegraph reporting that intercountry adoptions peaked in the 1990s, with nearly 250,000 children adopted internationally during that decade.
It was during this time, that the Hague Convention on Private and International Law began drafting a treaty to begin enforcing a safeguarding process for adopted children. In 1995, the Hague Adoption Convention was ratified. It aimed to establish safeguards that intercountry adoptions take place in the best interests of the child, in respect to their fundamental human rights and protect those against child laundering, child trafficking, exploitation and abuse. As of 2021, 104 member states have ratified this treaty.
However, these safeguards alone have not been enough to fully protect children and eliminate illegal practices in intercountry adoption. Currently, the inter-parliamentary task force on human trafficking estimates that of the 8 million children living in orphanages around the world, approximately 80% of them have living relatives or kin (Source).
Adoption scandals are now coming to light at a dizzying rate, largely thanks to investigative journalism, the advocacy work of now-adult adoptees, the advancements and accessibility of DNA testing, the digitization of records and the widespread use of social media to connect and search for lost family. These combined efforts are now revealing the extent of unethical and illegal practices that took place over the last 40 to 50 years.
The fallout from these unethical practices has affected all members of the adoption triad: adopted individuals, many of whom are now grappling with the possibility of falsified records and being stolen; adoptive families, who were often completely unaware of the circumstances in the birth countries; and first families, who lost their children unwittingly, often through coercion or deceit.
I can’t tell you how often I’ve heard the harmful narratives surrounding intercountry adoption:
“You are so lucky.”
“You should be grateful.”
“Your adoption shouldn’t upset you, you were a baby”
These statements are standard micro-aggressions most adoptees have heard. Although they’re rarely said with harmful intent, they perpetuate damaging stereotypes, often under the guise of comfort. When you hear them repeatedly—through childhood and adulthood—they begin to undermine your feelings, your identity, and your sense of belonging.
It’s time to move past the romanticized notion that intercountry adoption is always a “beautiful” thing. As more stories emerge about the widespread theft of children, we must recognize intercountry adoption for what it often is—a complex, flawed system that has, in many cases, involved coercion, corruption, and the commodification of children. We need to centre the voices of adoptees and birth families, providing the space they need to process their trauma.
Adoptee voices matter.
Many intercountry adoptees, particularly Korean adoptees, are now emotionally reeling from recent revelations. It’s devastating not to know whether your adoption records are truthful or falsified. I understand this feeling intimately as a Nepalese adoptee. I may never truly “know” if my own papers are accurate—if I was really ‘found’ or if a family is out there wanting to find me.
For countless adoptees, this is becoming their reality. Imagine spending your life believing certain facts about your origin, only to later learn they might not be true. This can evoke deep emotional responses and leave adoptees grappling with existential questions about their identity.
As I’ve written before, adoptees are already more likely to face mental health challenges and are disproportionately represented in mental healthcare systems (source and source). From an early age, many intercountry adoptees must confront the immense loss of their first family, their cultural roots, and their racial mirrors. This loss can profoundly affect their sense of self-worth, identity, and ability to form healthy relationships.
Being adopted is a lifelong journey. For most intercountry adoptees, we carry the shadows of the life we didn’t live and the family we didn’t have. When news like this surfaces, those feelings of loss and displacement often become even more pronounced.
This blog isn’t about offering a host of solutions. Processing shocking news generally takes time. I hope that adoptees manage to give themselves the time and space they need to process, whether that be privately, in adoptee-lead communities (such as ICAV), or with a therapist.
The only concrete advice I can offer is that whatever emotions you’re feeling are valid. Personally, I’ve oscillated between feeling emotionally empty, angry, and deeply sad as I process the recent news.
Looking ahead, I hope that society becomes more attuned to the complexity of adoptee experiences and meets them with genuine empathy, not judgment or expectations. Adoptees deserve to express their realities without being told how to feel or that they should be "grateful."
Intercountry adoption often carries deep layers of trauma, grief, and loss. To truly support adoptees, we must centre their voices, acknowledge their trauma, and provide spaces where they can navigate their experiences without the burden of external narratives.
