Is Squid Game based on real-life? Brothers’ Home Story

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If you’re checking out this article, chances are you’re wondering whether Squid Game is based on real-life events. The short answer? Yes… and no.

While the creator of Squid Game hasn’t officially stated that the story was inspired by specific real-life events, there are far too many similarities to ignore. Let me tell you about one such story that might make you see the show in a different light.

1982 – Jong is kidnapped

Jong was only 9 years old when it happened. He had gone to the playground with his neighbor, just like any other day. But while his neighbor stepped away for a moment, two police officers approached Jong.

They told him to come with them. Jong resisted, saying he was with someone and needed to wait. But the officers insisted—and eventually forced him into their van.

Jong quickly realized he wasn’t alone. The van was already filled with other children. Some were quiet, others crying—but all of them looked just as confused and scared as he was.

And Jong wasn’t the only one this happened to. All across the area, kids were being taken. It didn’t matter if they were homeless, poor, or from seemingly “safe” families—no one was off-limits.

The van drove for what felt like forever. And when it finally stopped, the place they arrived at wasn’t a police station. It wasn’t a home. It wasn’t anything close to safety.

It was something much darker. Something close to hell.

Welcome to Brothers’ Home

After Jong arrived at the destination, it didn’t take long for him to realize—this place was hell.

The moment the van doors opened, chaos hit him in the face. Children were screaming, crying, some begging to go home. But any sign of resistance was met with brutal force. Officers stormed in, armed with baseball bats—some of them studded with nails. They didn’t hesitate. The beatings came fast and hard, meant not just to hurt, but to terrify.

It didn’t take long for the message to sink in: fight back, and you suffer. Cry out, and it only gets worse. The kids learned quickly that survival here meant silence. Obedience. Submission.

Whatever this place was… it was no ordinary prison.

Shortly after, the children were marched through the massive gates—just like the ones in the photo above. They were towering, cold, and built to make sure no one could ever escape. There were no handles, no cracks to grip, nothing that could offer even the slightest chance of freedom.

This wasn’t a school, or a shelter. It was a concentration camp.

As Jong looked around, he began to notice the details. Every person—now a prisoner—wore the exact same uniform. It looked like a tracksuit, each one marked with a number stitched onto the chest. Just like in Squid Game.

Anything personal had been stripped away. No photos, no keepsakes, not even their own clothes. Everything was taken.

Even their names.

It was forbidden to call anyone by name. Talking about your past was dangerous. From that moment on, they weren’t people anymore—they were just numbers. Nameless. Forgotten.

While Jong stood in line, being drilled on the rules of the camp, something unexpected happened.

One of the officers turned his head, distracted by movement in the distance. Jong followed his gaze—and saw a man standing on the edge of a nearby building.

The guard shouted, trying to stop him. His voice echoed through the camp. But it was too late.

The man didn’t flinch. He didn’t look back. Without a word, he stepped forward—and fell.

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.

That was the moment it truly hit Jong. This wasn’t just a nightmare. This wasn’t a place he could escape by following the rules.

This place was hell.

Brothers’ Home community

The concentration camp was, in a twisted way, built like a community.

It had everything you’d expect from a small town: a church, schools, workplaces, even a hairdresser. In total, there were over 60 buildings, all arranged in a circular layout—like a massive, hollowed-out stadium. But there was nothing comforting about it.

At the very center of the camp was a wide, open circle. That space was reserved for one thing: blood.

Prisoners were dragged there and forced to fight each other—often to the death—while the guards watched from above, cheering like spectators at some sick sporting event. And when boredom crept in, the guards found other ways to entertain themselves.

Sometimes, they’d bring a prisoner into the circle just to torture them. Jong once saw a man forced to the ground as guards took turns jumping on his head, again and again, until the body stopped moving.

This place may have looked like a community from a distance—but up close, it was a machine built for cruelty. A place designed not just to imprison the body, but to crush the spirit.

After Jong went through the brutal initiation, the next step was “registration.”

Each prisoner was taken in front of a camera. There, they were handed a number—their new identity—and dressed in a plain blue tracksuit. Their photo was taken and filed away, locking them into the system. It was clear: no one was meant to escape, and if they tried, they would be hunted down.

Jong was now just a number. A name erased. A face in a file.

But he wasn’t alone.

The camp held more than 3,500 prisoners—men, women, and children. Among them were around 900 kids, just like Jong, between the ages of 4 and 13. Some could barely walk. Others didn’t even understand where they were or why they were there.

There was no mercy. No exceptions.

Everyone wore the same clothes. Everyone had a number. And everyone, regardless of age, was treated as property of the system.

Life in Brothers Home

On Jong’s second day in the camp, reality hit even harder.

At exactly 5 a.m., a deafening alarm rang through the air—sharp, metallic, and impossible to ignore. Jong jolted awake, disoriented. But what shocked him more was how quickly everyone else reacted.

In seconds, the room came alive. Dozens of prisoners leapt out of bed, moving with robotic precision. Beds were being made at lightning speed, every corner tucked perfectly, every sheet smooth. It was like they had done this a thousand times.

Jong, still groggy and confused, hadn’t even touched his blanket.

He didn’t understand yet—how strict the rules were, how every second mattered. And more importantly, how failure was punished.

Anyone who didn’t have their bed made in time faced the consequences. Guards would storm in, pulling prisoners from their bunks and beating them mercilessly—sometimes with batons, other times with fists, or worse.

That morning, Jong learned the first unspoken law of the camp:
Be fast. Be quiet. Be invisible. Or be hurt.

New prisoners were never given instructions.

There were no briefings, no explanations—only fear. You were expected to learn by watching others. Do what they do. Move when they move. And if you didn’t? You’d be beaten until you couldn’t stand—sometimes until you blacked out.

Jong learned that quickly.

Not long after the alarm, all prisoners were marched out into the center of the camp for the daily count. They stood in rigid lines, surrounded by guards. Every head was counted, every number checked. If someone was missing—whether escaped or dead—the entire group paid the price.

Once the count was over, the prisoners were herded to the showers.

But this wasn’t a place for hygiene. It was another layer of punishment.

Each person was given a pinch of salt—meant to serve as both soap and toothpaste. No real cleaning products, no bandages for wounds. And many of them had wounds—open, raw, infected. The salt burned like fire on their skin.

They were given exactly three seconds. No more.

Anyone who lingered was struck with a baton and dragged out.

And then, the real suffering began.

Regardless of age—whether you were 8 or 80—you were forced to work. Some were sent to sew clothes. Others to the hairdresser. Many to harsh, physical labor. The workdays stretched between 15 and 20 hours, often without breaks. Sleep became a luxury. Rest was a weakness.

The camp didn’t care who you were before. Here, you were just a number. A tool.

And tools were meant to be used until they broke.

Life in Brothers’ Home – Torture

The guards had their favorite ways of punishing prisoners—and they made no effort to hide it.

One of the most common methods was brutal and personal: beatings with baseball bats, many of them wrapped in nails. The guards would swing without hesitation, driving the nails deep into skin and muscle. Blood was just part of the routine. Screams were background noise.

Another form of torture—just as cruel—was jumping on the heads of prisoners. They’d force someone to the ground, often already weakened or unconscious, and then take turns stomping or leaping on their skull until they stopped moving. It wasn’t punishment anymore. It was sport.

And the pain didn’t end there.

Even in daily routines, cruelty was woven in. Prisoners were still expected to wash themselves using only salt—even when their bodies were covered in open wounds. The salt seared through broken flesh, but complaints meant more beatings.

Another favorite method of torment was hanging prisoners upside down for hours at a time. Blood rushed to their heads. Limbs went numb. Some passed out. Others screamed until they couldn’t scream anymore.

There were no breaks. No moments of peace. Only pain, exhaustion, and the constant reminder that mercy didn’t exist here.

Prisoners were fed once, maybe twice a day—if the guards felt generous. The meals were never enough, and never clean. Most of the time, they were handed a small portion of rice, often spoiled, crawling with worms or coated in mold. The stench alone was enough to make some vomit.

But the alternative was worse: starvation.

Sometimes, they were given soup—but “soup” was too kind a word. It was little more than murky water with a thin layer of oil floating on top. No flavor. No nutrition. Just enough to keep them barely alive, just enough to keep them working.

It wasn’t food—it was control.

Hunger gnawed at their stomachs constantly, and the few who dared to complain were beaten or denied their next meal entirely. Eating became an act of survival, not comfort.

At one point, Jong faced something even more horrifying than beatings or forced labor.

He was brought into a room where over a hundred men—both guards and prisoners—stood waiting. What they were waiting for became clear far too quickly.

Jong was just a child. But in that moment, he wasn’t seen as a person. He was a body to be used.

He later said that what happened to him left him so broken, so physically damaged, that he bled constantly and could no longer sit without pain. The injuries were deep—but the emotional scars ran even deeper.

The shame, the trauma, the silence—it consumed him.

Jong carried that weight for decades, unable to speak about it. Not to anyone. Not even to himself. It wasn’t until he turned 50 that he found the strength to finally say the words out loud.

It wasn’t just pain he had endured—it was the complete erasure of his humanity.

At night, fear never truly left the prisoners.

Without warning or reason, guards would storm into the rooms, dragging people away. Those taken never knew if they’d come back—or if they’d come back at all. What happened behind closed doors was brutal and merciless, leaving the camp shrouded in dread long after the alarms died down.

The women in the camp suffered in their own unbearable way.

If a woman vomited—no matter the cause—the guards would assume she was pregnant. They would take her to a so-called doctor, who injected an unknown substance directly into her abdomen. The purpose was clear: to end any pregnancy immediately.

The substance was a secret then, and remains unknown even today.

Sometimes, the injections made women violently ill. Some didn’t survive.

It was another form of control. Another way to strip away their bodies and their hopes

“Fun and Games”

Sometimes, in the early morning, the guards would come for the prisoners—separating them from their work with no warning.

One day, Jong was pulled aside by a guard who offered a cruel “choice.” Instead of working all day, he said, Jong could play a game. But this wasn’t any innocent children’s game. It was a deadly challenge invented by the guards for their own twisted entertainment—one you couldn’t afford to lose.

“Right now, form a bridge!” the guard barked.

The prisoners had to lock their bodies together—not just standing, but creating a long, unbroken human bridge, like a many-legged creature crawling across the floor. If even one person faltered, if a single body wobbled or gave way, the whole group faced brutal punishment.

The guards forced them to hold the position for half an hour or longer. Sometimes, they would shove children down, then beat them mercilessly for failing to keep the bridge intact.

At night, the cruelty grew even worse.

Sometimes, guards would shout “Hiroshima!”—a signal everyone feared.

At that command, prisoners had to hang upside down by their beds. If they slipped even a little, if their grip faltered, the beating that followed could be fatal.

Many would pass out from the blood rushing to their heads, collapsing and breaking their necks—or waking paralyzed.

Those who became too weak or injured to work were sent to a place prisoners called the “Zombie Zone.”

There, people were left to die slowly—starved, forgotten, given only the barest scraps of food. It was a living death.

In another twisted game, two prisoners would be chosen at random—forced to fight each other to the death.

Age didn’t matter. Children fought adults. Adults were expected to beat the kids, or else both fighters would be punished—sometimes tortured, sometimes killed—in front of everyone.

The fights were a brutal spectacle, watched by crowds that included mysterious visitors dressed in elegant, colorful costumes. Their faces were unreadable, but their eyes gleamed with cold amusement.

Sometimes, the guards would offer a strange kind of “reward.”

They’d bring prisoners odd, unrecognizable food—sometimes disgusting, sometimes dangerous—and demand they eat it all.

Those who complied were spared from playing the deadly games that day.

Many kids, hungry and desperate, ate whatever was given to them, whispering “thank you” even though the food was far from a kindness. For them, any meal was a rare mercy.

A family reunion

Two years after Jong was taken, a new van arrived at the camp, bringing a fresh group of prisoners.

Among them, Jong saw someone he never expected to see again—his father.

After Jong disappeared, his father had spiraled into despair. The pain of losing his son shattered him, and he drowned his grief in alcohol. Desperate, he had gone to the officers, begging them to help find Jong.

But the officers couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help. Some of them were even responsible for Jong’s kidnapping.

When they saw how drunk and broken Jong’s father had become, they didn’t offer sympathy. Instead, they locked him away in prison, as if punishing him for his grief.

Who is behind Brothers’ Home

The Brothers’ Welfare Center was the company behind Brothers’ Home—a state-owned organization supposedly created to help homeless people, outcasts, and those pushed to the edges of society get back on their feet.

But the truth was far darker.

Brothers’ Welfare Center ran multiple locations, all with conditions just as bad—or even worse—than the one Jong was trapped in. Their real goal wasn’t to help people but to get rid of the homeless, the poor, and anyone considered an outcast in South Korea.

This campaign ramped up in the lead-up to two major events: the 1986 Asian Games and the 1988 Olympic Games—both South Korea’s first time hosting.

The government wanted to “clean up” the streets, to present a polished image to the world. So, they created programs like this one—offering “help” that was anything but kind.

To keep up appearances, the company’s marketing team even forced prisoners to act as if life inside was good. They made them smile on camera, pretend they were being cared for and helped.

Those staged ads would then air on TV, hiding the truth behind a glossy, deceptive facade.

While the official goal was to remove homeless people from the streets, things quickly spiraled out of control.

Employees were given extra money for every person they brought into the centers, so they started rounding up anyone they could find—no questions asked.

It didn’t matter if the person was actually homeless, or if they had medical issues. It didn’t matter if they had a family, a home, or a job.

All that mattered was the payday.

As a result, perfectly healthy people—people with lives, with families—were being abducted off the streets and thrown into the system.

How did Brothers’ Home get closed

Back in 1986, Mr. Kim, a prosecutor from South Korea, went hunting in the forest near the concentration camp.

From a distance, he noticed prisoners working under the watchful eyes of guards who casually smoked and gripped baseball bats wrapped with nails.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he moved closer.

What he saw shocked him—prisoners shackled with heavy chains around their legs, unable to move freely.

As a prosecutor, Mr. Kim decided to investigate further.

He soon uncovered a horrifying truth: beyond the 3,500 adult prisoners, there were nearly 900 children—many of whom had been officially declared missing.

Park Chung Hee, the third president of South Korea, gave a chilling order: the streets had to be “cleansed.”

Behind the Brothers’ Home was none other than Park In-geun, handpicked by the president himself to run this concentration camp.

With the president’s backing, Park In-geun was untouchable—completely invincible.

No one dared stand in his way.

When authorities finally raided Park In-geun’s home, they found something shocking: $8 million in cash.

This was money that was supposed to care for the prisoners—but much of it was actually made from the forced labor the prisoners were subjected to.

More than 500 people died inside Brothers’ Home alone.

At first, many believed the government had done its job by taking care of the homeless—even if they didn’t fully understand the horrors that had taken place behind the walls.

But soon, a legal case against Park In-geun began.

He was convicted of negligence and sentenced to two years and six months in prison.

The concentration camp was shut down, and the prisoners were finally freed.

But many had spent over a decade there, enduring unimaginable torture.

Some were sent to psychological centers—places that, in many ways, were just as cruel as Brothers’ Home.

The camps closed in 1987, but the survivors stayed silent for 25 years, ostracized and ignored by society.

Then, in 2011, a group of victims and supporters took to the streets, cutting their hair in the same way prisoners had been forced to.

They protested for four years in front of government buildings, demanding justice.

But the government refused to act, claiming that too much time had passed and nothing could be done.

In 2016, Park In-geun died.

And in 2025, the victims finally took the state to court.

The legal battle is still ongoing.

Back to Squid Game

Altough not confirmed, it’s been said that Squid Game was prepared 10 years ago, but they were waiting to be allowed by South Koreea to make it public since the show directly attacks the issue of Brothers’ Home.

What do you think, did Squid Game help making justice to the prisoners of Brothers’ Home?

Extra: photos from Brother’s Home