When Russia looks for partners, it lands on North Korea
On September 11, 2023, two leaders bound together by isolation and mutual need moved toward one another — Kim Jong Un's distinctive train rolling toward the Russian border, Vladimir Putin waiting in Vladivostok. What drew them was not friendship but necessity: Russia's war in Ukraine had consumed its ammunition reserves, and North Korea held vast stockpiles it was willing to trade for something far more dangerous than shells. The world watched not merely a diplomatic meeting, but the slow crystallization of an axis shaped by shared confrontation with the West.
- Kim Jong Un's armored green train was spotted idling at the North Korea-Russia border on the evening of September 11th, poised to cross into a meeting that Western officials had been dreading for weeks.
- Russia's grinding war in Ukraine has depleted its ammunition to the point where, according to a senior Biden adviser, North Korea may be Moscow's best — and only — remaining supplier.
- In exchange for tens of millions of artillery shells, Kim is believed to be seeking advanced ICBM technology, nuclear-capable submarine systems, and military satellite capabilities that could dramatically sharpen North Korea's nuclear threat.
- The meeting carries the weight of a relationship transformed: since Russia's 2022 invasion of Ukraine, what was once an inconsistent partnership has hardened into a strategic alignment against American influence.
- Analysts warn that even if this summit yields more symbolism than substance, any technology transfer to Pyongyang would ripple outward — raising the threat level for the United States, South Korea, and Japan simultaneously.
On Monday, September 11, 2023, both the Kremlin and North Korea's state news agency confirmed what Western intelligence had been signaling for days: Kim Jong Un was traveling to Russia to meet Vladimir Putin. The Kremlin's statement was brief — the visit would occur "in the coming days" at Putin's invitation. North Korea offered even less, saying only that the two leaders would "meet and have a talk."
By that evening, journalists near the border had spotted Kim's distinctive green-and-yellow train sitting at a station on the North Korean side of the river crossing. It moved back and forth near the bridge but had not yet crossed. South Korean outlets reported the train had likely left Pyongyang the night before, and that a meeting could come as early as Tuesday. Vladivostok was the expected venue — Putin was already there for an international forum, and the city had hosted their first summit in 2019.
What gave the journey its weight was not the pageantry of Kim's travel but what each man needed from the other. Russia, exhausted by its war in Ukraine, was running short on ammunition. North Korea was estimated to hold tens of millions of Soviet-designed artillery shells — a potential lifeline for Moscow's depleted forces. In return, Kim sought energy aid, food assistance, and something far more consequential: advanced technology for intercontinental ballistic missiles, nuclear-capable submarines, and reconnaissance satellites.
The relationship between Moscow and Pyongyang had been transformed by the Ukraine war. For decades it was complicated and inconsistent. But Russia's invasion in February 2022 changed the math entirely. The U.S. had already accused North Korea of supplying arms to the Russian mercenary group Wagner — denied by both sides — and suspicions deepened after Russian Defense Minister Shoigu visited Pyongyang in July, where Kim showcased ICBMs and toured weapons factories, urging workers to accelerate ammunition production.
The stakes were stark. Any transfer of advanced missile or submarine technology to North Korea would amplify a nuclear arsenal already aimed at the United States, South Korea, and Japan. Jon Finer, Biden's deputy national security adviser, told reporters that North Korean weapons may be Moscow's best remaining option — and noted the grim irony of a global power reduced to seeking partnerships in Pyongyang.
Some analysts counseled restraint, noting that Russia had historically protected its most sensitive technologies even from close allies, and that the rail link between the two countries was too limited to move supplies at scale. A summit might deliver solidarity more than substance. But the train was moving, the meeting was coming, and the pressures of war, nuclear ambition, and isolation were converging in ways that few could afford to dismiss.
Kim Jong Un was on the move. On Monday, September 11, 2023, both the Kremlin and North Korea's state news agency confirmed what Western intelligence officials had been warning about for days: the North Korean leader would travel to Russia to meet with Vladimir Putin. The announcement came terse and official—a brief statement on the Kremlin's website said the visit would happen "in the coming days" at Putin's invitation. North Korea's Korean Central News Agency echoed the confirmation without offering specifics about timing or location, only that the two leaders would "meet and have a talk."
By that same Monday evening, journalists working near the North Korea-Russia border had spotted a distinctive green train with yellow trim sitting at a station on the North Korean side of the border river. The train, similar to ones Kim had used for previous diplomatic journeys, was observed moving back and forth between the station and the bridge connecting the two countries, though it had not yet crossed. South Korean news outlets, citing unnamed government sources, reported that the train had likely departed Pyongyang the previous evening and that a meeting between Kim and Putin could happen as early as Tuesday. The eastern Russian city of Vladivostok emerged as the likely venue—Putin was already there attending an international forum that would run through Wednesday, and the city had hosted their first meeting in 2019.
What made this journey significant was not the spectacle of Kim's travel but what it represented: a deepening military partnership between two isolated powers, each needing what the other could provide. U.S. officials had released intelligence the week prior indicating that Russia and North Korea were arranging this meeting as part of expanding cooperation in the face of confrontations with Washington. The concerns were concrete and urgent. Russia, bleeding ammunition in its grinding war in Ukraine, needed supplies. North Korea possessed what analysts estimated to be tens of millions of artillery shells and rockets based on Soviet designs—a potential windfall for Moscow's depleted reserves. In exchange, Kim sought energy assistance, food aid, and something far more consequential: advanced weapons technologies related to intercontinental ballistic missiles, nuclear-capable submarines, and military reconnaissance satellites.
The trajectory of this relationship had shifted dramatically since Russia's invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. For decades, Moscow and Pyongyang had maintained a complicated, inconsistent partnership. But the war had changed the calculus. Putin needed ammunition and manpower; Kim needed to demonstrate that his traditional allies—Russia and China—remained committed to him, and that North Korea was not isolated but part of a united front against American influence. The U.S. had been accusing North Korea since the previous year of already providing Russia with arms, including artillery shells supplied to the Russian mercenary group Wagner, though both Moscow and Pyongyang denied the claims. But the suspicions hardened after Russian Defense Minister Sergei Shoigu visited North Korea in July, where Kim had invited him to an arms exhibition and a massive military parade showcasing ICBMs designed to strike the American mainland. Following that visit, Kim had toured North Korean weapons factories, including a facility producing artillery systems, where he urged workers to accelerate production of new ammunition types. Experts interpreted these factory visits as having a dual purpose: modernizing North Korea's own arsenal while examining supplies that could be exported to Russia.
The potential consequences rippled outward. If Russia transferred advanced weapons technology to North Korea—particularly technology related to intercontinental ballistic missiles or submarine-based systems—it would substantially increase the threat posed by Kim's growing nuclear arsenal, which was already designed to target the United States, South Korea, and Japan. Jon Finer, President Biden's chief deputy national security adviser, told reporters on Sunday that buying weapons from North Korea "may be the best and may be the only option" available to Moscow as it struggled to sustain its war effort. "It is interesting to reflect for a minute on what it says that when Russia goes around the world looking for partners that can help it, it lands on North Korea," Finer said.
Yet some analysts urged caution about reading too much into the symbolism. Russia had historically guarded its most advanced weapons technologies jealously, even from close allies like China. The rail link between Russia and North Korea was small, limiting the volume of supplies that could be transported. A meeting between Kim and Putin might yield more symbolic value—demonstrating solidarity, signaling alignment—than it would produce immediate, substantial military cooperation. Still, the train was moving. The meeting was coming. And the calculus of the Ukraine war, the nuclear ambitions of North Korea, and the desperation of Russia were converging in ways that would reshape the security landscape of multiple continents.
Citas Notables
Buying weapons from North Korea may be the best and may be the only option open to Moscow as it tries to keep its war effort going.— Jon Finer, U.S. President Biden's chief deputy national security adviser
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does it matter that Kim is using a train instead of a plane? Isn't that just logistics?
It's actually a window into how these leaders think about power and image. Kim's father was famously afraid of flying. By using the train, Kim is reviving a symbol of his family's dynastic rule—it's a statement about continuity and control. It also signals that he's comfortable enough with the journey to take his time, which suggests confidence in the partnership.
What does Russia actually need from North Korea that it can't get elsewhere?
Ammunition, primarily. Russia has burned through its Soviet-era stockpiles at a pace it didn't anticipate. North Korea has tens of millions of shells and rockets sitting in storage—weapons designed to fit Russian systems. No other country is willing to sell to Russia right now because of sanctions. North Korea doesn't care about sanctions because it's already isolated.
And what does Kim get in return?
The harder currency: technology. He wants help with intercontinental ballistic missiles, submarine-based systems, reconnaissance satellites. If Russia shares that knowledge, it transforms North Korea's nuclear threat from regional to global. That's worth more to Kim than food aid, though he needs that too.
Would Russia actually share that technology? It seems risky.
That's the open question. Russia has never been generous with its most advanced weapons tech, even with allies. But desperation changes calculations. If the Ukraine war drags on and ammunition runs out, Putin might decide that a more capable North Korean arsenal is a price worth paying for immediate supplies.
What does this mean for the U.S. and its allies?
It means the war in Ukraine could last longer than expected, and it means North Korea's nuclear threat grows. Those two things are connected now. The more Russia needs North Korea, the more leverage Kim has to demand technology transfers. And the more technology he gets, the more pressure the U.S. feels to negotiate—because a protracted conflict starts to look unwinnable.