This is part five of Mama Asia, a long-form journalism series in which Sally Sara meets 11 inspirational Asian women.

I've Googled the hell out of leprosy. So let me save you the search. It's a treatable disease, it doesn't make people's limbs drop off and it's not highly infectious. My chance of contracting it, even here at a leper colony, is almost zero.

Well, that's the rational stuff.

I'm sitting on the floor with four people who have had leprosy for most of their lives. One is missing a nose, another is blind and another has no legs.

A volunteer has just delivered some scoops of watermelon, but there's not enough cutlery for everyone. We have to share. The spoons are passed from hand to hand, mouth to mouth around the circle. I take my turn too.

Some of the people in the room can see me, others can only hear me. I wonder if they are picking up my nervousness and my stupid embarrassment.

Leprosy has stoked fear for thousands of years. It's a strange illness, in that it's not about pain but rather the lack of it. People's arms and legs don't suddenly fall off, like something from a Monty Python movie. People with leprosy lose sensation, lose the ability to feel pain in their limbs. That means they accidently injure themselves, without knowing. Infections, cuts, burns and fractures can go unnoticed. The loss of limbs is the sum of these incidents, often followed by surgery and amputations. It's not a spontaneous event.

I know all that. But here I am, sitting and rolling the watermelon around and around in my mouth, stalling for time. I'm the odd one out - the only person in the room who doesn't have leprosy.

This is the home of Yong-Duk Kim - she's a plump woman with short, thin hair and soft skin. Kim has lost her hands, legs and sight to leprosy. Her left hand has only buds where her fingers used to be. Her stumps are calloused from years of work and moving herself around. She has a wheelchair, but when she's home she spends much of her time on the floor. There's extra padding under the lino so she doesn't hurt her stumps.

Her husband is tall, fit and athletic - he wears a Panama hat and sunglasses to hide his blind eyes. He sits on the floor leaning against the door-frame for a while, listening to the conversation until he gets bored and goes into the bedroom. I watch him search through the bedside table until he finds a bottle of aftershave.

Kim can hear and smell what he's doing and scolds him in Korean. He finds his way to the door, takes his white cane and goes out. Kim's voice rules this house.

It's a strange cross-over of senses and awareness. I can see and hear everything that is going on in the apartment, but I can't understand Korean. Kim can understand, but can't see. Later she tells me she can guess my height and build by the sound of my voice. She also decides if people are beautiful, not by their physical appearance, but their character, when she hears them talk. Appearance doesn't mean a lot here.

"I get a lot from hearing. As soon as they start talking I think, 'oh they are a tall person' or they are not. I really listen for their personality. I can hear if they are calm and relaxed or the opposite. I could tell you were tall straight away.

"I can tell if someone is fat because they have a gruff kind of rolling voice, just like me."

Kim and her husband have lived most of their lives here: a leprosy colony on Sorok Island (Sorokdo), just off the coast of South Korea. In the early days, under Japanese rule, it was a place of isolation and cruelty. Korea was formally annexed by Japan in 1910, and until the end of World War II its officials ran many Korean institutions, including this leprosy colony.

But the days are softer now. People who spent their youth enduring forced labour on Sorok are now free. They ride around the island on motorised scooters and live in apartments instead of dormitories.

It's become home.

Some residents have never been to the mainland. Others don't even know where their families are living now. Kim is one of them. She's originally from Pyongyang, a city now on the wrong side of the Korean border and out of reach for most. But that is where her story began in the 1930s.

At first, Yong-Duk Kim wasn't ashamed of her illness. She thought she'd been given some wonderful powers that other children didn't have. She didn't feel pain. She could skip barefoot on the cobble-stones until her feet bled, but it never hurt. She thought maybe she was brave or special.

But then the whispering started. Parents and children would push her away.

"There was definitely finger pointing and a lot of words from the locals. I wanted to play with the other kids but of course they wouldn't let me. They would say I was diseased.

"When I kept getting hurt and I wasn't feeling anything, they finally sat me down and started pricking me with needles all over. I didn't feel anything, so my aunt started to cry, because she realised what was happening."

My grandmother would just cry and cry and say, 'What are we supposed to do with you? What are we supposed to do with you?'.

Yong Duk-Kim was diagnosed with leprosy when she was 10 years old. Her older brother already had the disease, so the family knew the signs. In Pyongyang in the late 1930s, there was no cure and little tolerance for the disease.

"As it progressed, my eyebrows fell out and I would get hurt on my hands and the skin would come off. I would stop feeling sensation in my arms and I would feel this numbness.

"At a very young age, there was a train track in front of one of the houses we were staying in and I wanted to lay there and just die, but I was too afraid to do it. I wanted to jump in the river too, but I lacked the courage.

"My grandmother would just cry and cry and say, 'What are we supposed to do with you? What are we supposed to do with you?'."

There was much fear and discrimination surrounding leprosy at the time. Those who had the disease were isolated from the rest of the community. Kim's grandmother had to register her brother at the police station. He was sent by train to a leprosy colony in the south of the country. Officials rented an entire carriage for him because they feared he was contagious.

Kim's grandmother didn't want her to be sent away. But it meant hiding Kim, like a secret. Few landlords wanted a child with leprosy staying at their property, so Kim and her grandmother ended up in boarding houses that were home to the broken and unwanted.

"In the houses we went to, the people were in a worse-off state than we were ... If we went to a normal house, they wouldn't have put up for me. So my grandmother deliberately looked for these kinds of houses, to find rooms to rent."

But as Kim's illness worsened, the rooms became harder and harder to find.

Her grandmother decided there was no choice but to take her to the leprosy colony where Kim's brother was living. It was a journey of more than 500 kilometres from Pyongyang in the north to Sorok Island off the south coast.

Kim's grandmother tried her best to cover up the scars and sores from Kim's leprosy.

Sorok Island Sorok Island (Sorokdo) is named for its appearance, meaning 'small deer'.

Sorok Island (Sorokdo) is named for its appearance, meaning 'small deer'. Sorok has housed a leprosy colony since 1916, first established during the Japanese occupation.

Sorok has housed a leprosy colony since 1916, first established during the Japanese occupation. At its peak, there were about 6,000 patients.

At its peak, there were about 6,000 patients. Leprosy patients were forcibly segregated and inhumane treatment was common.

Leprosy patients were forcibly segregated and inhumane treatment was common. During Japanese rule, a patient killed the facility's director, Masasue Suo.

During Japanese rule, a patient killed the facility's director, Masasue Suo. Today, Sorok houses a modern hospital that remains home for a number of leprosy patients.

Today, Sorok houses a modern hospital that remains home for a number of leprosy patients. It also has a museum that tells the story of the island's stark history.

It also has a museum that tells the story of the island's stark history. Since 2009, Sorok has been connected to the mainland via bridge.

"I had long-sleeved cloths and a scarf. But even then you could still see my face and my missing eyebrows, which was dangerous - they would know something was wrong. My grandmother got a flying cap that was very popular with boys at that time. It came low, so it covered up my eyebrows and that way my disease was pretty much hidden."

It was December and winter was biting hard across Korea. They were forced off trains and buses and denied accommodation due to fears Kim was contagious. One inn owner threw them out into the cold, so they asked a stranger for help.

"A young man led us to another inn and asked if they had a room. We were able to get in the room without the owner looking at me. The first thing my grandmother did was push me right into bed and pushed the covers over my head. She kept me hidden. When the inn-keeper came and asked if we wanted to eat, my grandmother said I had a touch of the flu and couldn't eat.

"My grandmother accepted the food and as soon as he left she got me up and said, eat quickly. I ate and then we went to bed.

"We were sleeping, it was late in the night. Suddenly the inn-keeper opened the door and told us, 'get out right now'. The other inn-keeper had come by and told her about us."

They eventually walked to Nokdong and tried to get a ticket on the ferry to Sorok Island, but they were repeatedly turned away. They spent another night sleeping in the open.

"We walked until the end of town, we leaned against a wall and we wrapped ourselves up in my grandmother's skirts and just huddled there for the night. I was very hungry."

The leprosy patients on Sorok Island were under the command of Japanese administrators and guards. Kim's grandmother had learned to speak Japanese while working as a domestic servant in Pyongyang. But to Kim it was all foreign.

"We arrived at the main office. The main administrator and Japanese officials were there with my grandmother and my brother. The Japanese people were saying things I couldn't understand and my grandmother was bowing and saying, 'thank you, thank you'. She took out her purse and gave me some money, but they said I wouldn't need it here, everything is taken care of.

"Suddenly we had to separate. My grandmother was crying. She was wiping her tears with the edge of her skirt and looking back.

"To this day I have no idea, after my grandmother left, how she lived or what happened, or anything. That was the last I ever heard or saw of her."

Kim was 11 years old when she arrived on Sorok Island, she wouldn't leave again for 60 years. Sorok was her home, whether she liked it or not, and she lived there with more than 6,000 leprosy patients.

She was one of the youngest patients sleeping in the female dormitory. The women looked after her, making sure she was fed and bathed. But the daily routine imposed by the Japanese guards was strict and unrelenting.

"Life here was very difficult. Of course at that time Japan was starting the war so things changed rapidly. There wasn't enough food, so we were hungry all the time. We worked a lot and we weren't paid for a single thing that we did.

"We had to make bricks, there was a brick factory. We had to work with our hands, it was very hard. After the bricks were made and they were fired, a big boat would come and the bricks would be put on that boat. Another way of putting it is, the boss of the hospital was really a businessman. We didn't receive a cent of those profits.

"The women were put to work making rice sacks. When we were making those rice sacks, if you were slow, the Japanese would come with their knives and stick their knives. They would just slash the bag and say you didn't do it correctly. They would make the bag unusable. They were horrible people. We had to start again.

"We would usually wake up at four in the morning for adults and five in the morning for children. School started at one. From third grade onwards, you were expected, right up until you went to school, to move bricks. It could be 700 or 1,000 bricks, whatever they told you was the quota for the day. By the time you unloaded those things, of course you were late for school every day.

"Because I was a kid, the most bricks I could carry was three or four bricks at a time. I would carry them on my head. Really strong women would carry 15 bricks at a time. My body was whole at that time, so I was able to do that."

The island is only a short ferry ride from the mainland but it was far enough. Many of the patients were disfigured by leprosy, making it hard for them to blend in if they escaped.

"Women didn't even try to escape, they didn't have the strength or the energy. Sometimes men would try to escape. They would normally try to get across by swimming. But often they would drown because they didn't know how to swim.

"Once they got to shore, of course all their clothes were wet, so they would take clothes from whatever clothesline that happened to be around, whether it was men's clothes or women's clothes. Of course they looked ridiculous, especially if they were wearing women's clothes.

"Even if I wanted to go, there was nothing there waiting for me. My hometown was in the north and that was blocked off pretty quickly."

Most of the patients were resigned to their life on Sorok Island. It was one of the biggest leprosy colonies in the world. The administrator was a brutally efficient Japanese doctor, Masasue Suo. He built a statue of himself and each morning the patients were rounded up for a parade. They were forced to bow to Dr Suo and his statue and sing songs in Japanese.

"If I look at it from a Christian perspective, I have forgiven them a little. They just did things that were absolutely incredible. People were afraid to go to the hospital. People would come back and scrub their skin with salt water wherever some ointment was applied, to wash out whatever was applied. The Japanese would look at us, the child patients, they would hold up a pine branch and say, 'you are not even worth this branch to us'."

But in 1942 one of the patients, a young man called Chunsun Lee, could no longer forgive. Kim was only a few metres behind him in the parade, she noticed him walking in a stilted way. He was clasping something under his clothes. When it was Chunsun Lee's turn to bow, he pulled out a knife and fatally stabbed Dr Suo in the neck.

"The patients loved it, we were really happy. But we weren't able to show that, so we just stood there a little afraid because we didn't know what was going to happen next. They caught him right away and tied him up and took him away. He was a legend and a hero amongst the patients, we still remember him."

Lee was eventually executed for the killing. But time was running out for the Japanese administrators of the island.

When Japan lost World War II and Korea was liberated, the Japanese fled Sorok.

"It was so joyful at that time, it was so exciting. There were people crying and people dancing everywhere. Everyone thought, 'finally we won't be hungry any more. We won't be put to work all the time any more.' It was thrilling for everyone.

"The Japanese disappeared literally overnight. They lived separately from us, divided by a fence. But one morning they were just gone.

"One thing the patients did immediately was to destroy the brick factory. We pounded that to pieces and took the whole thing down. We didn't have to make the rice sacks either.

"We were so hungry during the Japanese occupation, so when the Koreans came and took over the running of this place one of the first things was to give each household a plot of land and on that you were able to plant things like sweet potatoes and radishes. It was better than before."

But freedom was limited. Most of the patients stayed on the island; many didn't have anywhere to go. Some stayed because of the endless hope that a cure would be found for leprosy. The patients volunteered for trials of various drugs but there were no miracles.

When Kim was in her mid-20s the older women in the dormitory encouraged her to marry, so she wouldn't be alone later in life. Her brother had died several years earlier. He had been all the family she had.

There was something of a hierarchy among the patients on the island. While one of Kim's legs had already been amputated, along with several fingers, she still had her sight. When she was urged to consider marrying Jae-ho Moon, she was dismissive at first because he was blind. But then she decided she could help him.

"I thought I would be able to be eyes for somebody else. My faith must have been very strong in those days. These days if I think about it, 'why would I want to marry someone who was blind when I could marry someone who was perfectly healthy?', those were the thoughts I had.

"There were other younger men around, who heard when I was marrying someone who was blind they fell over backwards. They said, 'she is getting married to a blind man' but they were not able to get married themselves. There were not enough eligible women around."

Marriage was allowed on the island under one condition: the bride and groom had to undergo sterilisation surgery. It was a practice that continued even when the island was under Korean control.

"Up until 40 years ago they still performed vasectomies, whether you wanted it or not. So even if you ran away they would get you.

"I was 26. It didn't bother us when we were young, because of our age, but after we were 50 that was when we really missed the fact that we didn't have children."

The old operating theatre has been restored and is part of the museum on the island. The smooth grey concrete floors, the shiny operating table and old wooden stretchers have been preserved so the history of this place isn't lost. Tourists quietly walk through the corridors of the old hospital, reading plaques about what happened here.

These days Sorok Island has a new hospital, with modern facilities and the best of care. Kim has had dozens of operations as her limbs and eyes have worn away. All the patients have a tally of the limbs they lost and when they lost them.

"One leg I lost when I was 24 years old. The other leg I lost in 1986. The hands, I lost one finger first, but each time you still had to keep working and you keep losing a little bit," Kim says. "Each time, in order to save the rest of it, they would have to cut one part off and then another part."

Koreans have become better educated about leprosy, and opening up parts of the island has helped reduce the fear and stigma surrounding leprosy.

Young volunteers from the mainland spend their college holidays at Sorok, caring for the patients. Just the simple act of touch is treasured by many here. Yong-Duk Kim says the young people bring joy and dignity to the old people who live here.

"In the past people couldn't and wouldn't approach us. Now all these young people come and they visit and they talk and they give me massages and they hold my hand and touching. They call sometimes and just check in with me and talk with me. Some send presents. I feel very grateful and thankful when they do these things."

Leprosy is now curable and doesn't lead to disability if it's treated early with medication. The World Health Organisation has provided multi-drug therapy, or MDT, free of charge since 1995. Kim and the thousands of other patients on Sorok Island now receive top-level medical care for their condition. But many lost limbs before treatment was available.

For Kim, the days of isolation and fear are fading. Years of neglect have been followed by peace and dignity.

Photo Gallery: Sally Sara's photos capture the stark isolation of the Sorok Island leper colony.

Many of the residents spend time at the church on the island, praying and reflecting. The church has a lipstick-coloured shiny concrete floor. Women sit on one side, men on the other. Everyone is on the floor, many sway as they sing hymns in Korean.

"I think that people are here to take care of each other. That is part of a human's responsibility. When I help people I do it happily, I do it joyfully.

"I look around and I can always see there are people worse off than me. I feel like I have been put here because there are things I can do and ways I can help. When I pray to God, I ask him to look well upon me. But, I feel thankful for what I have.

"There are people, you go to the hospital right now, they are not able to do anything, they can't go to the bathroom by themselves. Here I am, at least I've got my knees, I can get around on my knees.

"Even when my friends who are blind come over, they may have their body all there, they can walk around, but some of them just can't eat at all or they have diabetes or they have heart disease. I am thankful for what I've got, I'm thankful for what I have been given. I always tell God, thank you.

"When I think about those people, maybe they have their own reasons for complaining. As for myself, you know everything was so difficult during the Japanese occupation, so now the present feels like heaven on Earth.

"Sixty odd years here. It's my home now."

Next Monday: Sally Sara meets Tomiko Matsumoto, survivor of the Hiroshima bombing.

Sally Sara is an award-winning ABC journalist who has reported from more than 30 countries, including Afghanistan, Iraq, Sierra Leone and Zimbabwe.

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This story is the fifth of 11 articles in Sally Sara's Mama Asia series. Earlier instalments:

Latifa Nabizada , Afghanistan's first woman military helicopter pilot.

, Afghanistan's first woman military helicopter pilot. Pioneering Thai monk Bhikkhuni Dhammananda .

Pioneering Thai monk . Amrit Ben Solanki , a matriarch in one of India's largest slums.

, a matriarch in one of India's largest slums. Liu Ngan Fung, a gutsy domestic violence campaigner who herself survived years of abuse.

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