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DEAR LEADER

Poet) Spy) Escapee- A Look Inside North Korea

Jang Jin-sung

Translated by Shirley Lee

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Library of Congress Cataloging- in-Publication Data

jang, lin-sung. Dear Leader: poet, spy, escapee: a look inside North Korea! Jang lln-sung ;

translated by Shirley Lee. pagescm 1. [ang, [in-sung. 2. Korea (North)-Politics and government-1994-201 L

3. Kim, Chong-il, 1942-2011. 4. Propaganda-Korea (North). 5. Political refugees-Korea (North)-Biography. 6. Poets-Korea (North)-Biography.

7. Korea (North)-Biography. 1. Title. DS935.7773.j36A32014 951.9305'1092-dc23 [B1 2014010236

ISBN 978-1-4767-6655-3 ISBN 978-1-4767-6657 -7 (ebook)

CONTENTS

Map vii Prologue lX

PART ONE: DICTATOR

1 Psychological Warfare 3 2 Going Home 25 3 My Hometown Transformed 41 4 The Crime of Peering over the Border 60 5 A Farewell Sin 73 6 In the Rifle Sight 84

PART TWO: FUGITIVE

1 Yanbian Looks to the World, the World to Yanbian! 95 2 Framed for Murder 106 3 "Annals of the Kim Dynasty" 125 4 Criminal Operations 142 5 North Korean Women Sold as "Pigs" 161 6 At a Loss 178 7 Farewell, Young-min 190

vi I DEAR LEADER PART THREE: FREEDOM

1 From Yanji to Shenyang 205

2 A Fateful Meeting with Wang Cho-rin 224

3 Becoming a Piano Teacher 239

4 The Kim [ong-il Strategy 252

5 Meeting Cho- rins "Intended" 266

6 A Murderous Regime 281

7 Long Live Freedom! 293

Epilogue 309

Afterword 315

Translator's Note 319

Glossary 323

Index 325

-Changchun

CHI N A

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NORTH KOREA

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May 1999 PROLOGUE

ALITTLE after midnight, just as I'm settling into bed, the phonebegins to ring. I decide not to answer before the fifth ring, and hope it will stop before then. When it rings a sixth time, I imagine my parents waking up, disturbed, and I pick up. I am ready to give whoever is on the other end a good telling-off. "Hello?" In the silent house my voice sounds more intrusive than

the ringing phone. "This is the first party secretary." At these words, I jerk upright and jar my skull against the

headboard. "I am issuing an Extraordinary Summons. Report to work by one

a.m. Wear a suit. You are not to notify anyone else." Although in this country we are accustomed to obeying even

the strangest command as a matter of course, it's disconcerting that the first party secretary himself has just given me an order. He is the Central Party liaison for our department. Under normal circumstances, I would expect to receive orders from the party secretary of Division 19or Section 5, in keeping with my position in the party's organizational hierarchy. On top of that, he has used the term "Extraordinary Summons:' , This usually refers to the mobilization of troops. When the United

States and South Korea perform joint military exercises on the Korean peninsula, our nation responds by conducting nationwide mobilization drills. The call to take part in these is referred to as

x I DEAR LEADER

an "Extraordinary Summons:' But we are usually notified through deliberate leaks in advance of such a call. Individual Workers' Party units and sections, under fierce pressure to outperform their rivals, are always seeking to gain an edge: employees of those well connected enough to be in the know remain at work on the specified day, reporting for duty ahead of those who unwittingly went home for the evening. However, if this were a standard military mobilization summons,

I would not have been asked to wear a suit. We cadres who belong to the Central Party, unlike ordinary North Koreans attached to regional or departmental Party branches, know that an "Extraordinary Summons' can also lead to an encounter with Kim Iong-il, our "Dear Leader." When someone is summoned to meet him, there is no advance

notification. Not even the highest-ranking generals are made awareof the operational details of these meetings. An invitation to meet Kim is relayed through a first party secretary, who is summoned to aparty committee room that has been placed under lockdown by the Dear Leader's personal bodyguards. Under their close surveillance, the first party secretary receives a list of names and issues the individual summons for each cadre, with the logistics of the encounter carried out in strict secrecy. In this situation, the term "Extraordinary Summons' is the code phrase that sets this clandestine process in motion. But the same phrase can have a third, more perturbing meaning.

The Ministry of State Security uses it when carrying out secret purges of high-ranking officials. On receiving an "Extraordinary Summons' at night, a cadre might leave his house alone, taking care not to wake his family, before disappearing into a prison camp or being executed. Thankfully, I am confident that the third scenario will not applyto

me. In fact, I can't wait to leave the house. Only a few days ago, the first party secretary dropped a subtle hint of glory to come.

PROLOGUE I xi

As instructed, I put on my best suit and tie. In Pyongyang, there are no taxis available after midnight, and motor vehicles must have a special night license to travel after this time. So although it is pitch dark outside, I hop on my bicycle and pedal to work. Bicycles are one of the main forms of transport, but unlike most bikes, mine is brand new and has been specially shipped to me by a relative stationed overseas. Outside, there are no streetlights lit. The silence of the capital city

is so absolute that I can only sense the presence of passers-by before their dark shapes loom into my vision. The electricity supply is in a perpetual state of emergency, even though there are two power stations serving the city. The ageing Pyongyang Thermoelectric Plant was built with Soviet support in 1961, and the East Pyongyang Thermoelectric Plant was built in 1989, but neither produces enough power to supply more than one district of the city at a time. So, like a roaming ghost, power settles in rotation on sections of Pyongyang for about four hours a day. One area of the city is always bright, though: the Ioong-gu area,

which lies at the heart of Pyongyang. This is where Central Party offices, senior cadres' residential areas, and buildings for foreigners, such as the Koryo Hotel, are located. My workplace, Office 101 of the United Front Department (UFD), lies at the heart of this bright central district. Nearing the compound, I notice that it is more brightly lit than usual, with the grounds as well as the usual guard posts lit up. As I enter the gates, I exclaim to myself, "Yes!I am going to meet the General!" In the courtyard stand thirty or more soldiers dressed in the dark

mustard -colored uniform of the Dear Leader's personal guards. They wear the characteristic X-shaped leather harness that supports a pistol on each side. Three beige Nissan vans with curtained windows are parked one behind the other, each big enough for a dozen passengers. The party secretary for South Korean Affairs greets

xii I DEAR LEADER

me in person, beside whom the prestige of the first party secretary, who phoned me earlier, pales in comparison. He leads me toward a two-star general with a clipboard, who seems to be supervising the operation. The other soldiers refer to the man as Comrade Deputy Director.

After briefly looking me up and down, the general barks, "Stand him over there!" I look over to where he ispointing and see the nation's most senior cadres in the sphere of inter- Korean relations standing in line: the party secretary for South Korean Affairs Kim Yong-sun, UPD First Deputy Director Im Tong-ok, UPD Policy Director Chae Chang-guk, UPD Policy Deputy Director Park Young-su, and two other cadres from the Department for the Peaceful Unification of the Homeland. The atmosphere is tense, and with six powerful men standing in line like schoolchildren, I feel uncomfortable about greeting them. I go to stand at the end of the line.

"Are we meeting the General?" As I whisper to the man in front of me, a voice yells, "Don't talk! Understand?"

I look indignantly at the soldier, about to demand that he speak to me in a more respectful way, but the vicious light in his eyes quickly puts me in my place.

One by one, Comrade Deputy Director checks our identification documents against his list. We climb in silence into the middle vehicle according to our position on the list. We take our assigned seats. The soldier who yelled at me for whispering is the last to step into the van. I'd thought he had treated me condescendingly because I am only in my twenties, but now I hear him speaking in a rude, officious manner even to Central Party cadres who are twice his age.

"Don't open the curtains! Don't get out of your seat! Don't talk!" he barks. Even more alarming than his insolence is the fact that my comrades meekly reply, "Yes, sir." Even Kim Yong-sun and Im Tong-ok, two of the most senior cadres in the country, are lowly men in the presence of the Dear Leader's personal guards.

PROLOGUE I xiii

Through the open door of the van, I watch the remaining soldiers scramble into the other two vehicles. Soon, the door is pulled shut and the engine starts. As the van begins its journey, my stomach churns with anxiety, but I know that an encounter with the Dear Leader is a wondrously momentous event. Thick brown curtains seal off the windows and separate us from

the driver. Unable to see out of the van, I begin to feel a little carsick. After a two-hour journey in silence, and much to my relief, we finally arrive at a railway station. It is around 4 a.m. We climb out of the van and as I regain my bearings I realize we have come to Yongsung, a First Class station. In a population of over 20 million, there have only been two First Class Citizens: Kim II-sung and Kim Iong-il, First Class stations are reserved exclusively for their use, and there are dozens of these stations scattered across the country. The station roofs are camouflaged in green to make them difficult to spot through satellite imagery. At ground level, the buildings are unmarked, but heavily armed guards patrol them and they are enclosed by high walls. Yongsung Station is in the northern outskirts of Pyongyang,

usually less than half an hour away from where we began our journey. I recognize my surroundings because I have passed by the place on several occasions. At first, I'm puzzled that it has taken so long to get here, but I can't suppress a grin when I realize that the vans have tried to confuse us by taking a deliberately circuitous route. As we move from the van to a train, we go through another series of identity checks. The special train reserved for this occasion is different from

ordinary trains. The sides of the carriage are painted grass green and the roof is white. From the outside, the markings suggest that it was made in China: above the door handles the word "Beijing" is painted in bright red Chinese characters. But when I step into the carriage, I spot prominent Mitsubishi logos that betray its true origin in Japan. The seats in the carriage have been replaced by single beds and

xiv I DEAR LEADER

"III

everything is arranged open-plan, presumably so that the guards can keep watch over us.

As at the start of the journey, the rules are barked out: "Don't touch the curtains. There are blankets under the beds. Remain in your bed throughout the journey. Sleep until the train comes to a stop. Notify us if you wish to use the toilet. Break any of these rules and you'll be removed from the train-immediately."

The guard takes care to put added emphasis on that final word. I feel that if I make one wrong move, I might be thrown off this train and out of my privileged existence altogether. During the long night ride no one speaks a word, not even to ask to use the toilet. There is only the sound of the train rattling along the tracks. I close my eyes and count the rhythmic beats, trying hard to fall asleep.

The special train dispatched for just seven civilians comes to a halt at around six in the morning. We have stopped at Galma, a First Class station in Gangwon province. When I step down from the carriage, the cool dawn air on my face is refreshing. I realize how tense I've been in the presence of the soldiers. Policy Director Chae Chang-guk elbows me as he overtakes me and flashes a grin. He's like a child, unable to contain his excitement.

We are transferred once again, to another waiting van. After an hour's drive, again in silence, we climb out at a small pier surrounded on all sides by cement barriers, where we board a waiting launch. The waves lap gently, but the brackish smell of seawater is overwhelming.

The boat starts with a lurch and a deafening roar as the engine sparks into life. A moment later, I absorb the fact that I am on a boat for the first time in my life. It accelerates recklessly, seemingly intent on tossing me into the waves. I lean forward to hold on to the railing, but a soldier suddenly puts his arms around me from behind and pins down my hands. A shiver runs down my spine. I tell myself that the closer we get to the Dear Leader, the stronger must be our show of faith in him. I glance around and see that each of the six other

PROLOGUE I xv

passengers is similarly held in place by a soldier acting as a human safety belt. Staring back into the distance, where the two strands of white foam in our wake merge into one continuous stream, I shout at the top of my voice over the engine's roar, "Is this a Navy boat?" My guard smirks, even as his forehead wrinkles with the effort of

understanding what I am trying to say above the racket of the engine. "The Navy? Hah! The Navy doesn't have a boat as speedy as this. This one's ours. It belongs to the Guards Command. It's pretty fast, isn't it?" The Guards Command is responsible for the protection of Kim's household. It comprises one hundred thousand infantry, seamen, and pilots. Although he has to shout, I notice how my guard has abandoned

his officiousness and talks conversationally, perhaps because we are speaking without an audience. This makes me feel a little more at ease. The boat is very fast: a cap blows off the head of one of the guards and flies off into the sea, where it lands on the water. I watch it grow smaller among the waves and then disappear. After about twenty minutes, we slow down near a tree-covered

island. I wonder if we have been going round in circles within a small area, just as we had done on the journey to Yongsung Station. The bow of the boat drops and the island comes into clear view. From the pristine wharf to the manicured woods on either side of the pavement, everything is spotless. It looks as though the place was completed yesterday. I realize I had been expecting to find our Dear Leader waiting for us on the pier with wide-open arms, just as he does in the revolutionary movies. It is a bit startling to see that no one is here to greet us. The guards lead us to a large hut, where we take our seats in a

room that is about three-fifths of a square mile. We are told to remain silent. Everything is white: the chairs, the floor, the walls. There are no windows. Instead, there are squares of green-tinged light shining from built-in wall panels.

xvi I DEAR LEADER

At half past noon, more than four hours after we arrived on the island, there is a sudden burst of activity around us. Guards wearing white gloves spray something onto the chair where the Dear Leader will sit.

Comrade Deputy Director makes us stand in line again. We are ordered to take off our watches and hand them in, as part of the security procedure. Each of us is then handed a small envelope. The outer packaging has Japanese characters printed on it. Inside, there is a small cotton wipe that smells of alcohol. Comrade Deputy Director instructs us: "You must clean your hands before shaking hands with the General." He then comes forward, singling me out for a stern instruction: "You must not look into the General's eyes." He gestures to the second button of his uniform jacket and says, "You must look here. Understand?"

I wonder whether this is intended to impress on me my inferiority to Dear Leader, but the thought quickly passes. We continue to wait as Comrade Deputy Director finalizes seating arrangements. Again, I'm at the back of the line. There are seven civilians in the room, and more than twenty guards around us. We stand rigidly, staring in silence at a pair of closed gates for perhaps ten more minutes. They are large and white, and decorated with gilded flowers.

When the gates finally open, a guard with the rank of colonel marches through and stands to attention. "The General will now enter the room," he announces.

Everyone and everything turns to stone. Keeping my head still, I focus my gaze on a point halfway up the arch where Kim·Jong-irs face will soon appear.

Another minute seems to pass. Unexpectedly, a small white puppy tumbles into the room. It is a Maltese with a curly coat. An old man follows, chasing after the puppy that belongs to him. We raise our voices in unison to salute Dear Leader.

"Long live the General! Long live the General!" Our combined cheer hurts my eardrums, but the puppy is

PROLOGUE I xvii

unperturbed by the noise, probably used to such fanfare. However, the Dear Leader must be pleased that his puppy has shown such courage, because he bends down to stroke it. He then mutters something into its ear. I feel let down when I see the Dear Leader up close, because I

am confronted by an old man who looks nothing like the familiar image of the People's Leader. Even though we are clapping fervently and cheering for him, he doesn't respond or even seem to notice. He continues to play with his puppy, as if resentful of being surrounded by men who are younger than him. Seeming to read my mind, he looks up and my heart skips a beat. As if we had all been waiting for this moment, we cheer even more loudly. "Long live the General! Long live the General!" He glances round the room, then strides in my direction. I prepare myself for the glorious encounter, but he walks straight

past me, halting before a slogan displayed on the wall behind us. In yellow letters on a red background, it reads: Let's Serve Great Leader Comrade Kim long-it by Offering up our Lives! He calls out, "Kim Yong-sun!" Party Secretary Kim Yong-sun

hurries to his side. Kim Iong-il asks him, "Is this hand-painted? Or is it printed?" In this close proximity, his voice indeed belongs to a great leader. Every syllable resonates with absolute authority. Seeing Kim Yong-sun falter, the comrade deputy director answers

in his place: "Sir, it's hand-painted." Kim Jong-il says, "This looks good. When I went somewhere last

week, I saw slogans printed on enamel. But this hand-painted one looks much better, don't you think?" This time, Kim Yong-sun is ready with his answer. "Yes,sir, I agree.

In fact, I already made inquiries about this. But I was informed that we will continue to produce enameled slogans, as hand-painted slogans require the use of costly imports." Kim Iong-il ignores him. He steps back a few paces, inspects the

slogan for a few more seconds, and gives an order with a quick wave

xviii I DEAR LEADER

;'1

of his hand: "Replace existing versions of this slogan throughout the country with hand-painted ones."

I attempt some mental arithmetic. How much would this project cost? At that very moment, the General wheels round, catching me off guard, and thunders, "You, boy! Are you the one who wrote that poem about the gun barrel?"

I bark my carefully worded response: "Yes,General! I am honoured to be in your presence!"

He smirks as he approaches me. "Someone wrote it for you, isn't that right? Don't even think about lying to me. I'll have you killed."

As I begin to panic, the Dear Leader bursts into hearty laughter and punches me on the shoulder. "It's a compliment, you silly fool. You've set the standard for the whole Songun era."

I find myself unable to respond, and it doesn't help that Kim Yong-sun is glaring at me. Before the General takes his seat, Kim Yong-sun finds an opportunity to scold me. "You stupid bastard. You should have thanked him. You should have responded by offering to write poems of loyalty even from your grave," he hisses into my ear.

When he is done with me, he puts his joyous face back on and rushes to attend to Kim Iong-il. Returning to his own seat, he gently smoothes his hands over his buttocks before they touch the chair, just as a woman does with her dress as she sits down. The other cadres are no less formal. Instead of real people sitting on chairs, it is as if sculptures are set around the room, incapable of movement. The Dear Leader's Maltese puppy is the most active being in the room, whimpering excitedly and pacing around its owner's feet.

Kim Iong-il seems not to be interested in small talk and the white Maltese puppy holds his attention. The General remains focused on what the dog is doing, what it might be thinking. But every now and then he shouts, "Hey, Im Tong-okl" or "Hey, Chae Chang-guk!" and the chosen man rushes toward him to be consulted. It makes for a strange scene, in which he holds the puppy in higher esteem than any of his most loyal men.

PROLOGUE I xix

Ten or fifteen minutes later, a pair of double doors opens. Men in white dinner jackets and red bow ties appear with salvers held high. At the other end of the room technicians are bent double, humbly moving to and fro on the stage, adjusting the microphone and lighting. The band are seated and strike up; the feast is about to begin. I can't help but feel it's all a bit of an anticlimax, having expected to hear a sublime new saying or pearl of wisdom from the Dear Leader. But as the food and music get under way, I lose myself in the occasion. I become mesmerized. Every time a new course is brought into the room, the lights in the

wall panels change to an eerie new color. When the vegetable dish comes out, the lights go from a vivid grass green to light purple; with the meat dish, the lights go from pink to a deep red. It is astonishing to discover that lighting can be part of a meal's presentation. As for the fish course, the platter it is presented on glitters so spectacularly that I can't taste the food. Tiny spotlights are set around the big gray serving platter, making the fish scales shimmer. The wine is slightly tangy. My steward, who like all Kim Iong-ils

staff belongs to the Guards Command and has a military rank, points to a label on the bottle that reads Baedansul. He describes its contents as an 80 percent-proof liquor developed by the Foundational Sciences Institute. This is the academic body devoted to the study of the Dear Leader's health, and as such also falls under the Guards Command. Three thousand researchers work there, planning and preparing medicines and dishes specifically designed to extend Kim Iong-ils longevity. In order to test the effects of different medicines and foods, they operate a testing unit made up of men selected from a nationwide pool that shares his illnesses and physique. I am proud to understand more than most about this important work, as a friend's older brother works at the institute. The climax of our banquet is dessert. I am presented with a glass

containing a large scoop of ice cream, over which the steward pours clear liquor. He lights the spirit and the flames dance blue and wild.

xx I DEAR LEADER

'I II I'

I I

As I scoop some of it up with a small spoon, flames rise with it. Kim Yong-sun taps me on the shoulder and advises me, "Blow it out first, then eat it. Don't have too much, though. It's very strong stuff." He shares the information boastfully.

I lose myself momentarily in the contradictory sensations of heat and cold in my mouth. Then Kim Iong-il waves me over.

When you visit the house or workplace of a cadre who has had the privilege of attending a banquet hosted by the Dear Leader, the wineglass that clinked against his in a toast is always kept in pride of place in a display cabinet. I realize that the Dear Leader wants to provide me with such a treasure. The steward, who has been lingering close by for this moment, quickly hands me a large wineglass. Unprepared, I hastily take it over to Kim Iong-il, who fills it with dark red wine, saying, "Keep up the good work."

As I stand bent double at the waist in a deep bow, my eyes cast down, I can see his feet under the tablecloth. He has taken off his shoes. Even the General suffers the curse of sore feet! I had always thought him divine, not even needing to use the toilet. That's what we were taught at school and that's what the party says: our General's life is a continuous series of blessed miracles, incapable of being matched even by all our mortal lifetimes put together. With this glorious invitation into his circle, I had thought I would enter and partake of a divine dimension in time.

But here I am, looking into his shoes, which have high heels and an inner platform at least two and a half inches high. Those shoes have deceived his people. Although his thin, permed hair adds to the illusion of height, the Dear Leader can't be more than five feet three inches without those shoes.

After his earlier majestic commands, the way the General speaks at the table confounds me too. He uses coarse slang. In all the books and lectures quoting his words that I've read and heard since my childhood, his words serve not only as examples of perfect usage, but also reveal the truth of our homeland. The Dear Leader's speech is

PROLOGUE I xxi

always elegant, beautiful, and, above all, courteous to his people. Yet tonight he muddles subject and predicate. He doesn't even call anyone Comrade, but addresses cadres as "You!"or "Boy!" It'sdisconcerting. Towards the end of dessert, the colored lights dim. A woman

appears onstage wearing a Western-style white dress that reveals her shoulders. The band starts to play an instrumental prelude, and she begins to sing a Russian folk song. As she sings, Kim Iong-il starts to twitch. Although the spotlight

is on the woman, the protocol of the occasion dictates that we should focus our attention on him alone. We watch as he draws out a gleaming white handkerchief. I blink, and the cadre sitting next to me reaches for his own handkerchief. Oddly, others also begin to withdraw their handkerchiefs. Then the General bows his head a little and starts dabbing at the corners of his eyes. I cannot believe what I am seeing. Here am I, beholding his tears! What will become of me after witnessing such an intimate thing? My eyes shut tight in awe and terror. When I open them, I see the most extraordinary thing I have

ever seen in my life. My comrades, who have been beaming with the joy of feasting with the Dear Leader, have begun to weep; How did this happen? Can I escape this banquet with my life intact? But before I can think any further, my own eyes feel hot and tears begin to flow down my cheeks. Yes, I must cry. I live my life in loyalty to the General. Loyalty not merely in thought and deed, but loyal obedience from my soul. I must cry, like my comrades. As I repeat these words in my heart, I must cry, I must cry, my tears grow hotter, and anguished shouts burst from somewhere deep within me. Amid my uncontrollable shaking, the song comes to an end. There

is no applause, but the room has filled with the sound of wailing. As the lights are slowly turned up, our crying quickly diminishes to whimpers, as if we had practiced together in advance. Wiping my eyes, I glance round, to look at the faces of the cadres

around me. They were crying only moments ago, but they are now

I I xxii I DEAR LEADER

watching the Dear Leader intently, awaiting instructions for the next act of synchronicity. For the first time in my life, loyal obedience makes me cringe.

On my journey back home, I find myself haunted by seeing the General cry. I am aware that North Korea's Propaganda and Agitation Department chose to portray him as full of tears after his father Kim II-sung's death in 1994, when the state distribution system fell apart all over the country. By early 1995, the rumors that people were starving to death in the provinces were made plausible by what was happening in Pyongyang itself.

When food distribution centers started shutting their doors and the numbers of people absconding from work to find food increased like a virus, the party slogan "If you survive a thousand miles of suffering, there will be ten thousand miles of happiness" was introduced. The state of food emergency was officially referred to as the "Arduous March" and the population was urged to follow the example set by our General, at the forefront of the struggle.

As evidence, the song "The Rice Balls of the General" was played over and over again on television. The song's lyrics claimed that the Dear Leader was traveling hundreds of miles around the country each day to offer support to his people, all while sustained by just one rice ball. Before the Arduous March, television broadcasts had only ever shown the smile of our Leader, as he led us towards a socialist victory. So when they saw the tears of our divine Dear Leader for the first time on television, people began to cry spontaneously, uncontrollably, and en masse.

As I continue on my way homewards, I am profoundly unsettled by my reaction to seeing Kim Jong-il's tears in the flesh. A distressing thought grips me, and it is hard to shake off: those were not the tears of a compassionate divinity but, rather, of a desperate man.

PART ONE

DICTATOR

II I , ,

PSYCHOLOGICAL 1 WARFARE

IWAS loyal and fearless. I didn't have to live in terror of theconsequences of being late for work. Nor did I need to keep my head down like other cadres in an attempt to be invisible at Party meetings, for fear of becoming the next target of criticism. I had immunity, thanks to the Dear Leader, who had sanctified me after being moved by a poem I wrote in his honor. The world might damn North Korea as a ruthless regime that

kills its own people, claiming that the system is oppressive and run byphysical force. But this is only a partial view of how the country is governed. Throughout his life, Kim long-il stressed, "I rule through music and literature." Despite being the commander in chief of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (DPRK) and chairman of the National Defense Commission, he had no military experience. In fact, he began his career as a creative professional, and his preparation for his succession to power began with his work for the party's Propaganda and Agitation Department (PAD). To express this in the language of "dictatorship' understood by the

outside world, Kim Iong-il wielded adouble-edged sword: yes,he was a dictator by means of physical control, but he was also a dictator in amore subtle and pervasive sense-through his absolute power over the cultural identity of his people. Aswith socialism, where ideology is more important than material goods, he monopolized the media and the arts as a crucial part of his ambit of absolute power. This is why every single writer in North Korea produces works according

4 I DICTATOR

to a chain of command that begins with the Writers' Union Central Committee of the Party's Propaganda and Agitation Department. Anyone who composes a work that has not been assigned to

the writer through this chain of command is by definition guilty of treason. All written works in North Korea must be initiated in response to a specific request from the Workers' Party. Once the writer has handed in his piece, it must then be legally approved before being accepted as a new work. Those writers who produce distinguished works under these standards are of course rewarded. The role of a North Korean writer, in each set task, is to create the best articulation of the assigned idea according to a combination of aesthetic requirements determined in advance and in consultation with the Workers' Party. It is not the job of a writer to articulate new ideas or to experiment with aesthetics on his or her own whim. There are no novels, histories, or biographies that have not been commissioned and then ratified by the ruling Kim. Literature thus plays a central role not only in North Korean arts

but also in the social structure of the country. Before 1994, when Supreme Leader Kim ll-sung was alive, the art of the novel was preeminently in vogue. Nearly all the top state honors such as the "Kim ll-sung Medal:' the "Order of Heroic Effort:' and the title of "Kim II-sung Associate" were swept up by the state's novelists.The novel provided a perfect narrative format through which writers might expound upon the great deeds of the Supreme Leader.

It also helped that in his last years, Kim ll-sung lived immersed in the world of novels. He took special interest in works written by novelists belonging to the April 15 Literary Production Group, a First Class literary institution whose mandate is the revolutionary history of Kim Il-sung and Kim Iong-il. As is the case with First Classtrain stations, the term "First Class" is incorporated into the job title ofthe nation's professionals who work only on matters directly related to the Kim family. In fact, Kim ll-sung's own memoir, With theCentury,

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE I 5

was compiled by a group of First Class novelists from the April 15 Literary Production Group. In elite circles, the memoir was known as one of Kim Il-sungs favorite books. Once, at a gathering of North Korean cadres who had family connections in Japan, Kim II-sung described, to the amusement of his guests, how much he enjoyed reading With theCentury. After his death, and as his son Kim Iong-ils rule became established in the institutions of the state, the status of novelists changed. Poetry became the literary vogue. This was not due solely to Kim Iong-ils preference for the form. The phenomenon was reinforced, if not triggered, by a shortage of paper when the North Korean economy collapsed and people scrambled just to survive. When there wasn't even enough paper in the country to print school textbooks, not many people could afford to own a hefty revolutionary novel. With poetry, however, the necessary tenets of loyalty to the Kim dynasty could be distilled potently into a single newspaper page. Thus poetry emerged as the dominant literary vehicle through which Kim Iong-il exercised his cultural dictatorship. With the decrease in the number of novelists, and an increase in

demand for poetry and poets, a more stringent professional hierarchy was needed. Epicpoets write long poems, lyric poets write shorter ones; and this generic distinction came to determine a poet's rank, although only the Workers' Party could decree which genre a poet might adopt and which poets might be permitted the honor of praising Kim Iong-il through poetry. The epic genre of Kim Iong-il poetry in particular was restricted to just six poets, who were also the poets laureate of North Korea. At the age of twenty-eight, in 1999, 1became the youngest of this tiny elite of court poets. Based on age and experience alone, I had accomplished the impossible. Unlike my fellow poets, however, I was also an employee of the United Front Department -a job that allowed me entry into a world completely unknown to most ordinary North Koreans, where I was given access not only to state secrets, but to a world that lay far beyond the mandate of the Workers' Party.

6 I DICTATOR

The United Front Department (UFD) is a key section in the Workers' Party, responsible for inter-Korean espionage, policy- making and diplomacy. Since 1953, Korea has been divided by an armistice line known as the Korean Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), held in place by military force on each side. The division of the Korean peninsula is not based on a difference in language, religion, or ethnicity, but on a difference in political ideology. The North Korean version of socialism, founded as it is on the maintenance of absolute institutional unity, regards pluralism and individual determination as its greatest enemy. The Workers' Party has therefore been active and diligent in psychological warfare operations aimed at Koreans in both the North and the South for over half a century.

Entrusted to this most sanctified mission, I worked in Section 5 (Literature), Division 19 (Poetry) of Office 101. In spite of the uncanny and unintended echo of Orwell's Room 101, this office was, ironically, so named precisely in order to avoid any hint of the nature of our work. The institution had been established in 1970, and the ratification from Kim II-sung had been issued on October 10, hence Office "10l:'

When it was first set up, my department specialized in conducting psychological warfare operations against and about the South through cultural media such as the press, literary arts, music, and film. After the 1970s, it strove particularly to amplify anti-American sentiment and foster pro-North tendencies among the South Korean population, exploiting the democratic resistance movements that had risen against the then military dictatorship. Work produced here was circulated under the names of South

Korean publishers, and even took on their distinctive literary style, preferred fonts, and quality and weight of paper. In music too, the styles of instrumental and vocal arrangements were copied from South Korean recordings. Books and cassettes produced in this way were systematically distributed by our department through

, I

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE I 7

pro-North organizations in Japan or through other Southeast Asian nations, and passed on to democratic resistance movements in South Korea. My department in this way sowed the seeds of what might at first appear to be a political paradox: even today, sympathy towards the DPRK among South Koreans is almost entirely concentrated within the democratic, progressive and anti -authoritarian camp of the nation's political divide. Just as on a beach, wearing a swimsuit is more appropriate than

a business suit, in the spirit of being faithful to the South Korean context, the institutional slogan of the UFD was "Localization:' We were required to absorb the character and identity of South Koreans. My first day at work in Office 101, and therefore my entry into its South Korean bubble, was August 12, 1998. I was twenty-seven and never more proud of myself than that day, as I stepped into the secret world of the UFD. My office was in the built-up neighborhood of Ryunghwa District

in Pyongyang's central area. The strikingly different world of Office 101was evident as soon as I crossed the threshold of the compound. There was a large steel gate with high walls alI around, representing the exclusivity of a world that ordinary people could not peer into. Employees used a small entrance that was part of the gate, and which allowed only one man at a time to squeeze through. A single soldier stood guard. The presence of the soldier was also a mark that distinguished

this institution from the rest of North Korean society, where employees usually took turns to serve as guard and surveillance for and against fellow employees. As if to confirm that guard duty was a separate duty from UFD duties in this institution, a male cadre of our department's party committee had to be fetched to explain my presence to the guard, and have my identification double-checked before I was allowed to set foot in the compound for the first time. Once I entered, in contrast to the small and unassuming entrance,

8 I DICTATOR

the yard was very large. Everything was paved with cement, without a trace ofvisible bare earth. The cadre who came to fetch me explained that the four-story building opposite us was the headquarters of Office 101. The main building was flanked to the left by a library of South Korean literature and an assembly hall. Communications Office 813, to the right, was where counterfeit books were printed under the imprints of South Korean publishers. Pointing to the library, the cadre told me that the library building had been the only school for courtesans in Pyongyang at the time of the Japanese occupation. Adding that the Wolhyang-dong in the Moranbong area, not far from here, was a famous courtesan area in the past, he smiled knowingly at me.

My office in Division 19 (Poetry) was on the second floor of the main building and in my time there were eight of us in the team: seven men and one woman. Opening the office door, I immediately saw long wooden desks on two sides of the room. Each desk sat four, and we would face the wall as we worked. As I set foot on the marble floor of the office, I almost turned back to leave: it was as if! had just blundered onto the scene of North Korea's most terrifying crime- treason-the extent of which no one else in the country could begin to imagine or exaggerate. The forbidden materials so casually littering every surface in the room would have brought a death sentence in any other room in all of North Korea and, anywhere else in the country, the shocking slogan framed in' pride of place on the wall would have been far beyond the pale in its daring contradiction of half a century's demonizing of the South. The enemy newspapers and books strewn carelessly about the office were only slightly less astonishing to my eyes than the mandate for Office 101 from Kim [ong-il, respectfully framed and displayed prominently on the otherwise bare white wall: "Inhabit Seoul, although you are in Pyongyang:' An act of abominable treason outside these walls was not only permitted within them, but actively encouraged by Kim Iong-il himself] The leader required us

PSYCHOLOG[CAL WARFARE I 9

to inhabit South Korea's collective psyche so as to undermine and triumph over it. Every day that I worked in the UFD I never lost my sense of wonder at our world's stark and secret contrast with the closed society outside our compound. With our Workers' Party passes in our shirt pockets, we arrived

at Office 101 every morning at 8 a.m. and began our working day by reading the South Korean newspapers. Although North Korea's official name is the Democratic People's Republic of Chosun, it refers to itself as Chosun and South Korea as southern Chosun, and defines the borders of Korea from the DPRK point of view. However, in the course of our work in Office 101, we saw the term "South Korea" everywhere in the papers and it became second nature to us. In North Korea, the southern administration was portrayed as a treasonous regime led by a sycophantic leader, who continued to betray the Korean people and their land in order to make them puppets of the United States; but through the media that filled the room, we came to know their leader as the South Korean president. As no one within our office was allowed to talk about their job, or

know anything about a colleague's, there were no items on anyone's desk that were not strictly necessary to the task at hand-apart from a calendar. The only item that stood out in the room was a small mirror on the table of our female colleague, fiercely marking her territory as a woman. If it weren't for the different locks on each of our desk drawers, the rest of us might forget which desk was our own. Just as our drawers were always locked, members of my team rarely

talked about their personal lives, although there were only the eight of us. Once, I cautiously asked the reason for this on my way home with a senior acquaintance at the UFO, His answer was unexpected. He said the reason why everyone kept to him - or herself inside the office compound was not so much because of security constraints, but because of the nature of our work. Outside, we were Pyongyang residents and North Koreans. Inside, however, we were South Korean

10 I DICTATOR

citizens, each one of us. As there was not much to talk about while in these foreign shoes, the lack of conversation on personal topics had become an institutional habit. After this explanation, I understood better how the essence of "Localization" was our chameleonlike duality. Nevertheless, this privileged "Localization" was strictly controlled.

South Korean newspapers were only loaned out for a day at a time, and we had to return them to the library before leaving work. In the case of South Korean novels or poems, we could borrow them for several days, but we had to keep them in our locked drawers when leaving the UFD premises. Taking any South Korean materials out of this area was forbidden, and the librarian sometimes visited the office unannounced to check that our reading materials were kept securely. Our main task, from the moment we arrived at work to the

moment we left, was to transform ourselves into South Korean poets and write South Korean poetry. To be more precise, we were to be South Korean poets who were supporters of Kim Iong-il. My South Korean pseudonym was Kim Kyong-min. Our names and surnames had to be different from our real names, and when asked to choose a pseudonym I had used the name of the first relative who came to mind. Supervisor Park Chul deliberated for over three hours on whether the name sounded plausible as that of a South Korean poet before he granted permission for me to assume it. In return for our specialist work, and on top of our standard

rations, we received additional rations of imported food every Saturday. Because of our identity as inhabitants of the outside world, the resources we received-different each time-came from the outside world. They were taken from humanitarian materials donated by the UN and the rest of the international community, as well as from South Korean NGOs and religious organizations. In the eleven-pound packages that we received, there would be rice from the United States, cheese, butter, olive oil, mayonnaise, and even

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE I 11

underwear and socks. Sometimes, there were cookies and sweets, or milk powder intended for babies. Because we were given so much, it was a chore to collect our regular rations from the public distribution system, on which the rest of North Korea depended for survival. The foreign packages always came to us with their labels intact.

The existence of such international aid was viewed as a shameful secret that the regime could not afford to reveal to its ordinary citizens at a time of widespread famine, as it would undermine the state's ideology of "self-reliance:' But as our department's role was to live and work as outsiders, it seemed logical that we should receive outside goods. We had been handpicked for this work and were trusted not to be tarnished by association with these outside voices and supplies. It felt like a blessing to be allowed to inhabit such a privileged world. Consuming outside products was easy,but thinking like an outsider

was not. One day, feeling it was too difficult to write successfully like a South Korean, I consulted Supervisor Park Chul. He was a man who struck me as imposing, despite his balding head. He had double eyelids and thick eyebrows that bristled with charisma.

"I don't really know much about southern Chosun," I said. ''And I just don't have the knowledge or experience to make literature out of southern Chosun life. So exactly what kind of writing should I do here?" Supervisor Park Chullaughed so hard that his comb-over flopped

down over his eyebrows. He patted it back into place. "Neither you nor I have been to Seoul!" he said. ''Although we're all countrymen, Northerners and Southerners, our cultures are different now. But it doesn't make much difference, because we're actually working with the Northern audience in mind, not the people of southern Chosun." He paused to crumble some cooked egg yolk into a fish tank

containing three bright red fish. After tipping' the rest of the egg yolk

12 I DICTATOR

into his mouth, he wiped his hands and continued, "To succeed here, you have to give up on anything like your own name or renown as a writer. You know, when I used to work for the Writers' Union, I was a star on the rise. You'veprobably read my poems. Take, for example, 'Longing for my Townsfolk:" "Yes,"I replied, though the title didn't ring any bells. He continued, "If I'd stuck to being a poet, Id probably be a

household name by now. But since I've spent my life as a UFD operative, no Koreans here or in the south will ever recognize my work. Still, at least we have an easy life, working here."

Hearing him sigh, I thought of him as a lonely, ageing man who had to keep his secret life to himself and his colleagues. Just as hed said, working at the UFD meant not only hiding our work from our countrymen in the south, but also from those in the north. With the increasing economic discrepancy between the North and South, the ideological warfare against the South was perceived as futile by the 1990s, and the propaganda campaigns against the South had run out of steam. By my time, the UFD was using the experience and techniques

previously employed against South Korea's citizens to conduct psychological offensives against our own people. The. experience and techniques that had been learnt were replicated in psychological operations aimed at North Koreans, though, in other ways, we were still fighting a cultural war on two fronts. The work of Office 101 was never confined to a single genre or

medium. It employed speeches, video, music, and other forms of cultural expression-all under the names of South Korean or foreign authors-that could be used to infiltrate and influence the values of Koreans. In April 1998, for example, four months before the start of my

work at UFD, Office 101 Section 1 (Newspapers) produced an article that received praise from Kim Jong-il. The piece was written

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE [13

under an assumed outsider's name and declared our Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, to be the Sun of the World. The evidence in question was the sinking of the Titanic. April 15, 1912 is the date on which the RMS Titanic sank, and it also happens to be the date of Kim Il-sung's birth. Using this coincidence as a form of historical proof, Section 1 explained that, "as the Sun set in the West, it rose in the East." Such creations of the United Front Department were then published in the party newspaper, the Rodong Sinmun, or broadcast on television-which only shows state-run channels-as the works of foreign authors, journalists, and intellectuals. The North Korean people could never have imagined that all these apparently foreign works were produced by Office 101 in the very heart of their capital, Pyongyang. Isolated from the outside world, it's not surprising that they believed that the people of the world, including South Koreans, admired our country's strong leadership and many achievements. After Kim Il-sung's death in 1994, epic poetry became the chief

vehicle of political propaganda with the publication of a poem by Kim Man-young of the Writers' Union Central Committee. The work took the form of a prayer for the eternal life of Kim II-sung. Kim Iong-il published that lengthy poem about his father in the Rodong Sinmun and proclaimed Kim Man-young the most loyal worker in North Korea. Soon afterwards, the poetry of Shin Byung-gang was promoted by the military's Propaganda Department in order to demonstrate their loyalty to the Dear Leader. Kim Iong-il declared Shin's works, along with those of Kim Man-young, to be "People's Literature"; and the two poets were presented with imported cars and household appliances, as well as extravagantly decorated luxury apartments whose furnishings included sets of gold-plated cutlery. Within my department, a panic ensued. Although the UFD also

employed poets, it had not been able to satisfy Kim [ong-il with a single epic poem-a serious omission that could potentially lead to an accusation of insufficient loyalty on the part of the United Front

'I 1'1

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14 I DICTATOR

Department as a whole. By the time I joined the department, it was a source of great concern. The problem had been exacerbated by the type of personnel they

employed. Due to the constraints of psychological warfare which we were waging, operatives were highly trained in ideological persuasion but had not investedmuch thought in the literary qualities ofthe work they produced. It was perhaps the tragic and inevitable consequence of making art anonymously, as Supervisor Park Chul had suggested when he described not being able to publish his works in his own name. UFD writers had to internalize two lies unique to them in the writing process: they had to pretend to be South Koreans in their feelings of adoration for Kim [ong-il, and this had to be expressed in a fabricated South Korean way of writing. Although I was the youngest writer on board, at twenty-seven, the

onus of rectifying this situation fell on me. When I was summoned to UFD headquarters to receive orders from First Deputy Director Im Tong-ok, I could hardly believe my own ears. Im Tong-ok was the highest authority in the UFD, and even the head of Office 101could not meet him without being explicitly summoned. To be summoned outside of the standard chain of command was a striking anomaly. The headquarters of the UFD lies in Jeonseung-dong of the

Moranbong District in Pyongyang. The long, three-story building, privy to the secrets of the history of the Workers' Party and our nation's history of espionage, looked even more imposing than Office 101. As if to hide its secrets from the world, the building faced north, away from the sunlight, and was covered in ivy. The deputy policy director of Office 101 led me to the door of

Director Im Tong-ok's office, on the first floor of the building. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath our feet with every step. The majestic old building seemed to be in built in an old Russian style, with its high ceilings and large windows, and the imposing double doors to Director Ims office added to the sense of grandeur.

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE 115

My guide knocked and entered, revealing another, open door. He mumbled something into the room, and a loud voice answered from within. "Ask him to come in. Come in!" said First Deputy Director Im

Tong-ok. His title of "First Deputy Director" meant that he acted with the

absolute authority of Kim Iong-il in one of the nation's key ministries. There were only six institutions considered important enough to be headed by a First Deputy Director: the Organization and Guidance Department (Kim jong-ils executive chain of command, which sits above the constitution and has unrestricted jurisdiction to intervene in any sphere), the Propaganda and Agitation Department (whose first deputy directorship was left vacant until 1998, after which Tung Ha-chul was appointed to the post by Kim Iong-Il), the United Front Department, Office 38 (in charge of Kim Iong-il's personal wealth), Office 35 (conducts intelligence activities overseas) and the Ministry of State Security (the secret police). Director Im came to meet me at the door. His piercing gaze and

countenance suggested that he indeed had the authority to lead alI matters related to South Korea and to the external presentation of North Korea as the representative of Kim Iong-il. However, perhaps he was dumbfounded by the situation he found himself in, assigning such a critical task to an inexperienced young man, or perhaps he was just at a loss for words. He wiped his wide forehead, mustered alI the concern he could gather into his deep wrinkles, and made it clear, in his long-winded way, that this task was not one he was assigning lightly. Then he suddenly stood to attention, saying with utmost conviction: "Now the General's order will be communicated." Whenever Kim's words are disseminated in an order, letter or

certificate of appreciation, the speaker must stand to attention and make sure his appearance is properly respectful, that his uniform is impeccable, and that all his shirt buttons are done up properly.

16 I DICTATOR

Loyalty to Kim Iong-il had to be demonstrated even in the smallest action as well as through one's overall attitude. As Director Im stood to attention, I instinctively did the same, waiting for his next words. "The General has issued an order for an epic poem to be used in

the conducting of psychological warfare," he continued. "This work must promote the notion that our Songun policy has been formulated to protect South Korea. The United Front Department assigns this operation to Comrade Kim Kyong-min," he said, using my assumed South Korean name. Director Im looked as if he were about to continue speaking, but

paused when he noticed that I was biting my lip in consternation. The Songun or "military-first" policy was supposed to unify the entire Korean peninsula under Kim Iong-il through the superior might of our military force, and to defend our Socialism. I now had to write a poem based on the premise that such a policy protected the South. Without realizing it, I had grimaced at the evident impossibility of such a task. Director Im assumed a severe expression, but seemed to be at a loss for further words. "You have two months," he said, and the meeting was over.

It was mid-December 1998. From that day on, I worked round the clock on the task that had been assigned to me. The basic argument was straightforward: it was my job to praise Kim Jong-il as the master of the gun, the bringer of justice, and the People's Lord who knew only victory. But the essence of the task was to find evidence for these truths and shape them into a literary form. To help me accomplish this, I spent an entire month reading South Korean literature, identifying themes that supported the argument I was to explore through poetry.

I decided on a comparison of South Korea's Mangwoldong Memorial for the Martyrs of Democracy with North Korea's Sinmiri Memorial for Revolutionary Martyrs, with a pun linking Gukgun

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE I 17

(the name of South Korea'sNational Army) and Songun (the military- first policy of North Korea). This allowed me to compare South and North as two sides of the same coin: while the democratic martyrs of South Korea had been killed by the bullets of their Gukgun, the revolutionary martyrs of North Korea would be looked after even in their afterlife by our policy of Songun. My poem portrayed South Korea's military as aggressive, and that of North Korea as concerned solely with defending the Korean people. When I submitted my proposal, Director Irn and the other UFD officials heaped praise on the approach I had chosen. On May 16, 1961, a military coup ended civilian rule in South

Korea and ushered in the military dictatorship of Park Chung-hee. His long rule of eighteen years was ended by his assassination by an associate, but in the instability that followed, Cheon Doo-hwan positioned himself as the new military dictator. In this way, the divided peninsula was ruled by a military dictator not only in North Korea, but also in the South. On May 18, 1980, however, South Korean democratic activists

rose up in protest in the provincial city of Gwangju in South Korea. They were violently suppressed in the streets by South Korean soldiers, whose authoritarian leader claimed that the protesters, armed and harming government property and the police station, were North Korean agents who had infiltrated the country. Taking my inspirational starting point from the fact that the South Korean military had once massacred its own citizens, Iwrote in the passionate voice of a South Korean poet visiting Pyongyang in May. To the poet, a Korean spring could not come about through

Nature's will alone. It could only be brought about and sustained by the committed protest of the people rising for their rights. The South Korean poet, knowing only a blood -soaked spring, recognizes in Pyongyang a true Korean spring: here, both Koreas are protected by Kim [ong-il's policy of Songun, as he wields the very gun handed to

18 I DIeT A TOR

him by his father, Kim Il-sung, who once used the weapon to free the Korean people from Iapanese rule. This is how the poet concludes his praise of that gun;

So this is the Gun that in the hands of an inferior man can only commit murder, but, when wielded by a great man, can overcomeanything. Ashistory has shown, war and carnage belong to the weak. General Kim Iong-il, the General alone, is Lord of the Gun, Lord of Justice, Lord of Peace, Lord of Unification. Ah, the true Leader of the Koreanpeople!

The poem was presented to Kim Iong-il in time for the anniversary of the Gwangju uprising on May 18, 1999. After publication, I received the moving news that Kim [ong-il

had read my poem many times, underlining key phrases as he went. He even wrote next to the title of the poem in his own hand, "This is the artistic standard of the Songun era." It was a historic moment of triumph for the UFD in establishing itself above the military and the Party's propaganda departments in the sphere ofliterary arts.

Most importantly for me, I gained the personal approval of the single most powerful man in our country. The personal endorsement from Kim Tong-ilwas followed by an order for nationwide publication. Four days after my submission of the poem, on May 22, 1999, "Spring Rests on the Gun Barrel of the Lord" was distributed throughout the

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE 119

nation in the Rodong Sinmun newspaper, which led to my invitation to become one of the "Admitted" of Kim Iong-il. My entry into this circle changed the course of my life in the way

that winning the lottery might do in a capitalist nation. My career ahead was full of opportunities from which I could cherry-pick as I chose. But most importantly, my new status guaranteed a privilege of immunity that was powerful beyond imagination: not even the highest authorities of the DPRK could investigate, prosecute, or harm one of the Admitted. The only way prosecution could possibly occur was for the crime to be treason and for the Organization and Guidance Department to receive explicit permission from Kim Iong-il himself. Nobody wanted to push too far and risk the illwill of the General himself, so such a process was rarely pursued. The party's Organization and Guidance Department, responsible

for the protection of Kim Iong-il, operated a special section dedicated to serve those who were Admitted. The criteria were strict and the circle small. As was the case with me, Kim Iong-il had personally to request your presence and spend time with you behind closed doors for more than twenty minutes. Bursting with pride at my admission to this tiny and exclusive elite, I felt like a new man each day. My first year of work at the UFD passed by very quickly.

In North Korea, the anniversary on July 8, of Kim Il-sungs death- referred to as the Celebration of Kim Il-sungs Eternal Life-is a field of battle among cadres desperate to demonstrate their loyalty to the cult of Kim. Director Im Tong-ok announced during the UFD's agenda meeting for the year 2000that wewould be the ones to offerthe best epic poem to Kim Iong-il, outshining the military and party's propaganda departments once again. As I was now one of the Admitted, there was no question of the glorious task falling to anyone other than me, and my primary task for the year was the completion of this assignment.

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20 I DICTATOR

Director Im took the reins with great gusto from the start of the first thematic planning meeting. "Quiet, please. We will now begin our meeting to discuss the

literary work of the United Front Department that will be published to commemorate the Supreme Leader's immortal life on July 8. I have already asked Comrade Kim Kyong-min to call his poem 'An Ode to the Smiling Sun: In any event, we must stick to the 'Smiling Sun'motif." As Director Im said, the only way to eulogize the Supreme Leader's

immortal life was through the motif of the "Smiling Sun:' The Workers' Party had conducted propaganda activities focused on Kim II-sung and his successor, Kim Iong-il, for over half a century. In the context of this tradition, "Smiling Sun" was a relatively new motif. It had first been seen at the funeral of Kim II-sung in 1994.

Usually, funeral portraits showed the deceased wearing a sombre expression. However, declaring that "The Supreme Leader is alive and with us forever;' Kim Iong-il ordered that the standard funeral portrait of his father be exchanged for one of him smiling. From then on, the Supreme Leader was referred to as a "Sun' whose immortal life was a "smile:' On Iuly 8, 1997, exactly three years after Kim Il-sung's death,

the Central Party Committee, Central Military Committee, National Defense Commission, Central People's Committee, and Parliamentary Committee issued a joint declaration that Kim I1-sung's birthday was to be inaugurated as the "Sun Festival:' At the same time, it was declared that our calendar was to be changed. Kim Il-sungs birthday, April 15, 1912, was set as the first year of the new [uche Calendar, [uche being the state-ratified philosophy of North Korea based on the principle of self-reliance. The year AD 2000 became luche 89.

"Now, Comrade Kim Kyong-min will expound on this theme." Only after someone tapped me on the arm did I realize that

everyone was waiting for me to rise and speak. I leapt to my feet.

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE I 21

''Although the title of this work refers to the 'Smiling Sun: I would like the poem to make a literary allusion to tears."

I could hear murmuring around me. "If you examine the 'Smiling Sun' works produced until now

by the party or military, they refer to the Supreme Leader's smile predominantly in the context of our achievements," I explained. "For example, the Supreme Leader smiles from the height of his immortality because he is satisfied with the great virtue and legacy politics of our General's rule, or as he peers down with pleasure at our unique kind of Socialism, which remains steadfast despite threats and pressure from imperialistic forces. In my view, it is time for the United Front Department to steer towards satisfying our audience's literary sensibilities, and to move beyond agitating their political fervor."

"That's all very well, but how will you satisfy their literary sensibilities?" DirectorIm asked curtly.

"This is what I propose to say: when I traced the history of the 'Smiling Sun: I discovered that our Supreme Leader was surrounded by tears from early childhood. Embarking on his life in this manner, the Supreme Leader triumphed over individual suffering and anguish and dedicated his entire life to his people and homeland by smiling. In other words, our Supreme Leader lived for his people and not for himself. This progression will lead to the following conclusion: 'All the tears that were to have been shed by his people, our Supreme Leader took on himself alone to shed. What smiles he had, he gave them all so that his people might smile: By juxtaposing his tears and his smiling, the 'Smiling Sun' will appear to shine more brightly. This also allows for the Smiling Sun to be ascribed with the following poetic qualities: 'When the Supreme Leader gave the people his gift of smiling, it manifested as his Love; when he sowed his gift on our lands, it manifested as rays of the Sun; and as he left his gift for history, it manifested as Immortal Life:"

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22 I DICTATOR

As soon as I finished speaking, Director Im leapt out of his chair. His excitement could not be contained and he smacked the desk several times. He exclaimed, "That's it! If this goes according to plan, the General will no doubt be moved to tears, as will the rest of the nation. The Propaganda and Agitation Department and the General Political Bureau are no match for us. Let me assure you, the United Front Department will come out ahead if we go through with this. This is real poetry! Comrades, what are your thoughts?" With the powerful head of the United Front Department showing

such enthusiasm for my proposal, it was no wonder that praise and wonder erupted from the rest of the room too. One man confessed how difficult it had been for him to hold back tears as he listened to me speak, and began to clap his hands. Suddenly, Supervisor Park Chul stood up, wearing a severe

expression in stark contrast to the others in the room. He was my immediate superior in Section 5. "Comrade Director Im," he said, "although the proposal is laudable in its literary potential, I believe that a reference to our Supreme Leader shedding tears is highly problematic. " The room was silent. Supervisor Park continued, "Kim Chul, one of our nation's three

canonical poets, employed the word 'dew' to refer euphemistically to the Leader's tears. For this mistake, he was banished to the countryside for ten years."

"What do you mean? Of course we can make a reference to tears. Don't you remember how our General shed tears at our Supreme Leader's funeral ceremony? And it was even broadcast all over the world! On top of that, I'm sure I've seen references to our Supreme Leader's tears when he was moved by the novels he read." As Director Im retorted with annoyance, other cadres nodded enthusiastically. Park Chul spoke again. "The novel is a descriptive genre, but

poetry is a lyric genre. Poetry is to do with human emotions, not with

PSYCHOLOGfCAL WARFARE I 23

human psychology. To refer so explicitly to tears in a poem would promote 'pessimism on the part of the individual: Besides, in verse, you can only have tears ofloyalty. YetComrade Kyong-min proposes not only to refer to the tears of an individual, but of our Supreme Leader himself. Heaven forbid! If we are accused of promoting 'pessimism on the part of our Supreme Leader,' each one of us will have to face the consequences." No one said a word, perhaps at the terrifying mention of

"consequences:' One man shut his notepad, as if to acknowledge that the meeting was over. I rose again to speak. "Of course you are right to say that tears

of loyalty, which must be shed by an individual, are the only tears permitted in poetry. But the poetic work in discussion here is to be composed in the genre of epic. Epic poetry is a narrative genre, just like the novel. Moreover, the focus ofthe work is not on our Supreme Leader shedding tears, but on how he has continuously exercised restraint and held them back. It is due to this forbearance that his tears were made manifest as Love, Sunshine, and Immortal Life. Therefore, I do not see a problem."

Supervisor Park, visibly annoyed that an employee of his should speak out in defiance, refused to change his stance. "Referring to our Supreme Leader's tears once or twice? There's nothing wrong with that. But you're talking about an epic poem, whose length will require repeated references to our Supreme Leader's tears. Have you ever seen such a thing in any of our nation's poems? Right now, as our nation pulls through this time of famine and bad harvests, the party slogan is 'The Journey is Hard but Let Us Go Forth in Laughter: And you propose to write a poem about our Supreme Leader shedding tears?" At these words, even the cadre who had earlier been close to tears

upon hearing my proposal nodded in agreement. Everyone now looked to Director 1m. Pushing at the table with both hands, he stood up and spoke gravely. "This is the plan. Starting from today,

II I

24 I DICTATOR

I III,

Comrade Kyong-min will put all other duties aside for six months and compose an epic poem according to his proposal. But he will make sure to avoid excessive references to our Supreme Leader's tears. At the United Front Department, you have assumed a South Korean identity and this allows you some leeway. We're not restricted by Writers' Union rules and don't have to go through their censorship or approval process. We just have to judge among ourselves at the UFD as best as we can. The current proposal is excellent in terms of its literary merit. Let's make this work." Director Im dismissed everyone from the meeting but asked me to

stay behind. The two of us were alone in the room. "Don't pay any attention to what Supervisor Park says," he told me.

"I'm sure he's jealous. What achievements can he boast of? You have six months of hard work ahead of you. You should take a week off. Go and recharge yourself. Where would you like to go?" I told him I wanted to visit my hometown. After meeting the

General, I had been thinking a lot about my friends back home. It was glorious enough to have been admitted to the UFD, but I had even become one of the "Admitted" How much everyone would admire me! I said that revisiting my place of birth would help me equip myself emotionally for the task ahead. Im Tong-ok granted my request without hesitation.

I I

GOING HOME 2

IPHONED my childhood friend Young-nam from PyongyangStation. We had been best friends in nursery school, where we were in the same class, and we had remained inseparable all the way to the end of primary school. "You're meeting me at the station, right?" "In your wildest dreams!" His response was as predictable as ever,

and I burst into laughter. Young-nams nickname was "Iappo"-short for Iapanese expatriate.

Like me, he had been born in Sariwon in North Korea, but all the kids called him Iappo because his parents were immigrants from Osaka in Iapan, They had arrived in Sariwon in the 1960s, as part of the repatriation of Koreans from [apan referred to as the "Great Movement of the Korean People." At the time, in a bid to promote the North over the South as the homeland of a unified Korea, Kim Il-sung welcomed into North Korea around one hundred thousand ethnic Koreans who had been living in [apan. After the Korean War, the circumstances of the Cold War made

North Korea a more attractive choice in terms of its economic superiority, and this enabled Kim Il-sung to pursue a policy of embracing expatriates. Using these immigrants as evidence of people choosing socialism over capitalism, the North Korean state fervidly referred to them in propaganda campaigns. On the surface, it looked as if Kim Il-sung was gaining significantly from a propaganda policy based on an embracing celebration of Korean ethnicity. In reality, however, the arrival of the immigrants caused unexpected

26 I DICTATOR

ripples in North Korean society. Actually, it was what they brought with them that had the greatest impact. The japanese products that the immigrants brought with them were regarded as wondrous goods from the outside world, never before seen by ordinary North Koreans. Until then, they had believed that any product of Kim Il-sung's Socialism must be the best in the world, but now they were exposed to the state of progress in japan. The immigrants settled all over North Korea, according to their wishes or ancestral connections, and an unofficial new slogan was seized on nationwide: "Capitalism may be rotten to the core, but they do make good products!" Almost instantaneously, North Korea became caught up in a fever of all things "made in japan:'

It became a fad for North Koreans to pick up labels or packaging thrown out by the "Iappos" and display them in their homes like treasure. The immigrants naturally came to be regarded as a privileged class through their enjoyment of japanese products, and they were soon firmly entrenched in the comfortable middle class of

North Korean society. They were admired not only because of the products they

possessed, but also because of their japanese cultural traits. Whether it was their characteristic forms of greeting, language, manners, or even their eating habits, their way of life was considered sophisticated and prosperous. In contrast, the official reward of higher status in return for loyal service seemed not as exciting. Increasingly, those who did not have family outside the country to send in japanese products tried to emulate the jappos at least in cultural terms .. Children were all too sensitive to this trend, complaining to their

parents that none of their older relatives had had the foresight to run away and settle in japan. The North Korean state had built the legitimacy of Kim II-sung on the basis of his credentials as an anti-japanese resistance fighter, and so it was a great irony that his inunigration movement caused ordinary North Koreans to admire

GOING HOME I 27

Japan. Korea had been freed from the ignominy of colonial servitude under the Japanese, but now it had been "colonized" again by the Japanese or, more specifically, the [ochongryon, the organization run by the UFD that represents people ofKorean origin in Japan. In effect, the Japan taboo reinforced by means of institutional communalism had begun to fade away from the public consciousness. ToNorth Koreans, for whom even ordinary clothes were auniform

dictated by the state, the notion of a private car for individual use was inconceivable. Nevertheless, this very privilege was freely given to the Iappos, whose private cars, speeding along empty roads in Pyongyang, were more than just a mode of transport in the eyes of North Koreans. They introduced the dangerous suggestion that one might control the speed of one's journey, instead of goose stepping in line to the whistle of the state. In this way, the presence of these immigrants offered a daring invitation to flout the traditional framework of loyalty. The North Korean state's jealousy eventually led to oppression of

the [appos. The immigrants, who had experience and memories of living in a capitalist society, were assigned to the "wavering" class, reserved for those who ideas were perceived to be a risk to the state. Their career prospects were severely restricted. Kim Iong-il even legallyprohibited [appos from driving white cars. The reason for this seemed petty: it was because white cars were the same color as the background of Japan's national flag. In party lectures, cadres alleged that Japan only exported white cars to the world, yet within their own nation they were fixated on red cars; and the reason for this was that they wanted to paint their national flagon the world map as a symbol of their central position in the world. It was clearly a warning from above that a Iappo could not be trusted as a Korean. Despite these efforts, the preference of many North Koreans for

the "Mount Fuji people:' as opposed to the "Mount Paektu people:' did not disappear. My friend Young-nam was therefore a member of

III 28 I DICTATOR

a group of people who were generally admired, in contradiction of the official stance. Moreover, his family was once the wealthiest in Sariwon. Nevertheless, life became very difficult for his family after the

deaths of his grandparents in Japan, when their supply of Japanese money and goods came to an end. As they were immigrants from Japan, Young-nam and his parents had no prospect of entering into a respectable career, because the job assignments were controlled by the Workers' Party. They had to start selling off their possessions one by one and, eventually, they became impoverished and came to live in a much worse state than the local North Koreans.

The one thing I remember clearly from my childhood is that we had a Yamaha piano at home, given to our family by Young-nams father when he was still a wealthy man. I remember my mother telling me that when Young-nams family first settled in Sariwon, my father helped them secure a new apartment through the allocations made by the Workers' Party. As the piano had arrived in the house before I was born, I grew up assuming that everyone had Japanese pianos, just as everyone had a portrait of Kim Il-sung on their wall at home.

One day, however, when I went to a friend's house to play, I realized that they did not have a piano. I was astonished. When I came home, I ran into the house and shouted at my mother, as if I had just witnessed something incredible: "Mom, did you know? They don't have a piano at home!"

She replied coolly, "They probably didn't want a piano in the house. They prefer reading books."

It was only when I began my first year at Dongri People's Primary School that I came to understand that the possession of a Japanese Yamaha piano was a very big deal indeed. The kids-and the grown-ups too-referred to me as "The Boy with the Japanese Piano' or "The Doctor's BoY:' Most kids at school lived in "harmonica apartments' built in the 1950s, so-called because each floor had flats that were packed closely together like the square holes in a

GOING HOME I 29

harmonica. We lived in a large flat on the third floor of an apartment block set aside for officials. My mother, who was the head doctor at a medical center for the exclusive use of party cadres, hoped that my two older sisters would become teachers and that I would one day become a famous pianist. She finally cajoled my father into finding me a famous piano tutor. One day, my father brought a tutor home with him. The man

had a long face and spoke with the heavy accent characteristic of Hamgyong Province in the north. But what amazed me more than his accent was that he was an ethnic Korean from China. And he stank of cigarette smoke, which I didn't like. Worse, he was a chain- smoker. My sisters didn't like him much at first, either. But he didn't seem to care. Bending down, he pulled my ear to his mouth and said emphatically in his phlegmatic voice, "My name is Choi Liang. Did you hear that? Two syllables. Choi Liang!" His loud voice frightened me as much as the stench of smoke did.

When my father announced that the man and his family were going to move in with us, I was devastated. I pretended to need the toilet, ran outside, and sobbed.

In time, Choi Liang became my first proper mentor. He had been a violinist in China's Shanghai Symphony Orchestra. During the Cultural Revolution, he'dfled the Red Guards' assaults on the educated by coming to North Korea, along with many other ethnic Koreans. His first job in North Korea was as a violin tutor at Pyongyang Arts School. At the time, he and Paek Go-san were considered to be among North Korea's leading violinists. Paek Go-san had taken both the top prize for his category and the honorary prize in the Tchaikovsky International Music Competition of 1982. In 1978, he had also been the first Asian to be appointed a lifetime member of the panel of judges for the violin section of the competition. Paek Go-san had a younger brother called Paek Do-san, who

had insulted Choi Liang by referring to him as a "dirty bastard:' a common derogatory term used by Koreans to refer to the Chinese.

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30 I DICTATOR

Choi Liang, infamous for his short temper, punched him in the face. For this Choi Liang was banished to the countryside until my father rescued him from rustic exile by hiring him to teach me music. Choi Liang's wife, son, and daughter moved into our house with him and our quiet home burst into unaccustomed life as it became home to our two families. In my early years, teacher Choi Liang seemed to me the cruelest of

men. He started me off with ear training and he went about this task without mercy. Several hundred times a day, I would have to strain to discern the note or interval he sounded on the piano. Gradually, I learned to pick out the notes and intervals without hesitation. Eventually, he moved on to chords and by the end he had taught me how to arrange music for a string quartet. My father tried very hard to get Choi Liang hired as a professor at

Sariwon Arts School. However, his foreign birth proved too great an obstacle for the post and he was taken on as a lecturer instead. Even so, because he was one of North Korea's leading violinists, students flocked from all over the country to study with him. Choi Liang frequently invited them to our house and even showed them my string quartet arrangements.

I still remember very clearly what Choi Liang had to say about string quartet arrangements, as he often repeated this piece of wisdom: ''Above all, the score should be covered with black notes everywhere. Semitone intervals should be used with care, but as frequently as needed. Understood?"

More than just an education in music, Choi Liang instilled in me great artistic ambition. Every day I listened to his anecdotes about Beethoven, Mozart and the fame that surrounded them even after their deaths. While other children aspired to become party cadres or to drive cars for party cadres, I dreamt of becoming Dvorak, and of achieving world renown for the composition of my own "New World Symphony:' I once mentioned this dream to my mother and she gave me a fierce telling-off, saying that if I shared these

GOING HOME I 31

thoughts with anyone else, our entire family would be accused of "revisionism" or moral corruption. She made sure to give me a terrific fright by saying that if I didn't keep these thoughts to myself, I might be arrested. My mother was troubled by the realization that her thirteen-

year-old son had grown enamored of the music of Dvorak. I had come to love his works because of the tape recordings that Choi Liang had smuggled in with him from China, and because the only other kind of music I had access to was the stuff I heard at school. It wasn't just that the music was limited to revolutionary anthems. Rather, after having been exposed to the thrilling world of harmonic possibility, I found it frustrating to listen to North Korean songs of perfect victory that did not allow for any suggestion of imperfection through musical dissonance or tension. Once, in singing class at school, I couldn't contain my thoughts any

longer. I volunteered to do the accompaniment for the session, and played as I wished instead of following the prescribed pattern. My pedaling on the organ (there was no piano at school) wasn't perfect, but I knew that I had played well and without mistakes. In spite of this, our music teacher punished me for my deviation by humiliating me in front of the class, making an example of me as someone who knew nothing whatsoever about music. In my heart, though, I believed it was the school-not me-that lacked an understanding of music. As a result, I could not stop myself from beginning to doubt everything else the school taught us to regard as the most accurate and objective form of knowledge, whether this took the form of the revolutionary history of Kim II-sung, linguistics, or any other subject. As time went on, I was confirmed in my conviction that Western

music was artistically superior to the North Korean music Iwasbeing taught. It wasn't that I preferred one set of stylistic rules to the other. Western music had its rules too; but what it had that North Korean music didn't was the infinite possibilities of breaking an established rule, to make a new one of your own. With Choi Liang by my side

32 I DICTATOR

to explain the intricacies of musical rule breaking, I grew more confident that the transgression of expectation and rules was not unmusical, but, rather, that this was part of the essence of musicality. From dawn to dusk, I listened to Dvorak. My father worried

about my hearing and took my headphones away from me several times; but I was so desperate that I once took a stethoscope from my mother's bag and held it against the speaker of the tape player so that I could listen under the blankets at night. My father was proudly supportive of my ambitions and was convinced that I was destined for great things, but Choi Liang was stubborn in his honesty. "This boy will never become a good pianist," he said. "His fingers

are too short. He does have creative talent, though, and I recommend that he should train to be a composer." I entered Pyongyang Arts School at fifteen. I was determined to

become a world-famous composer, fulfilling the dream that Choi Liang had sown in me. But my sudden encounter with a book from the "lOO-Copy Collection' resulted in my musical ambitions being replaced overnight by literary ones. The book was the Collected Works of Lord Byron. As part of North

Korea's" 1OO-CopyCollection;' the print run of this book was restricted to one hundred copies. In North Korea, circulation of foreign books is restricted in this way so that only the ruling Kim and his family, his closest associates, and select members of North Korea's elite have access to them. Each of the books in a lOO-copy set has a stamped number on the first page to show which of the hundred copies it is. Books bearing the "No.1" stamp are, of course, offered only to the ruling Kim. It is thus considered a mark of high status among cadres and other members of the elite to possess a book stamped with a single-digit numeral, or the closest number they can get to it. The secret translation and printing of these limited editions of

foreign works continues to be done by a team of translators working under the auspices of the Propaganda and Agitation Department

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GOING HOME I 33

and the Chosun Social Sciences Institute, in the Ioong-gu area of Pyongyang. It is the responsibility of cultural or science attaches stationed in DPRK embassies abroad to acquire foreign books for limited distribution through this system. I don't know how our copy of the Collected Works of Lord Byron

had ended up in my father's personal bookcase. One day, I picked it up from the shelf out of mere curiosity, noticing that the spine of the book was different from the others stacked there. North Korean books usually reflect North Korean state aesthetics in their bright and gaudy designs. This book, however, was subdued in color. The dark and faded cover was suggestive of an ancient foreign culture. The pattern of a frame, similar in design to that of an oil painting, surrounded the printed title. Ordinary books were mass-produced, but this book seemed to be handmade, as its thick and bulky cover housed pages that were held together by delicate threadwork. I opened the book with vague curiosity, but I was pulled in from

the first page and the poetry seized me at once. The vocabulary was bold and the words pushed their definitions and associations to the limits, unlike anything I had ever read. In North Korea, the institutional control of thought begins with the consolidation of language, a policy designed to unify the private and public spheres of thought. In order for the realms of individual expression to adhere to a shared ideology, the party's Propaganda and Agitation Department sets strict boundaries for the written and spoken word. No North Korean literary work may deviate from the legal framework of Kim Iong-ils "[uche Art Theory," printed in several volumes, which sets the conditions under which socialist art can exist. The authority of thought which monitors and enforces this theory, through the penalty of prison camp for all those who are responsible for letting a deviant work slip through the net, is the National Literary Deliberation Committee. As one who had been brought up in such a fixed framework of linguistic expression, Byron's poetry was like a

34 I DICTATOR dictionary of New Korean to me. As I worked out the meanings and inferences in words I had never seen before, I experienced the strange sensation of learning how to speak Korean from a foreign-language speaker. What really intrigued me too was the politeness of the language.

In the North Korean language, there are two distinct registers of speech: one relating to the Leader, and one to everyone else. Before encountering Byron's poetry, I had thought that adjectives such as "Dear" and "Respected" were a special form of pronoun in the Korean language reserved for Kim II-sung and Kim Iong-il, Along with "Great;' which is always seen in one of the terms referring to Kim II-sung as "Great Leader:' I had assumed that these adjectives were names just like Kim and therefore etymologically and purely Korean. But I learnt, through Byron's poetry, that these words were terms of respect that were part of a universal language and not uniquely Korean. I felt strangely elated by the discovery that these terms might be applied to an individual.

Most of all, the patterns of words and poetic devices-all balanced against the underlying rhythm of the poem-awakened in me a sense of literary sublimity that surpassed what music alone could convey. Just as I had done with Dvorak's New World Symphony, I read Byron's epic poems Childe Harold's Pilgrimage and The Corsair over and over again in their North Korean translations. The Corsairs ending-the protagonist, a vagabond pirate, disappearing from the island upon learning of his beloved's death-left me restless, and this agitation lingered with me long after each reading. I had known only loyalty to the Supreme Leader, believing that this was the most sublime emotion a human being could feel. But these poems were proof that emotions could be experienced in a personal sphere that did not include the Leader. This understanding may be taken for granted in the rest of the world, but it was an astounding epiphany for me, and after this realization, I wanted suddenly to confess my love to

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GOING HOME I 35

a woman. I wanted to fall in love, and I wanted to be weak for love. Out of this longing, I began to write poetry of my own.

I even considered dropping out of Pyongyang Arts School, but I did not dare let my parents down after the faith they had placed in me. The least I could do, I reasoned, was to attempt to find a literary mentor.

There are three poems that all North Koreans must learn by heart. These are "For My One and Only Homeland" by Ri Su-bok, "Mother;' by Kim Chul, and "My Homeland" by Kim Sang-o. In "For My One and Only Homeland;' the poet states that although he has only one lifetime to live, he will sacrifice it to his homeland, of which there is also only one. In this poem, the self is sublimated to the country. "Mother" describes how the motherly love of the Workers' Party is deeper than that of any human mother, who cannot rear her child as an individual separate from the state. Here, motherly love is inadequate on its own, and profoundly inferior to the love provided by the party. "My Homeland" describes the Great Leader as the poet's true homeland, and the country is subsumed into the identity of its leader.

If I were to have a teacher at all, I wanted it to be one of North Korea's foremost poets. Fortunately, as wide as my world seemed, it was also small. Ri Su-ryon, the granddaughter of Kim Sang-o, happened to be my classmate. When she told me that her grandfather had agreed to meet me, and she asked me to go home with her after lectures, I was so overjoyed that I took her hand and shook it wildly. It was the winter of 1990, when I should have been wholly devoted to my musical studies at Pyongyang Arts School.

Kim Sang-os apartment was in Otan-dong, in the Joong-gu area, with unobstructed views over the Daedong River. After Korea's liberation from Japanese occupation in 1948, Kim Sang-o had returned from Japan and served as the deputy editor of a newspaper in Hwanghae Province. When Kim II-sung came to Hwanghae Province, Kim Sang-o was assigned to be his speechwriter. This

36 I mer ATOR

collaboration eventually led to his promotion to the post of vice president of the Central Committee of the Korean Writers' Union. However, the influence of China's Cultural Revolution, which

began in 1966, led to many intellectuals being purged in North Korea too. The North Korean state had designated Khrushchev as a "revisionist:' following his criticism of Stalin's cultification, and at the time the DPRK preferred the Chinese style of communism to that of the Soviet Union. The record of Kim Sang-os years in japan as a student let him down as it associated him with pro-japanese collaborators, and was seen as undermining Kim Il-sung's authority as an anti-japanese resistance fighter. After losing his licence as a writer, Kim Sang-o was banished to the countryside, where for fifteen years he worked as a farm laborer. Kim Il-sung, however, had a good memory. When he conducted

an on-site inspection in South Hwanghae Province, he asked for the young speechwriter who had composed his first speech in Hwanghae Province, shortly after the liberation of Korea. Kim Sang-o was subsequently recalled to Pyongyang and he composed the lyric poem "My Homeland" at this emotional time, praising the person of Kim Il-sung (instead of the state or territory) as his true homeland. My classmate Ri Su-ryon was born in Seoheung-gun in Hwanghae Province where Kim Sang-o had been in exile, but following his rehabilitation she had moved with him to the capital

city of Pyongyang. Kim Il-sung appointed his former speechwriter as the head of

the UFD Office 101, Section 5. From then on, he had to channel his literary talents to serve the goals of the Workers' Party, working under a pseudonym and deprived of an identity or history of his own. By the time of my visit to his home, he had retired from the UFD, though he was still an honorary director of Office 101 due to his official status as a "Kim Il-sung Associate:' As his UFD title came with no actual responsibility, he was living as quiet and ordinary a life

GOING HOME I 37

as possible for someone with such a background. More importantly from my perspective, he also had the time to meet me. When Kim Sang-o himself opened the door, I was startled

and bowed deeply from the waist. His tall stature and imposing countenance made a strong first impression on me, suggesting that men of Kim n-sung's inner circle were, even in appearance, extraordinary beings. Yet it was his humility that made him a truly great man in my eyes. In spite of his status, Kim Sang-os house was cold because of the

erratic heating system in Pyongyang. As I entered, his wife offered me one of his coats to keep me warm, and I was surprised to notice three cigarette burns on the fabric. Until fairly recently, the electricity supply had not been too

bad. But as it was a centrally organized system, even a minor disruption in one area would affect the hot water heating supply for the rest of Pyongyang. The age of the pipes and their tendency to burst frequently was a problem, and many households resorted to siphoning hot water from the traditional Korean underfloor heating system to use for washing. So there was always a lack of heat, and with the inefficiency of the infrastructure, even in the harsh middle ofwinter, the best heat to be had was a lukewarm floor. This was the case even though Kim Sang-o lived in a senior party

cadres' retirement flat, built in the I980s in a residential area set apart from those of ordinary Pyongyang residents. Although this was the first time we had met, he lamented that what he found more unbearable than the cold was the fact that he could not set foot properly on the bare earth. He had been assigned a twelfth- floor apartment and, as the lift was always out of order, he was stuck between the earth and the sky. When he started to talk about his horne province, I could see that

the burn marks on his coat were nothing compared to the scars in his heart. In the early 1980s, the North Korean state had decided that

38 I DICTATOR

the presence of disabled citizens in Pyongyang was an affront to the beauty of the city, and banished them en masse to the countryside. Kim Sang-o's only daughter, who had a physical disability, was left behind in Hwanghae Province when the rest of the family was instructed to relocate to Pyongyang. That woman was my friend Su-ryons mother. On the day of my first visit, Kim Sang-o took great pains to read

every line of the poems I'd taken from my jacket pocket. When he had finished reading my attempt at an epic poem, he laughed heartily, saying that he knew I had written in imitation of Byron. To my astonishment, he did not scold me, but was accepting of it: "If you had come to me with something like, 'Oh, my homeland! Oh, my Party!' I would have refused to talk to you. I enjoyed your personal narrative oflove. I can see that you're faithful to your own voice." Kim Sang-os words of moral encouragement became the

cornerstone of my life as a writer. He taught me that, "A piece of writing will stubbornly pursue its author and hold him accountable to the end. Look to your conscience; speak your own truth. That is the only way that you can go beyond what you have been taught and accomplish a literature that truly belongs to you."

In Kim Sang-o's last years, the UFD pleaded with him continuously in the hope that he would produce more state literature for them, but he refused to the end, saying that his health didn't allow it. I wonder, though, if his choice to keep silent was the decisive act of Kim Sang-o's conscience and his truth, after a life spent in loyal obedience to the Workers' Party.

With Kim Sang-os recommendation, I was able to submit my own poems to the selection process for literary works organized by the party's Propaganda and Agitation Department. The best would be offered for the judgement of Kim [ong-il himself, and my compositions made the selection.

GOING HOME I 39

On February 19, 1992, the state newspaper Rodong Sinmun published an announcement to the effect that a collection of fifty poems entitled The Songs of a Blessed Generation had been presented to General Kim long-il on his fiftieth birthday. He had read the book and written the two poets a letter of commendation. Even today, I remember with vivid clarity the look on the face of

the party secretary for Pyongyang Arts School as he presented Kim Iong-ils letter of appreciation to me, a student of music who had wronged the school by straying from his assigned course of study. He had to do this in front of all the staff and students, and while he had no alternative but to say, "I am so delighted that we had such a jewel in our school," he twisted my ear with such force that I almost cried out loud on stage.

It didn't end there. In his letter, Kim Iong-il said that anything I asked ofhim would be granted, and I took him at his word. The party required a graduate of music to serve the state in a musical capacity for the remainder of his or her working life. But the party made an exception for me and granted me my first choice of career: I was assigned to be the arts writer of the Chosun Central Broadcasting Committee in the Propaganda and Agitation Department. In North Korea, there is only one television channel. Central TV

isbroadcast from 5p.m. to 11p.m. on weekdays and from 10a.m. on Sundays. In my new role as arts writer, I was responsible for curating North Korean poetry and helped with presenting poetry in a format suitable for television. My parents and teachers were shocked at Kim Iong-ils granting ofmy wish, aswas, of course, the party secretary for Pyongyang Arts School. It was 1994 when I began my working life. Before my first day

at work, I went to see Kim Sang-os widow, and in the traditional Korean show of reverence, I offered her a deep bow. Kim Sang-o had died in 1992 of tuberculosis in a special ward on

the eleventh floor of Kim Man YuHospital, a state-of-the-art facility. Even his final breath, he gave to me. All cadres had to sign an oath of

40 I DIeT ATOR

loyalty to Kim Jong-il when they were close to death, swearing that their single-hearted devotion would continue after they have died. Poet Kim Sang-o had added the following words to his handwritten will: "I leave behind unfinished works, to be completed by my children and my student." His funeral was handled by the United Front Department, as befitted a dignitary of the state. Kim Il-sung also decided that the "Homeland Unification Medal" -one of North Korea's highest state honors-was to be awarded to Kim Sang-o on the day of his funeral. The Rodong Sinmun duly announced this as an ordinance of the state.

It was Kim Sang-os will that prompted the UFD to recruit me into its ranks, although I had originally applied to be an arts writer. Following a stern complaint from Kim [ong-il that the UFD had ceased to produce works of Kim Sang-os quality, UFD First Deputy Director Im Tong-ok had personally sought me out for recruitment. The vetting process for a Central Party cadre required at least six months of rigorous background checks, but the process was rushed through on orders from above and my transfer to the UFD happened quickly.

There was another problem, though: the Party required UFD staff to be graduates of literature or the social sciences, and music just didn't cut it. So I was admitted to the graduate faculty of literature and languages at Kim Il-sung University in September 1996, under the pretext of doing my trial period at the UFD. But this wasn't about due process, only a means of achieving an end. The one-year UFD trial period was also replaced by my graduate degree, and I was admitted to the UFD upon graduation.

Because of this history, my request to return to my place of birth before working on "An Ode to the Smiling Sun" was about much more than merely revisiting friends and seeing my hometown again. It was really to make a pilgrimage to the place that brought me to Choi Liang and Kim Sang-o, who had taken my hand in theirs to guide me towards my calling.

MY HOMETOWN 3 TRANSFORMED

PYONGYANG STATION was so crowded that it was difficult to seealong the platform. There seemed to be more passengers who had spent days waiting for a delayed train than there were people there to buy tickets or embark on their journey; and it wasn't just because this was the central railway terminus in the capital city of North Korea. In North Korea, apart from sections of track linking newly

constructed stations or in the development zones, the rest of the country relied on a single-track railway laid during the Japanese occupation of the Korean peninsula during the first half of the twentieth century. North Koreans were used to trains operating on an irregular timetable. Both Kim Il-sung and Kim [ong-il stressed that the railway was the nervous system of the nation. But in reality, North Korea was like a person with nerve damage paralyzing one half of its body. Natural disasters were not even a major problem, given the constant physical breakdowns, problems with the engine or tracks, and frequent blackouts. Even when the electricity was actually working, the power was low, and passengers bounced up and down as the carriage hiccuped its way along the track. Sometimes villagers along the line would race the train on their oxcarts, laughing as they overtook the passengers in their carriages. Besides, there were higher priorities, as passenger trains must

always give way to the ruling Kim's special train, for which myriad

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routes were kept clear for security reasons, only for them to be changed at the last minute. Many freight trains operated several months behind schedule, and the party and military used all kinds of justifications to get Kim Iong-ils ratification to be granted priority track use. While trains that operated under Kim Iong-ils orders, often carrying military goods, traveled across the country's tracks on maximum priority, passenger trains were at the very bottom of the pecking order.

Luckily, my hometown was south of Pyongyang, where there was less rail traffic compared to other regions. This was thanks to the nature of Iapanese colonial planning, which focused its infrastructure in the northern parts of the country, to aid in its mission of using Korea as a foothold for controlling Manchuria to the north. North Korean trade networks were concentrated on these connections, and the southern regions had been left relatively undeveloped.

The distance from Pyongyang to my hometown of Sariwon is thirty-nine miles, which would take less than an hour by car. But when I arrived at the station, I was told that the start of the journey would be delayed by three hours. I didn't mind the wait. I hadn't been back for ten years and was determined to make the journey by train, so I was full of excited anticipation. To be honest, I was returning home in clouds of glory as one of the Admitted. I had even planned to take with me my special wineglass into which the General himself had poured wine, and use it to toast friends back home. But my mother sternly refused me permission, saying that such an heirloom should not be removed from the house. So instead, I had filled my rucksack with alcohol and tinned meats. Carrying this bag and waiting in line for my ticket, I stood tall and proud.

Queues are the same everywhere in North Korea. There are three signs showing the way to lines for Cadres, Military Personnel, and Ordinary Residents; and at the head of each line, armed soldiers stand guard. Although only in my twenties, I confidently approached

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MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 43

the cadres' line with my Central Party identification documents enclosed in a tan leather wallet and embossed with the gold party emblem. People in this queue were also offered a separate waiting room, so there was no tedious standing in line for several hours like the other passengers. On any train, the carriage at the front of the train is reserved

exclusively for the use of party cadres. Whereas the platform had been teeming with people, because this was a restricted area, the carriage was empty save for a few people. Near the door, there were four people with dark faces who seemed nervous and kept looking round. It appeared that they had entered illegally by bribing a train officer. As if their destination was not Sariwon but the safe start of the journey, they were so relieved when the train began to move that they bent over and giggled among themselves. In North Korea, there is no freedom of movement. You can only

buy a train ticket by showing an official travel pass the size of an identity card, stating your reasons for travel. If you travel without such a pass and are discovered, the sentence is three months of hard labor. A security agent soon appeared in the carriage. He must have been offered a bribe too, because he did not ask to see the travel passes of the four joyriders. As if in gratitude to me for pretending not to have noticed this, once he had checked my travel pass, he stood to attention and saluted me very formally. For a long time I couldn't take my eyesoff the constantly changing

scenery outside the window. We had to wait for over two hours at Hwangju Station on the way, but even this did not bother me. I was in enough of a trance in going back to my hometown, like a pilgrim returning to a pure and holy spring. When the train fmally arrived at Sariwon Station, after traveling

for over half a day, I leapt excitedly from my seat but was surprised to see the crowded platform. Having traveled in leisure in an almost empty carriage, I was puzzled to see so many passengers

44 I DICTATOR

disembarking onto the same platform as me. I even saw dozens of people jumping down from the roof of my carriage. At first, I shook my head at the way they had put themselves at such risk just to get a free ride. But when I approached the commotion farther ahead on the platform, I saw that money had not been the problem. Security agents were beating up several passengers and yelling questions: "Answer me! Do you bastards have a travel pass? Fucking answer the question!" There are also security checkpoints on all roads that cross the

borders of counties and provinces, even in the hills. Those people who were risking the law anyway by traveling without authorization were forced to travel on the roof of carriages for convenience and ease of escape. This was probably why the people picked on by the security agents betrayed no sign of the strength it must have required to risk their lives by traveling on the roof of a carriage, and instead were pleading with tears and every kind of piteous explanation they could think of.

The atmosphere of my hometown, which I hadn't seen in more than a decade, was so different from that of Pyongyang. This unfamiliarity destroyed all the calm excitement of my pilgrimage. The yelling, screaming, and coarse swearing all around me made the place feel dark and terrifying. For a while, I stood there feeling lost. I looked around at the screeching mob of people who had come to the station to meet the train. They were not here merely to greet family and friends, but to collect their cargo. Most of the passengers had been ferrying large sacks of corn or rice.

Until 1994, and the start of the Arduous March, all North Koreans relied for sustenance on the socialist Public Distribution System (PDS), which determined the allocation of every basic necessity of life. This included household items and food, whether rice or eggs. The ration size was determined by the state, and it also served as a marker of class. The highest ration that was granted, the daily

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 45

ration, conferred a generous amount of supplies for a household. The Central Party's Finance and Administration Department made sure that every morning, a refrigerated Nissan truck delivered fresh supplies to the honored few. The daily ration was granted only to the households of Central Party secretaries, directors, and corps commanders in the military. Further down the hierarchy came three-day rations, weekly rations,

and monthly rations. Three-day rations applied to the households of those who held a rank equivalent to ministers, party secretaries at the city level, and Central Party cadres-ranked deputy director. Departmental directors in the Central Party institutions and section chiefs received weekly rations. Those who were Admitted to the Dear Leader's circle, such asmyself, received individual rations on aweekly basis, instead of household rations. This included eleven pounds of seafood and meats, four and aquarter pounds of rice, thirty eggs, two bottles of cooking oil, and fresh produce. Monthly rations, once allocated to the vast majority of ordinary

North Koreans, disappeared with the collapse of the state's PDS in 1994. Weekly rations and the grades above still remain in force- enjoyed only by the loyal and fortunate. But the ration classes that applied to cadres were kept as a secret from the ordinary populace, because they had relied solely on rations and suddenly had to fend for themselves. At the time, a nationwide campaign of "self-sufficiency" was promoted in order to urge people to make do on their own, following the example of the General; which meant that the suppression of information about the rations enjoyed by the higher classes was all the more strictly enforced. During the Arduous March and these times of economic hardship,

the trains diligently transported not only people but the cargo of self-sufficiency. Seeing the weight of their cargo, everything else I saw at the station made me grimace. As I stood there, surprised and somewhat appalled at the chaotic Sight before me, someone tapped

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46 I DICTATOR

me on my shoulder. It was my friend Young-nam, who had promised to meet me at the station. His face was clearly marked by the effects of hunger, but his youthful smile was the same as ever. Seeing him was like a fog lifting from my eyes. "You've grown up!" I said. Just as I'd done when we were children, I pinched his earlobe

instead of shaking hands. His chubby earlobe was larger than anyone else's and had always reminded me of a mother's swollen nipple. When we were very small, I even pinched it till it bled on a few occasions.

"Let's go," he said. The strength he displayed when relieving me of my rucksack

reminded me of our childhood playfulness. After leaving the ticket barrier, I looked round near the station entrance. The first thing I noticed was the Sariwon post office opposite, which was unchanged as if time had stood still since I had left. At the same time, although I had remembered it as a large building, it seemed to have grown smaller and tarnished with age. The concurrence of things being exactly as they had been but at the same time smaller and more shabby was the same with the grocery store and food store next to the post office. But the cement of the large station square, which in my memory was smooth, was now full of cracks and wounds.

A fresh breeze blew in my face, and I noticed the big elm tree still leaning to one side, as if about to collapse sidelong. Its continued survival cheered me a little. When I was of primary school age, my mother and I had often waited under that tree for my father on his return from a business trip. Vivid memories came rushing back. In one scene, I picked up a broken piece of blue glass from a bottle and used it to reflect the sunlight, which glittered through the branches and leaves in different directions. When we set off to the right of the station square, I wondered if we

had taken a wrong turn. This was not the park I remembered, covered with vibrant foliage; there was no sign of the deer or pheasants that

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 47

used to roam here. Instead of a single pavement running straight through the park, there were many dirt tracks leading in confusing directions. On either side of this tangled road, long lines of squatting hawkers in shabby worn clothes, old and young, male and female, tempted travelers with their trinkets. Young-nam urged me on, but I did not want to miss anything.

I deliberately paced myself in order to browse the hawkers' wares spread out on either side of me. I grimaced as I took in every sort of poverty known to North Korea'sprovinces gathered together here and put on display in this miserable plot. The stench of unwashed bodies in the air was rank. The wares optimistically placed on display by grimy hands were not the kind one would expect to pay for. I asked one woman why she was selling an empty insulated flask for twenty won. She replied by saying that if I filled it with hot water, I could hug it during the night to keep warm.

It also bewildered me to see tap water on sale. It cost ten won to wash your face with soap and water and five to wash with water alone. Young-nam told me, as if it was an everyday occurrence, that face washing was a service that had been introduced the previous year. Not only had there been famine here, but the water supply had also dried up. Although the women were shouting, "Water for your face!" their own faces were greasy and dirt-flecked. When I discovered that the cotton comforters on sale had

been stuffed with filters collected from old cigarette butts, I could not suppress a snort of disgust. A woman sat by her wares, concentrating on the task. How many old cigarette butts did it take to fill a comforter? Was this the best they could do? People should not have to live like this: they weren't living a life, but living in order to stay alive, themselves discarded like used cigarette butts. But, as if anticipating my condescension, the old woman swore at me, shouting that those who did not collect old cigarette butts deserved to die.

48 I DICTATOR

"Don't you think of looking down on me," she added, with a strange air of dignity. Turning towards the far corners of the park, I could see a swarm

of homeless people who looked to be either dead or dying. There was nothing between these men and women and a cold grave but their own shadows, and even those who were still alive were clearly waiting for death. There were also men hovering over the bodies like flies, at times poking at the inert figures with a stick. I asked Young-nam what they were doing. My Iappo friend explained, scratching too audibly at his skin through his clothes. "They're from the Corpse Division," he said. "Dispatched by the

city's party committee." "Corpse Division? What do you mean?" "Why, they get rid of the corpses! Maybe you don't have this in

Pyongyang, but the committees in all the other provinces dispatch them to their main park near the station. All sorts of people move through the station, so they come here to beg, until they die." Young-narn's expression, so unmoved even in the face of death,

was distant and unfamiliar. A Corpse Division? Such a thing could never exist in Pyongyang, which was a holy center of revolution and the capital of Chosun. Although North Korea's official name is the Democratic People's Republic of Chosun, in reality, it was and remains a Republic of Pyongyang residents. When there was famine allover the country and rations stopped, supplies were rerouted to Pyongyang residents as the first priority. The issuing of travel passes was severely restricted and security at the Pyongyang border controls was heightened, so that supplies routed to the capital could not seep 'into other provinces. From 1996, when even Pyongyang rations broke down, the Party finally resorted to an opening of trade with the Chinese so that flour and corn could be imported. Even when Pyongyang residents did starve or freeze to death, they couldn't be left on the streets as in the provinces; Pyongyang was the showcase of

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 49

Kim Il-sung and Kim Iong-ils North Korea for foreign visitors, and its appearance had to be kept up at all costs. Young-nam continued, ''Apparently, the party secretary for

Hamheung thought of the idea, and received a state medal for it. Good for him! The dead are beyond gratitude, but the living are appreciative. How else would we get rid of all the corpses? You get a full day's ration if you sign up for the work; that's quite generous, you know." As my friend chattered on, he seemed to be speaking in a different

language from the one used in Pyongyang. Nothing here seemed familiar to me any longer. I stood watching the Corpse Division at work, ignoring Young-nams wave of the hand urging me to move on. The Corpse Division had a loaded rickshaw, on top of which some empty sacks were laid. Six bare and skeletal feet poked out from beneath these in oddly assorted directions. For the rust split second, I did not understand what I was seeing, but as soon as I realized these empty sacks were human bodies, I grew nauseous and retched. I trembled with angry regret for having looked too closely. I had heard rumors that when the Public Distribution System collapsed, corpses could be seen on the streets in some provinces. But I had never thought to see it happen in my own hometown. The place I'd cherished in my memory had been like a beautiful landscape painting; now that was sullied forever, and torn into shreds. At this betrayal of my memories, I felt rage tempered by confusion rising up from deep within me. As I met the townspeople and myoId neighbors, I became ever

more despondent. After I'd finished unpacking at Young-narn's house and had changed my clothes, neighbors swarmed into the house. Young-narn's mother had knocked on everyone's door to say that the doctor's son had come back to visit. They put everything on hold to come and marvel at me-one of the Admitted. Without exception, everyone I saw looked old and exhausted.

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"We heard you had dinner with the General! What kind of porridge does he like to eat?" It was Mr. "Tall Man" Park, who used to live down the street from us. He had eaten nothing but porridge since the last state holiday. His face was jaundiced. "The General? Oh, you know the song, 'The Rice Balls of the

General'? Just like in that song, he shared a rice ball with us," I mumbled in response. Even though these were simple country folk who believed whatever

the Workers' Party told them, I could not have imagined that I would be asked this question so soon. I rubbed my hands, sticky with sweat. But the townspeople seemed relieved to hear that the General dined on solid rice balls instead of porridge; some tutted, while others stood in mute wonder. I heard a voice saying that it was just as the party cadres had told them, so we had to do more for the patriotic rice movement, even if it meant forking out money for the rice. The patriotic rice movement was a campaign whereby ordinary North Koreans offered their rice to the state as an act of patriotism. The townspeople continued to quiz me endlessly about the

General, asking anxiously after his health. I was appalled that they were concerned more for their leader's well-being than for their own, although they were in a wretched state. I did my best to answer their questions with lies, but found myself disgusted by the man I had become. The life had been drained out of my townsfolk and there was no

comfort from seeing any of their faces again. When I met Soon-yong from next door-I used to have a crush on her and she was always my play wife in our childhood games of marriage-she had become a disfigured old woman. As soon as our eyes met, she withdrew her gaze and hung her head, revealing her thin, bare neck; another sign of her impoverished state. Myung-chul, once famous for his strength and envied by all the other boys in town, had turned into nothing but skin and bones. Their prematurely darkened, cadaverous skin, and

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 51

the deep zigzagging wrinkles on their faceswere a silent testament to the years of starvation they had endured. When I asked after some neighbors I could not see in the crowd,

the matter-of-fact reply was that each one of them had starved to death. The shock of it felt like a blow to the head. Suddenly, I heard someone yelling outside. Mr. Tall-Man Park told

me that it was Grandfather Apple Tree Cottage. He had gone mad. Everyone in our town knew about Apple Tree Cottage. The house was so called because the grandfather planted an apple tree in their yard when his granddaughter was born, so that they could grow up together. Every autumn, the town's children would come round and ask, "When can wepick the apples?" Grandfather Apple Tree Cottage would answer, "Come along this Sunday with your mom and dad. Don't forget, Sunday is apple-picking day!" Apple Tree Cottage had always been welcoming to us. I asked why Grandfather Apple Tree Cottage had become deranged. Myung-chul answered with a deep sigh, "There's no more apple

tree. Grandfather chopped it down after his granddaughter hanged herself from it. Her mother left home to be with some son of a bitch, and her father died a few years ago. The mother never kept in touch, so there was only her grandfather left. He looked after her-how could an adolescent girl fend for herself? But one night, a thief came and picked all their apples. The next morning, the grandfather found that his granddaughter had hung herself from the apple tree. Hewent raving mad after that. Says he will eat the thief when he is found." The story was already wretched beyond belief, but when

Myung-chul finished by saying that everyone still called the old man Grandfather Apple Tree Cottage, although there was no more apple tree, I could no longer keep my composure and tears welled from my eyes. I pretended to wipe some dirt off with the back of my hand. I felt deeply sorry that I was hiding my own tears from them, but I was too ashamed of myself to show them my tears. How could I,with my

52 I DICTATOR

privileged existence, express my misery in front of those who had nothing left, who had been deprived even of the means to express their misery? With these thoughts, I was overcome by an impulse to hide my

hands. The lives of my townsfolk were threatened by their not having enough to eat, and it was mortifying that my hands had been employed for literature when the nation was in such a state. Or rather, I needed desperately to hide my hands from myoId neighbors. My very hands seemed to me to embody my arrogance and selfishness, and their soft skin to expose how I had used them to secure my own existence at the expense of countless other lives.

That night, at the dinner prepared by Young-nama mother, I had to choke back my tears again. She proudly explained how she was able to offer me, her guest, a half- full bowl of rice-she had stashed away ten grains of rice at every meal. In addition to the rice, there was a small dish of salted cabbage and pickled anchovies, which were presented to me as if they were an expensive delicacy. When I asked how long it had taken to save up the rice, she replied, "Three months." I could not believe that they were eating rice by the grain, instead of in servings. I muttered an excuse, saying that I had indigestion after eating lunch on the train. Almost as soon as I left the table, Young-nam's father scolded his

wife severely, saying that she had put me off my food. He brought me my spoon, forcing me to grip it and pleading with me to join them at the table again. From my rucksack, I took out my imported liquor and tinned meats, the ones I had brought with me from Pyongyang as parting gifts.

"Look, don't worry about me. I'm not refusing because there's not enough food," I blurted. Although I had brought these food items as gifts, I was at my wits'

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 53

end when it came to explaining my possession of such extravagant luxuries to a family who ate rice by the grain. When Young-nam's father lifted the bottle of cognac and marveled in wonder, I felt even more overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding. "Ah, I haven't seen Western liquor for years," he Sighed. "You

know, when we first arrived in North Korea from Japan, I had so many of the bottles that I gave them out as gifts whenever I could." The mother, suddenly embarrassed by her own meager offering

in comparison to the gifts I had brought with me, sheepishly nudged the bowl of rice towards her husband. "Youhave the rice," she said. "Perhaps I should have saved it for another time." The bowl of rice was passed to the son by the father, then by the

son back to the mother. Young-nam's mother eventually took it back into the kitchen to keep it for her daughter, who had gone out to work a night shift at the fabric factory. My chest felt tight, but I was also moved by the love that led this family with so little rice of their own to offer the last of it to an outsider. Young-nam's father continued to gaze in wonder at the bottle of

imported liquor I had brought. When I told him that it was given to me by Dear Leader, his mouth dropped. Kim [ong-il gave special gifts to his senior cadres three times a year: on New Year's Day, Kim Il-sungs birthday, and his own birthday. These might include suit fabric from Italy, rare medicinal herbs, or shoes, all especially imported. But while other items might change, the liquor was always

a key feature. The custom of imported-liquor gifts was instituted because

many cadres, previously unfamiliar with these drinks, had been mesmerized by them, drinking excessively at state banquets or during foreign postings, and committing social gaffes. Generally speaking, the alcoholic gift pack consisted of two bottles each of three types of cognac-six bottles in all. For a North Korean cadre, the gift of imported liquor was effectively the gift of foreign currency,

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as each bottle sold easily for around one hundred US dollars on the black market. But anything sold on to traders on the black market eventually wound back into cadres' hands as bribes, so the gift of cognac was worth much more than its face value. This was also the reason why prices of imported liquor in North Korea plummet around the time of the three state holidays mentioned. Young-nam's father seemed interested in more than merely

drinking the contents of the bottle; he was transfixed by the foreign label, and perhaps wanted the bottle as a keepsake. He asked outright if Iwould give it to him as a present. When I said yes, he rushed to find himself an empty glass and filled it with the cognac, as if to get rid of the drink as quickly as he could. Young-nams Osakan father savored his cognac, explaining that it reminded him of his past. But after draining two glasses, he lost control. "You know that Yamaha piano you had at home? I gave that to

your family. You know that? Right? And our house, you know your father gave me this. You know that too, right?"

"Yes.Yes." Icould do nothing but respond monosyllabically, and I could feel the blood surging to my head.

"I'm forever designated a Iappo, so I've never been allowed to have a real job. You know, around this time last year, your father came to sleep over at our place. We hadn't eaten for days. Iwas hungry. Iwas so hungry that I contacted your father. You know, I realized that a friend is better than the homeland. It's thanks to your father's support that we were able to survive for one more year. Imade him promise not to tell you." Young-nams mother tried to calm him down. "You're drunk. Stop

talking about the homeland in that way in front of the kids. Besides, we decided to move to North Korea at your bidding. What good is it to regret the decision now?" Behind her words, there lay many other words that could not be

said. "Yes,I'm sorry," her husband replied. 'Tm sorry for bringing us to

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 55

this country. But tonight, I'm ahappy man. With you here, it feels like we've had ourselves a proper meal. Do you have any idea what weve been doing for food? Youknow, this wife ofmine, she puts rice water on the table and calls it rice. Sheboilswild shoots and serves the liquid broth as if it's a proper stew.There's never any real food on the table, but she still demands wesit at the table for our meal. And why not? We can pretend we've eaten proper food and feelbetter about our lives." Young-nam sat with his head in his hands, glaring at his father

from between his fingers, as if thinking that his father was ruining the last remaining shreds of dignity in their lives.When I noticed the signs of starvation on the crown of his head, it rent my heart. Young- narn, I didn't know. Forgive mefor my ignorance. The next morning I packed my bags to leave. I had planned to

stay for two more days but made up an excuse, saying I was needed urgently at work. When I saw the tattered shoes that Young-nam put on as he hurriedly followed me out of the house, I was glad I had made the decision to leave. Wanting to buy him a new pair of shoes before I went back to Pyongyang, I said we should go by the market. Aswe walked, I stole a glance at his dangling earlobe. Ithad dry white patches of flaky skin, which spread down to his neck. I felt bitterly sorry for all the times I had pinched him as a child. "So, how does it feel to be back home? Is it much different from

Pyongyang?" His voice was feeble and sounded as if it was coming from afar. "People live the same anywhere you go. I even get told off at work

all the time." "I want to move to Pyongyang. At least you can get a job there.

Even meet the General like you did." I faltered, searching forwords that might comfort him. Justwalking

alongside him was mortifying, and I felt guilty that my visit had thrown his life into disarray. But he started to pour his heart out. "You don't get it, do you? There's no future for me. At least you're in Pyongyang, where you can get on in life by working hard. You even

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got to choose your own career. Here, scrambling for the next meal is the best I can do. Even if! make it today, there's the next meal to worry about it. And the next. All my waking hours are spent fearing whether I will be able to eat again. We live no better than animals. Yousaw with your own eyes at the station. You know how the standard greeting used to be, 'Have you eaten?' But now, you can't say that, because what can you say in response? 'No, I haven't and what the fuck can you do about it?' Can't you see? It's different outside Pyongyang. And you don't have those in the capital city either, do you?" I looked to where he was pointing. The walls on either side of the

marketplace entrance were plastered with black-lettered slogans instead of the usual prices of goods. "Death by Firing Squad to Those Who Disobey Traffic Rules!" "Death by Firing Squad to Those Who Hoard Food!,' "Death by Firing Squad to Those Who Waste Electricity',' "Death by Firing Squad to Those Who Cut Military Communications Lines!" "Death by Firing Squad to Those Who Hoard StateResources!" "Death by Firing Squad to Those Who Spread Foreign Culture!" "Death by Firing Squad to Those Who Gossip!" I hadn't realized that there had been so many new regulations introduced in our nation. The slogans implied that any and every mistake would lead to death by firing squad.

In Pyongyang, to avoid the eyes and ears of foreigners and tourists, new regulations were announced internally, through workplace and residential unit meetings that all North Koreans are required to attend. I realized I had never before seen a regulation posted in a publicly visible place. It took me a while to remember why we had come to the market in the first place. Once I'd regained my composure, I wanted to buy the shoes as quickly as possible and get out of this place; and so I took the lead, taking Young-nam by the hand.

There were more people hanging around than were actually buying or selling. As we made our way through the crowds, the stench was suffocating. "Take care with your wallet!" Young-nam warned me. I

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 57

walked even faster, and finally found a shoe stall. I asked Young-nam to pick a pair of shoes he liked. He resisted, saying he was sorry enough not to be able to treat me well as a guest and he couldn't possibly receive a gift on top of that. As he reluctantly picked out a cheap pair, I asked the vendor for the most expensive pair he had. Even that turned out to be ofmediocre quality, apair made in China. Young-nam recalled a Korean saying: "They say that if you buy

shoes as a parting gift, you'll never see each other again." "You think I'm your lover or something? What do you mean,

'never see each other again?'" I said. Seeing the grin spread ear to ear on Young-nams face, I felt a little

better. After the purchase was made, I forced the change and the rest of the money in my wallet into Young-nam's pocket. But before we were able to leave, a siren started somewhere. "What's that?" I asked. The reaction of the people around us was even stranger than the

sound of the siren. Everyone looked annoyed and some swore loudly. Young-nam's eyes were closed. He too looked exasperated. Then

he hissed, "Fucking hell." When I asked again what was happening, he said it was an

execution. "What?" I asked. The shoe vendor looked up from polishing a shoe with a tattered

rag, and replied in Young-nam's place, "You'renot from here, areyou? Bad timing, that's all. There's going to be a People's Trial. No one can leave the market till it's over."

InNorth Korea, apublic execution isnot regarded asapunishment. It is categorized as a method ofmoral education, and also as a tool of public propaganda used in power struggles. But an execution in the market? As I looked confusedly at Young-nam, he reassured me that these executions took place almost on a weekly basis. They always happened in the market square so that a large audience could watch

the proceedings.

58 I DICTATOR

Sure enough, soldiers rushed in from all directions to surround the square, herding us into the center with the butts of their rifles. There was chaos everywhere. It made me flinch that the prisoner, led in by two soldiers, was dressed not in prison uniform but in everyday clothes. It felt like a deliberate message to the townsfolk that any of them could be in his position; that it didn't take a special criminal mind to suffer this fate. The man's eyes were full of terror as he scanned the scene around him from beneath his sagging eyelids and bony sockets. There was blood around his lips. For him, this truly was hell on earth, and his fellow men must have seemed as frightening as demons.

The People's Trial was over in less than five minutes. It was not really a trial. A military officer merely read out his judgment. The prisoner's crime was declared to be the theft of one sack of rice. As the country was ruled according to the Songun policy of military-first politics, all the rice in the nation belonged to the military, and even petty crimes were dealt with according to martial law.

"Death by firing squad!" As soon as the judge pronounced his sentence, one of the two

soldiers who was restraining the prisoner shoved something into his mouth in a swift, practiced motion. It was a V-shaped spring that expanded once it was put inside the mouth, preventing the prisoner from speaking intelligibly. The prisoner made sounds but there was no human noise, only whimpering. This device had been officially sanctioned for use at public executions so that a prisoner could not utter rebellious sentiments in the final moments of his life before it was taken from him. Bang! Bang! Bang! I had never been so close to a gun being fired. The blood froze in

my veins. Not daring to look at the prisoner at the moment of his death, I flicked my gaze upward. There was not a cloud in the sky, which was exceedingly clear and bright blue. But the faces of the townsfolk made to witness the execution were grave.

MY HOMETOWN TRANSFORMED I 59

When the soldiers blew their whistles and yelled for the crowd to disperse, the people didn't react, and began murmuring among themselves. As the whispers spread, I could catch what was being said. The prisoner's identity had been established by those who knew him, and the shock Ifelt after learning the story is hard to describe. My hair stood on end, and a tingling chill reached from there to the

ends of my toes.

THE PRISONER

Wherever people are gathered there are gunshots to follow.

Today, as the crowd looks on another man is condemned.

"We must not feel any sympathy! Even when he's dead, we must kill him again!"

The slogan is interrupted: Bang! Bang! as the rest of the message is delivered.

Why is it that today the crowd is silent?

The prisoner's crime: theft of one sack of rice. His sentence: ninety bullets to the heart.

His occupation: Farmer.

The man riddled with bullets for stealing rice had been a starving farmer. Even someone who worked the land could not find enough

to eat.

4 THE CRIME OF PEERING OVER THE BORDER

A S SOON as I returned home to Pyongyang, far away from the .l"\. People's Trial in Sariwon, I got into the shower. It felt like bits of the prisoner's skin and blood had been sprayed onto my skin, and I scrubbed myself again and again. For over a week, whenever I sat at the table to eat, I was overcome with nausea and could not bear the thought of food. On any other Sunday, I would have slept in, but that day, I left when it was still dark, before dawn, to get some fresh air. There was no one about except for a few old men sitting on the

bank of the Daedong River with their fishing rods. I found an empty bench facing the water and sat down. An early summer breeze flowed with the river. I inhaled it deeply then blew out forcefully, expelling the ill feeling from my lungs. After I had done this a few times, I felt I could breathe more easily. A stagnant stench rippled over the river's surface, and a crumpled

frying pan floated past. I wouldn't have taken much notice of such small ugly things before. Instead, I would have let my thoughts drift with the water out towards the deep blue sea, whose depths would inspire me with poetry glittering like the sun rays on the waves. But that Sunday was different. As I watched the frying pan being carried away by the river's current before me, its fate seemed to represent that of my friends and townsfolk. The water itself was like the passing of time, a passage no less pointless than the river water that flowed towards me only to flow onwards and away. On the other side of the riverbank, a slogan hanging from the rooftop of a building read:

THE CRIME OF PEERING OVER THE BORDER I 61

"After your thousand miles of suffering, there are ten thousand miles of joy!" The words seemed strange and vacuous. The party referred to this era as the "Arduous March:' but wasn't

the reality much worse than merely "arduous'? Moreover, this wasn't a march that all of us participated in. While ordinary North Koreans had to march in suffering for a thousand miles, cadres were strolling along the journey in privileged comfort. My townsfolk were concerned about their Leader's eating and health, yet Kim jong-il had the luxury of eating cold ice cream adorned with flames. I was filled with grave doubts, but I knew they were dangerous and would achieve nothing. I lived in Pyongyang. I was one of the Admitted, and I had come such a long way while only in my twenties. For my parents' sake, I must not harbor any such deviant thoughts. If I continued on this path a little longer, I would end up in the most enviable of positions as the paragon of loyalty to the Dear Leader. I

had to carryon. I resolved to work hard on the task set for me, the epic poem for

which I had the full support of the United Front Department behind me. On my first day back at work, I arrived in the office earlier than others, at six-thirty in the morning. In my quiet corner, I wrote the title of my poem in big letters on a sheet of lined paper with my fountain pen: "An Ode to the Smiling Sun:' But I had produced nothing by the end of the day. My task was to describe how our Supreme Leader smiled, yet all I could think of was the misery of my townsfolk. Why were we a poor nation? If our Supreme Leader was great,

why were his people starving to death? Reforms had led the Chinese to prosperity, so why was our party not considering any change in policies? I hated the way that these questions kept bubbling up in my mind like water from a mountain spring. When I thought I had dismissed one, another question arose in its place. Never before in my life had I so many questions to ask of myself, the party, and the

Dear Leader.

This boywasbrought up on watery rice broth. I givehim a bowl of real rice on his birthday, But he stamps his feetand refusesit. "This isn't rice!"he protests, holding his ground.

62 I DICTATOR

Every week, Director 1m asked after my progress on "An Ode to the Smiling Sun:' I eventually grew sick of my excuses, and waited desperately for the end of each working day. When I took up my pen to write, it was the tears of the people-and not of our Supreme Leader-that filled my mind. I was restless with yearning to write realist poetry based on what I saw, and not loyalist poetry based on what we were all told to see. Because I couldn't let anyone find out about such writing, I spent

my nights at home writing poetry in secret. In this way, every day, I wrote songs about rice rather than about our Dear Leader, my mind filled with the scenes I had witnessed in my hometown.

The night I wrote this poem, I cried until daybreak. It was based on a story that a work colleague had shared with me about his nephew, in a rare moment of disclosure, which I had written down. I began to open my eyes to the poverty in Pyongyang itself, and I

wanted to fmd out all that I could. After obtaining permission from the UFD to travel and conduct interviews freely in Pyongyang, I visited its markets and went out of my way to talk to those who had nothing. In contrast to my hometown, Sariwon, where deaths from starvation and even public executions were a common occurrence, Pyongyang's residents would gossip guardedly about a neighbor's death, as if it were a dangerous state secret, saying they knew it had been starvation. They lived in rigid fear, in the knowledge that there was much to lose as the result of a loose tongue: removal of the privilege ofliving in Pyongyang and being banished to the provinces, away from the privileges of life in the capital. But in the conversations of those living in the poorest areas of

THE CRIME OF PEERING OVER THE BORDER I 63

Pyongyang, in Dongdaewon and Sungyo, the truth of their situation was clearly evident. A woman described how she cried when she heard her young son boasting to friends that he had eaten three meals that day, while she herself had eaten nothing for a week. There was a beggar whose final wish was to be able to give someone something, because all he had been able to do in life was to receive from others. As these records of truth became condensed into my secret book of poetry, I felt myself mature into a fellow human being. But I also lived in fear. I knew about a writer who had secretly

written in a realist style, and when his crime was discovered, he was sent to a gulag. I took care to keep my poems to myself, and it was all I could do to register the truth of how I felt, and confirm to myself that I was still human. The only defense I had against the paralyzing terror was my faith that truth mattered. But I also began to study seriously the non-North Korean books that I had until then read out of professional duty. Until the day I was admitted to the United Front Department,

I did not know what country went by the name Daehanminguk (which is how South Korea refers to itself, literally "Great Nation of the Han People"). I had thought it was the name of some country in Southeast Asia, registering only how it had a similar name to Taiwan (Daeman in Korean). We had only been taught about the existence of South Korea in terms of its being "southern Chosun,' the lower half of the Democratic People's Republic of Chosun, and even a passing curiosity about South Korea was treated as an act of subversion against the state. I only discovered this after my entry to the UFD, but in the summer of 1998, when the South Korean government offered to send rice to North Korea, North Korea had refused on the basis that the sacks had "Daehanminguk" written on them. As far as it was in the mandate of "Localization" for South Korea,

I read every outside text with gusto, and watched South Korean television obsessively. To do so was a special privilege granted to me

64 I DICTATOR

and my colleagues, but strictly prohibited and inconceivable beyond the pale for ordinary North Koreans. It struck me that while North Korean television never mentioned criticism of the system, South Korean television lacked praise for their own administration. The lack of uniformity in their press was publicly displayed, and they would even criticize government policies and disagree with their politicians. By the time I progressed from South Korean newspapers to the more detailed analyses provided in periodicals concerned with politics, the economy, society, and culture in general, my desire to seek other versions of the truth was even greater. One of the periodicals I read regularly was the Monthly Chosun.

Every time I opened its pages, shocking facts confronted me. I had believed that South Korea, a US colony, was being ruined by its Capitalist system. So it surprised me to discover that the South Korean economy was actually highly developed. I was also intrigued that our much-vaunted pride in the admiration of the international community rested on no more than the achievements of our Supreme Leader, while South Korea had given rise to many small- and medium-sized companies of international repute. At home, South Korea was derided as an economic slave to the United States, yet the figures showed that South Korean trade volume competed alongside that of the Americans in world rankings. What struck me harder than anything, more powerfully moving than ideological fervor or propaganda, was the existence of the gap between North and South: we were one people, all of us Koreans, but why were our lives so different?

As I learnt more about South Korea and the outside world, my focus turned inwards again, towards the North Korean political system. Although the slogan of the United Front Department is "Localization:' outside texts that dealt with Kim II-sung or Kim Iong-il on a human level had the sacrilegious sections blacked out by censors. It was this that provoked my curiosity more than anything-

THE CRIME OF PEERING OVER THE BORDER I 65

if you casually wave someone away from a secret, they might just walk away, but if you struggle with all your might to hide it, their curiosity will only increase. The happiest time of my working day was in the break after

lunch, when many of my colleagues would leave the office for a little fresh air. One day, when I was sure no one was around, I held the blacked-out section of a page I was reading against the windowpane. As the black strips turned pale in the sunlight, the letters underneath became legible. What I saw on that page were the most terrible blasphemies that could not be seen or heard anywhere else in our nation. Even the smallest facts-precisely because they had been so carefully sealed away-eroded my unquestioning faith in our system. I had believed that the civil war that split our homeland was triggered by an invasion from the South on June 25, 1950. Through the revealing light of that windowpane, I read that not only in South Korea, but in the rest of the world too, historians routinely attributed responsibility for the invasion to us, and not to the South. The Workers' Party's rewriting of our history looked shabby in

comparison. Even the greatness of our Supreme Leader was not the greatness of morality and righteousness. He had acquired his autocratic powers not through his benevolence but by selfish means, such as purging and executing his comrades. When I discovered this history, I knew I could no longer write in loyal obedience to a regime built on lies. I tried to convince Director Im that, just as Supervisor Park had said, referring to the Supreme Leader's tears in a poem might go against the principles of [uche art theory. Perhaps fearing the responsibility, he eventually acquiesced.

Ithappened that in 2001, under the orders of Supreme Commander Kim Iong-il, the North Korean people were mobilized. In order to establish the Songun way of thinking in society, all civilians under forty, including high school students, had to enter into a compulsory

three-year period of military service. Kim [ong-il stressed that Central Party cadres must set an example of the military-first mind-set, and that they too must leave their current posts and serve in the military. This led to the astonishing sight of party secretaries and directors parading in the streets in uniforms too small to hide their flabby bodies.

In North Korea, a university degree is equivalent to the rank of lieutenant. Director Im made sure that I could "do my military service" as a lieutenant in a unit based in Pyongyang, faking it like many other enlisted soldiers who did their "military service" at home. Even while I was technically a soldier, I continued my literary work with extended periods of stay at UFD guesthouses. At the time, Office 101 was preparing for literary exchanges with South Korean writers, with the objective of arousing sympathy for our positions and views in the South Korean populace. Part of the mission included compiling a literary anthology of "Unified Korean Literature:'

66 I DIeT ATOR

By the second year of Kim [ong-ils nationwide mobilization order, its enforcement was no longer taken seriously by anybody of note. When J returned to Office 101 in the summer of 2002, I eagerly caught up with the South Korean literature and media that I had missed out on; and troubling thoughts, rising from the apparent contradiction of facts, returned to haunt me. The longer I bore these truths alone, the heavier my heart became, and my loneliness deeper. I needed a trusted friend with whom to share my discoveries.

"This is a southern Chosun periodical. Don't lose it." Although I knew that removing a volume from the United Front

Department was an act of treason, I passed a book from there on to my friend, Hwang Young-min. He had been a classmate of mine at Pyongyang Arts School. But my decision to trust him was based on more than just our friendship. He had, on several occasions, very

THE CRIME OF PEERING OVER THE BORDER I 67

cautiously tried to share the notion that the infallibility of our system might be questioned. Young-min's father, Hwang [ln-thaek, had been a two-star general

and chief of staff at the Ministry of Social Security (today, the Ministry of People's Security). Paek Hak-rirn, the nominal director of the ministry, was an honorary appointee in his eighties, and Hwang [in-thaek was the de facto head of this powerful state surveillance organ. In North Korea, however, no one could wield more power than was to Kim Iong-il's liking. One day, after Young-min's father spoke out a little too boldly on a party issue, he was accused of being an antirevolutionary. If the prosecution had reached its natural conclusion, Young-min would have been sent with his family to a gulag for his father's crimes. The North Korean system of guilt by association made this a common feature of sentencing practice. Although Hwang [in-thaek was able to clear his name before the investigation could finish, he died of the injuries hed suffered under interrogation. Fortunately for Young-min, he was able to retain Pyongyang residency and was reinstated as composer for the Wangjaesan band. The Wangjaesan Light Music Band, kept separate from other

North Korean cultural institutions, was operated directly by the party's Organization and Guidance Department as Kim Iong-ils court musicians. There was one other such group, the Bochonbo band, which worked in modern genres and with electric instruments, while members of the Wangjaesan band used classical Western instrumentation and also worked in the medium of dance. As the performers who played for Kim Iong-il were comprised of young and beautiful women, people referred to them unofficially as the "Joy Division" Young-min knew things about Kim [ong-il's personal life that

no outsider knew, and it took a visible toll on him. He never talked much about himself, and I might have thought he had been like that

all his life if not for our friendship at school, before his appointment. He was taller than me and had curly hair. People always assumed that he was the older of the two of us, although we were the same age. His serious eyebrows, as black as soot, reflected his unwavering faithfulness. Sometimes, when he smiled, his cheeks blushed a slight red, revealing the innocence of a passion that he kept hidden from the world. After the death of his father, his introverted personality could nonetheless manifest instances of fearless defiance, and the party's OGD took notice. Although Young-min was formally reinstated, he found himself excluded from Kim Iong-ils presence on more than one occasion, based on some feeble pretext.

When the two of us got drunk together, and his cover slipped, he would even say dangerous things: "Indeed, our General is the Sun! If you get too close to him, you burn to death, but if you go too far from him, you freeze to death. And that's not my line. I hear it directly from the most powerful cadres. You think you know Kim Iong-il? It's not the North Korean people our Leader loves, it's the North Korean girls. I've seen it with my own eyes, and too much of it." In North Korea, it is forbidden to mention any information about

the ruling Kim that isn't included in the body of official propaganda released by the Workers' Party. The Dear Leader was the Father of the People; and as soon as you knew him as a man called Kim Iong-il, unless you were authorized to have this knowledge, your life would come to an end as the system of guilt by association was put into action. Many cadres ended up in prison camps because to remain close to the center of power was a dangerous game of balance, requiring a constant and attentive awareness.

When I shared my reading materials from the outside world with Young-min, and when Young-min told me about Kim Jong-il's secret personal life, we were able to share our burdens. Our friendship provided me with the strength to carryon. The truth is more powerful the less it is tampered with; and as we learned about our place in the

68 \ DIeT ATOR

•

THE CRIME OF PEERING OVER THE BORDER I 69

world together-a world very different from that portrayed by the Dear Leader-our friendship deepened.

On January 10, 2004, I heard loud and insistent knocking at the front door. When I opened it, Young-min was standing there, deathly pale and out of breath. He was wearing a dark jacket with fake fur around the neck for warmth. As he stood there and stared at me, unable to speak, I knew that something awful had happened. "That book you lent me, that southern Chosun book-I lost it." I gripped the doorknob to keep myself from sinking to the floor.

He had fallen asleep in the underground, he told me, and left his bag on the train. He'd rushed back to retrieve it straightaway, but as he reached the platform the door had slid shut. His words were barely audible to my ringing ears. Without thinking, I went to pick up my pen from the table, but put it back down. I could derive no comfort even from holding my most cherished possession. "Were your identification papers in the bag?" I asked. "No, just the book," he replied. "Was there anything in the bag that could be traced to you?" I

asked again. "No, it was a new bag. Actually, there was my notebook too. But

I'm fine, at least until they check for fingerprints," he said. It looked as if it was I who was in the greatest danger. Books

belonging to the UFD were marked "Top Secret: Restricted to Internal Agents" with a bright red stamp, as well as a bright blue one that read "Chosun Workers' Party Central Committee, United Front Department:' Whenever a book was loaned to an agent, we had to show our official identification and sign for it. In my contract of admission, there was a clause that made the danger very clear: "Ifyou expose southern Chosun literature outside the department, you will be executed for treason."

70 I DICTATOR

The contents of this particular book could only make the situation worse. It included a biography of Kim ll-sung and Kim [ong-il written by a South Korean academic who had pieced together their family history, although we were only allowed to know their revolutionary history. It even made mention of the fact that Kim Jong-il had mistresses. The party requires its people to live by a code of honor derived from Confucian tradition, which emphasizes conservative family values such as obedience to one's parents, marital fidelity, and hereditary rights of the eldest son, in order to reinforce the legitimacy of a dynastic succession. But the personal history of the Kim family, in which those values were flagrantly ignored and bloody purges and violent politics formed the basis of their power, was in stark and contradictory contrast to the official version of events.

Whether or not these things were true, and regardless of whether we believed that an unauthorized version of North Korean history could exist, it was considered treason of the most serious degree to have shared this information. Although the sacrilegious sections were censored with black marker pen, the Ministry of State Security was not going to believe we could not read the writing behind it.

I felt sure that the secret police would appear at any moment. The closer a cadre is to the top, the more violent his end when it comes. Young-min too, as one of Kim Jong-iI's personal composers, was a senior cadre of the Central Party. The affair could not end with our deaths alone, because in the following weeks, after we had confessed to our treason and accepted the penalty, our families would have their lives summarily destroyed.

Looming always in the back of every North Korean's mind is the principle of guilt by association, whose intention is for the family and associates of the traitor to be destroyed along with the criminal, so that his or her corruption might be rooted out for good. I knew that the principle wasn't just an empty threat, as the state made sure to display to its people whenever the opportunity arose for its

1 I

THE CRIME OF PEERING OVER THE BORDER I 71

enforcement. Yet this tragic possibility had felt unrelated to me until now, when I found myself in the position of potentially experiencing its devastating effects. Young-min and I communicated through our eyes, not saying much. We were not so much concerned with concocting an alibi for the crime, as with survival itself. With the coming of daylight, our lives would turn dark, and I was too afraid even to look at the time ticking by on the clock. I suddenly needed a drink. Seeing me reach for abottle, Young-min

took the two biggest glasses out of the cabinet. We downed our first shots together. We had put our families at terrible risk, and knowing this, we could not waste a single moment. We needed a plan, which we then had to execute immediately. As we downed a second desperate shot together, we made our

decision. No words passed between us, but we both knew it well. The drink didn't blur our senses-it gave us strength. Young-min spoke rust: "You know that saying: 'When a small

man drinks he vomits, but when a great man drinks he designs a revolution'? Well, what I'm saying is, that southern Chosun book! ... it made me feel .. :' I interrupted him. "Let's go to South Korea." Young-min's fingers froze on the rim of his glass. I continued, "There's no other way. For the sake of those we love,

we can't risk confession. You know what this country is like. You more than anyone else know what this country is like." He didn't need any persuasion. He seized my hand and, as if that

were not enough of a gesture, pulled me close in a tight embrace. "You're right, we're leaving," he said. "We'll die either way, so it doesn't matter for us. I can't even breathe any longer here, knowing what I know. Be killed at home or on the road, what's the difference?" There was no point in wasting time once we had confirmed our

decision, and we began to plan our next steps. We agreed to turn up for work as usual in the morning. Luckily, as we had established,

72 I DICTATOR

the bag that Young-min had mislaid contained no direct personal identification linking it to him, so as long as I kept my wits about me, I could buy some time. When the Ministry of State Security tracked me down from the book, I would argue that I had simply misplaced my bag. In any case, it would take a day for them to put a surveillance team in place, and my status as one of the Admitted would prevent them from acting too hastily. We would make our way north during this time. The only way out of the country was to cross the border into China, as it was impossible to cross the DMZ into South Korea. A travel pass could be obtained from a former classmate at Kim II-sung University, who worked in Pyongyang at a cross-border trading company. He was always in need of money, and a decent bribe would sort him out. By a stroke of good fortune, we found that there was a 9:00 p.m. train scheduled to leave Pyongyang the next day towards the border region. If we were to get on this train, we must pretend everything was normal until the time came for us to leave.

After planning these things, I hurried to pack my bag. As I would have to go to the train station straight from work, we decided that Young-min would take my rucksack. He could leave work in the afternoon. I stuffed into my rucksack everything I could think of. I did not forget my secret manuscript of poetry. It was my voice, and I would take it out of the country with me.

"See you at seven-thirty p.m. at Pyongyang Station," I said. Young-min nodded, turned to go, but then swung back and seized

my arm. He dropped his gaze as if he were lost for words, but then spoke in a low but fum voice.

"If we get caught, we will commit suicide." The word "suicide" felt like a tangible object being passed from his tender heart to mine. I felt strangely thrilled by the thought that death could be a conscious choice: I had the means to decide my own fate.

A FAREWELL SIN 5

ONCE ra seen Young-min off into the night, I went to my roomand lay awake in bed. I was not especially dreading exile, which would begin in less than twenty-four hours. What I feared the most was the scale of what I had to leave behind. I felt sick that my mother and father must live out their remaining days in a world from which their only son had suddenly disappeared. Yet I could not say good-bye to them. They would not let me go if they learned of my plan. They would

kill themselves first. Once I left the country and officially became a missing person, I knew how the Ministry of State Security would interrogate them. If they so much as suspected that my parents had been aware of my intention to escape, they would be convicted of assisting a traitor. It was better by far for them to remain ignorant, so that they could face the authorities in complete innocence. I tried to take a little comfort from the knowledge that theyd live one day longer in the belief that everything was all right. Filled with such excuses, I buried my face in the pillow in order

to muffle my crying. I hugged it tight, to restrain myself from lashing out at the walls. As I cried and silently begged my parents for forgiveness, dawn broke. Itwas my last morning at home. I heard my mother call me from the dining room, saying that Id

be late for work if I didn't hurry. I was suddenly terrified of coming face-to-face with my parents. This might be the last time I ever saw them. What would I say? How could I say it? My father shouted through to me that breakfast was going cold. I looked in the mirror

and hastily rubbed my eyes. Seeing my own reflection, I wondered if I had ever before been so self-conscious in front of my parents, and fresh tears blurred my vision. If I emerged like this, with bloodshot eyes, they would ask questions. In my panic, I took a pair of dark sunglasses out of the drawer. As I walked into the dining room, they both questioned me at once.

"What are the sunglasses for?" "My eyes are a bit sore." I managed to make up an excuse, but my

voice carried the hint of a tremor. My mother jumped from her chair and approached me. "Let me

74 I DICTATOR

"see. I instinctively turned my face away from her. "It's all right, no big

deal. I just wanted to dress up a bit." "Are you sure you haven't hurt them? Let me see." I held her hands in mine and pleaded, "Yes, I'm sure. I need to

impress someone today." My father responded brusquely, "But what's the point of wearing

those things at the breakfast table? Are you going to keep them on?" I flinched. He'd caught me out, and I couldn't sit here eating

breakfast wearing shades without a better excuse. I want to sit here with you. This is our last meal together. But I could not utter the words. As I imagined my distraught parents later regretting how they saw me off into the unknown without eating, the tears welled once again.

"It's all right, my eyes really are fine. Don't worry." I smiled as I spoke, though my eyes were wet. I quickly hugged my mother, wiping the tears away behind her back. She seemed much smaller than I had thought her to be. She was unfamiliar, although it was she who had raised me. My arms felt unusually long and heavy and I wanted to step away from her, but could not bring myself to.

"What's up with you today? You're acting oddly," she chided me. A mother can see into her child's heart merely by looking at his

shadow. Stepping back from me, she tried again to look into my eyes.

A FAREWELL SIN I 75

My father intervened. "Let him alone, he'll be late for work." If he hadn't spoken at that moment, I would not have been able to stop her from finding me out. I quickly crossed the living room and made my way towards

the front door. Only when I had reached the threshold did I steal a look behind me. I longed to see my parents one more time. But the living room was empty and I could hear them talking together in the kitchen. My father was complaining about my older sisters, saying they were useless at keeping in touch, and that he wanted to see the grandchildren more often. How could he have known that I was a much worse child to him than my sisters had ever been? Once I left the house, I might never be able to return. I saw my

parents' shoes by the front door. My chest felt tight, as though I was suffocating. The farewell bow I could not offer them I offered to their shoes instead. As soon as I left the house, my tears erupted in bitter sobs. I knew

that the Workers' Party could take away my right to life, but it had also taken away my right to say good-bye to my family, and I had to deceive them to the end. I wept as I remembered my mother's last words: "Let me see your eyes." Why had I stopped her from looking into her son's eyes? My body trembled with angry regret. When I arrived at work, my colleagues came up to me. "What's

wrong with your eyes?" they asked. I lied that I had an eye infection, and this led to a stroke of luck. After our morning meeting, Supervisor Park urged me to go to a doctor, saying that he had suffered from something similar in the past. On the pretext of getting my eye infection seen to, I was able to leave work at eleven that

morning. I made my way to the trading company where my classmate from

Kim Il-sung University worked as the head of surveillance. In North Korea, all workplaces have someone in charge of surveillance.

In the case of companies that deal with foreigners or employ North Koreans who travel overseas on business, there are many surveillance officers. I knew I could go to this friend of mine for a special travel pass.

In North Korea, there is an ordinary travel pass and a special travel pass. They are differentiated by a red line drawn across the special travel pass. Provinces such as Hwanghae or South Hamgyong are generally classified as ordinary regions, because they lie inland. The capital city of Pyongyang and regions that lie near the borders with South Korea or China are considered special areas. Only local residents or those with a special travel pass may legally set foot in these regions.

The special travel pass for Pyongyang has a single red line drawn across it; a pass to enter the border regions displays two red lines. It is a method of control over domestic travel. According to standard procedure, a special travel pass can only be issued after the approval of the Ministry of State Security has been obtained.

Fortunately, by this time, the forces of marketization set in motion by the mushrooming black markets in North Korea had reached officialdom. Anything could be bought if you had enough foreign currency. North Korean trading companies, whose raison detre was to conduct business with companies based in China in order to earn foreign exchange for the Workers' Party, were assigned a larger quota of special passes than any other official institution. And in North Korea, whether you were the state or an individual, you had to sell whatever you had in order to survive. Myoid classmate had constantly been prodding me to send people with foreign currency his way, to buy his allocation of blank special passes.

I went to his office and told him what I wanted. He said that although he generally sold them for two hundred US dollars, he would sell me mine for only a hundred dollars because we were old mates. Although my monthly salary of 2,500 won (around two US

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'Idollars) was higher than most North Korean salaries, this was still not enough to sustain anyone's livelihood. Ordinary North Koreans made their living in the black markets, and cadres lived through special rations and bribery. A UFD cadre could make around one hundred US dollars each month by selling off the special rations from abroad issued through the department. But I was also privileged by family connections. Officially, North

Korea operates two separately compartmentalized economies, referred to as the People's Economy and the Second Economy, the latter encompassing the military sphere. My relative headed the Middle East office of Bureau 99 in the Second Economy, overseeing North Korea's arms deals in the region. He was one of the wealthiest men in North Korea, and was able to offer a minimum of ten million American dollars in "loyalty remittances" to Kim Iong-il every year. There was no way that he could have made his money-enough

to give regular gifts to his relatives and pass round Mercedes-Benz cars-by actually selling North Korean weapons. I learnt from him that North Korean rockets sold fairlywell in the Middle East until the end of the I980s because they were cheap, but various factors led to deals becoming harder to secure after that time. In the early 1990s, as the Soviet bloc collapsed, he had seized an opportunity to move between Ukraine and the Middle East, setting up arms deals. Out of these successes, he built himself a reputation as a highly sought -after weapons negotiator. Kim [ong-il recognized his work and bestowed on him the highest medal in North Korea, the ''Award for Heroic Effort:' not just once, but twice. My prized new Shimano bicycle made in Japan had been one of many gifts from him too. Being one of Kim Iong-ils Admitted and known among my friends

as "the man who always carried at least one thousand American dollars in his wallet:' I was able to buy a blank special pass without arousing undue suspicion. The only thing my classmate asked when

I handed him a one-hundred-dollar note was for me to give him the amount in two fifty-dollar notes instead, because counterfeit one-hundred-dollar bills had flooded the domestic economy when a party directive to use them in trade with China had backfired. Now, even individuals avoided them as much as they could in their private transactions.

As I hurriedly rose to leave after we had concluded our business, he called out to me, "Hey, where are you going? You have to put the traveler's name on the pass."

"Oh, I'll just write it in later." "Are you crazy? Just because it's blank doesn't mean you can fill it

in any old how. You need a cipher for it to work." I had no choice but to give him Young-min's name and identity

as well. As myoid classmate wrote our names, occupations, and dates of birth in the special pass, he explained to me how my birth date should be combined with this week's cipher for travel in the border regions. I hadn't known that such a cipher even existed, and I feared that my ignorance would sooner or later present an insurmountable and unforeseen obstacle to my escape. I stuffed the pass deep into my pocket and turned to leave. "Take care not to defect across the border!" I heard him shout after me, and I glanced back over my shoulder to see him grinning. I gestured lightheartedly as ifI were dismissing his joke, but inside I was stung.

With the special travel pass in hand, every step I took from here on would be in execution of that very plan-to defect. My legs trembled as I returned to Office 10I. When I entered through the small gate and passed the guard, I walked more quickly. On my return to the office, Supervisor Park looked up from his desk. "The first party secretary wants to see you. Be quick about it."

A sense of dread washed over me. Before making my way to the first party secretary's office, I went to the bathroom and hid the special travel pass between my foot and the sole of my shoe. It was

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all I could do by way of preparation. As I climbed the stairs, my head was filled with macabre thoughts. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door of the party

committee room. The sound echoed to the end of the corridor. The door opened and the secretary flinched when she saw me. She picked up the phone and spoke into it: "Comrade first party secretary, Comrade Kyong-min is here to see you." After putting the receiver down, she suddenly became courteous and even held the door open for me to enter the room. From the doorway, I glimpsed the Workers' Party flag arranged

under the portraits of Kim Il-sung and Kim Iong-il, The red party colors seemed a sterner shade of red than usual. When I stepped inside, before I noticed the first party secretary, I saw three unfamiliar men waiting for me. There was a man who looked to be in his early fifties wearing a dark green coat, and two others, wearing black coats and in their early or mid-forties. As their eyes fell upon me, I imagined that each man had been trained to perceive my real thoughts. I already felt like a condemned criminal. Lying on the long table that divided the room was the southern

Chosun book that I had lent to Young-min, along with his notebook. My heart sank to my stomach. The oldest of the three men spoke first. He did not get out of his

chair, but his swagger was noticeable. "We'vecome from the Ministry

of State Security." It was all the more terrifying to hear that name-the merest hint

of which is enough to silence a crying North Korean child-from the mouth of one of its agents. Not only that, these men would be from the infamous Section 10 of the ministry, who specialized in interrogating North Korea's most senior men. No one else had the clearance to set foot inside UFD premises. "Why was this book found outside the premises without

authorization?" the man asked.

To that point-blank question, I answered that I must have slipped it into my briefcase while in the office, and taken it home without realizing. I'd then misplaced the briefcase. Another man cut me short. "Choose your words carefully;comrade.

We have checked with your colleagues and none of them has ever seen you with that briefcase. We checked for fingerprints, and the bag isn't yours. We will discover the identity of its owner in a few days. Are you going to wait till then, or confess now?" I spoke more forcefully. "I will repeat what I said before. The

briefcase belongs to me. The prints you found must belong to the thief who took it." The three men took turns to question me in rapid succession.

Where had I bought the briefcase? What time had I left work on the day it was mislaid? Was there a witness? When had I noticed that I had mislaid the briefcase? Where might I have mislaid it? Who was at home when I returned from work? If! had misplaced my briefcase, why had I not alerted the authorities earlier? Had I been trying to read sections of the book that had been blacked out? What other items had I put in the briefcase? I responded feebly that it was just the book. Seeing me stumble,

one of the men asked what I had scribbled inside the notebook. I caught myself just before falling into the trap. "You want to know what I scribbled in the notebook?" When his colleague responded, I noticed how he put a slight

emphasis on the fact that he was referring to my notebook, and I realized what was happening. Young-min's notebook contained Young-min's handwriting, not mine. If I claimed the notebook was mine in order to reinforce that the briefcase was mine, they would have the contradiction they needed because of the contrast between my handwriting and Young-min's, and the case would be sealed. I made as if to recollect my thoughts, and the men scrutinized

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my face for involuntary blinks or muscle movement. But I answered confidently.

"I don't remember what's written in it," I said. "The notebook isn't mine. I picked it up on the street and put it in my briefcase, because I didn't want the paper to go to waste." Tapping the table with his pen, the older man said sarcastically,

"So the briefcase belongs to you, but the notebook in the briefcase does not belong to you. Well, we seem to have a problem here. But the fingerprints on the briefcase will reveal all. I shall give you one last chance to come clean, before the results are confirmed tomorrow. The fact that you took a restricted publication outside these premises is a treacherous crime in itself. But if you tell us who you lent the book to and who else might have had access to it, you may be let off lightly. Confess before tomorrow morning to Comrade First party

secretary. Understood?" After the men left the room, the rust party secretary pleaded

with me as if his own life was at stake. "Those men can't arrest you, comrade, although they'd like to. Why? Because you're one of the Admitted. So you have to be more honest ... more so than anyone else ... with the ministry. If you remember anything, anything at all, call me tonight. Or see me first thing when you come to work

tomorrow. Okay?" Three men with the license to order an execution on the spot had

left without taking further action, because I was one of Kim Iong-ils Admitted. If it hadn't been for that, I would have been arrested and dragged into the ministry's premises, if only to terrify me into a confession. Even the infamous Section 10 of the ministry needed to put a formal request through to the party's OGD, which then had to be passed on to Kim jong-il for his personal approval, before they could arrest one who was Admitted. To do so, they required conclusive evidence, because anything less would lead to their being charged with treason themselves for attempting to attack Kim Iong-il

When I returned to my office, I began to count the seconds to the end of the longest day ofmy life.Whenever I heard the sound ofa car outside, my blood turned cold in anticipation of the ministry's men returning with a warrant to arrest me. At seven in the evening, itwas time to go. I normally said good-bye

to the guard at the main entrance as I left for home, but that day, the words didn't come. The guard shouted and raised his gun as he stood to attention for me. The noise of the cocked rifle scraped at the marrow of my bones, and instinctively I glared at him. At that moment, I noticed two men outside the premises turn quickly towards me. As I walked along the pavement beside the high wall of the UFD

compound, I was very aware of the combined stares of the two men pinned on my back. When I crossed the road, I pretended to look both ways and glanced over my shoulder. They fell back a little, and I was now certain that they were following me. I saw a foreigners' taxi up ahead. They were supposed to be

off-limits to North Koreans, but anyone who had foreign currency could use them. I checked that there was not another taxi nearby. There wasn't -and I got in. "The Pyongyang Hotel. Quickly, please, I'm late," I said as I

slammed the door. As the taxi took a right turn at acrossroads, I turned to see the two

men standing helplessly on the pavement. I felt very relieved. It took no more than five minutes to arrive at the Pyongyang Hotel, by the Daedong River. I paid the driver and entered the hotel. In the hotel, there was a restaurant named Pyongyang Bulgogi, through which

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by harming his associates. While I acknowledged that lowed my current safety to the Dear Leader, I knew I couldn't afford to stay in Pyongyang another day.

A FAREWELL SIN I 83

you could enter and leave the premises. I knew the area well, and left the hotel through the restaurant. Across the road stood a building in the traditional Korean style, with a terra cotta roof built to resemble the shape of a crane's wings, the East Pyongyang Grand Theatre. At its rear alleyway, I flagged another taxi, and finally headed towards Pyongyang Station. I arrived at the station ten minutes later than the agreed time-as

I could see from the overhead clock. Under a lamppost on the edge of the station park, yet barely visible in the dim glow of the city's weak electricity supply, Young-min stood waiting. He was carrying my backpack, which I had entrusted to him the night before. I was so glad to see him again. Each of us knew how the other was struggling to conceal the desperation he felt, and we embraced tightly. I whispered first in his ear. "Let'sgo." Young-min raised a clenched fist and replied, "Let'sgo." These were our final words as we prepared to leave our homes,

lives, and families. In the necessity of departure, our two lives became

one.

6 IN THE RIFLE SIGHT

YOUNG-MIN and I arrived at the border town of Musan onJanuary 15, 2004. We had traveled a distance of 288 miles. The journey by express train, which should have taken just one day according to the timetable, lasted four extra days. But despite this delay, every single person on board praised the marvel that was the arrival of any long-distance train at its destination. Someone yelled in a characteristically northern accent how, last month, the same trip had been delayed by more than ten days. Young-min and I glanced at each other and smirked. They say that in January, up north in Hamgyong Province, icicles

fall to the ground when you pee. When we city boys from Pyongyang stepped off the train, the sudden exposure to the brutal northern cold came as a shock. Young-min's ears turned bright red with cold. Unlike the large covered station in Pyongyang, Musan Station was a small building about ahundred feet from the tracks. The fencing around us, there to prevent those without travel passes from leaving the station premises, made more of an impression than the station building. The guards blew on their whistles and herded the passengers towards a booth where we were to show our train tickets and travel passes. Young-min and I remained silent, trying to appear inconspicuous, as we felt our true motives for travel would be obvious to anyone who looked closely at us. We communicated only with our eyes as we walked and, as we drew closer to the guards, we stopped even that. With the authority granted to usby our Central Party identification

papers, we stood at the back of the shortest queue, for Cadres, where

IN THE RIFLE SIGHT I 85

only three people waited ahead of us. The other queues, for Military Personnel and Ordinary Residents, stretched far behind. However, the guards seemed to be taking more care over scrutinizing the cadres' passes, perhaps because they had more time to spare on a short queue. In the time the guards conducted one drawn -out interview with a cadre, four people in the line for Ordinary Residents had their documents confiscated without even being given a chance to explain. One of them, even as he was taken away by security agents, struggled to return for his luggage. A guard shouted and cursed at him and, when the man still did not stop struggling, began to kick him with his military boots. If my pass were declared invalid,

my fate would be no better. Finally, it was our turn. I took my identification papers out of my

leather briefcase, making sure that the crest of the Workers' Party emblazoned on it in gold was visible. On seeing this, the guard, who had graying hair, tensed and saluted me. I was barely thirty.

"Please show me your travel pass," he said meekly. The special travel pass had already got us through several

checkpoints. In North Korea, two types of guards check passengers' travel passes and identification documents every time the train crosses provincial boundaries or city limits; and this applies to both civilian and military passengers. Although I had passed easily through these barriers, this fmal checkpoint was the only one that mattered now. As the guard glanced up from my documents towards me, I flinched. Even if my pass looked genuine, I feared that my guilt would show. When he handed back our documents without a single comment, Young-min and I walked as calmly as we could out of

Musan Station. We had chosen to cross the border from Musan, as the Tumen

River-which forms part of the border separating North Korea from China-is at its narrowest there. The distance of this crossing determined our fate. If we climbed higher into the mountains, there

might be smaller streams that fed the river, which we could cross with less difficulty. But there was no transport that could take us that far. We had been able to find a direct train to Musan because it was home to a large mining industry, and this was the closest we could get to the border. When cadres miss three days of work, they are registered missing

and a search warrant is issued in case of desertion. Evenwhen you are ill, you must notify the relevant authorities about your whereabouts, because someone will be sent to verify that you are where you say you are. This would be our fourth day away from work, longer than we'dplanned because of the delay to our train. Pyongyang must have issued a search warrant by now. We were in a race against time, and we were already losing. As soon as we left the station, we set off towards the Tumen River.

Along the way,we got lost and had to ask a local for directions. We had no idea what lay one step ahead. Our plan was to reach the riverbank, then look for a suitable place to cross. Hiding ourselves in foliage, we would then wait for the path to clear, and sprint over the frozen surface of the river. When we neared the Tumen River, I felt a surge of exhilaration.

The river was frozen solid, and could not be more than two hundred feet wide. Crossing the border would present no problem at all! But I panicked when I realized there was not a trace of surrounding vegetation. Where would we hide? There were ranges of hills all around us, just as I had seen on amap. But even the skeletal remnants of trees had been stripped of their bark, I presumed, by those who were starving to death. Even twigs had been gathered for fuel, and the hills were naked. We had no choice but to continue along the riverbank, on an

unpaved track, with nothing but our papers to rely on for protection. If we kept going, a forest might appear to screen our escape-or so we believed out of sheer desperation-and we walked for miles. We

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passed watchtower after watchtower, set six-tenths of a mile apart in the bare landscape along the riverbank.

Sometimes we saw soldiers' helmets bobbing about inside. Where there was no one in camouflage moving, signs fixed to the ground like abandoned rifles read: NO ENTRY! BORDER AREA! Or: STOP! WE WILL SHOOT YOU! Wherever the width of the river was narrower, there was a garrison with a red flag and a checkpoint. Any vehicle or person wishing to pass through had to be questioned about their reason for travel, have their bags searched and pockets examined. But as soon as we showed our papers, the guards stopped thundering their orders and saluted us. Some even lowered their voices and

pleaded for a cigarette. On the road, in addition to border patrols, we encountered several

militia guards who did not wear military uniform or badges of rank but were dressed in camouflage. Whenever we were stopped, we shoved our papers in their faces; and if we thought the confrontation might escalate, we offered cigarettes too.

By sunset, we had traveled almost eighteen miles along the border. Around 10 p.m., when the darkness became absolute and we could no longer see ahead of us, we knew we had to cross. Young-min and I edged closer towards the frozen river.

"Hands up!" A soldier's voice rang out of nowhere. Young-min gripped my arm

so hard he made me jump. I considered punching the soldier rushing towards us and bunched my fists by my side, ready to strike. But he blew a whistle; completely to our surprise, countless lights lit up, their

beams converging on us. Given no chance to explain ourselves, we were brought to guard

post No.6, prodded in the back all the way by cold gun barrels. As we entered the small building, I saw the open door of a celL Handcuffs

hung from its bars. A soldier addressed us. "This is a border area. Why are you here

at this time of night? Show me your identification documents and travel passes." As he spoke, he signaled with a jerk of his head, and the heavy door thudded shut, trapping us inside the building. Young-min trembled visibly, suggesting that we had been caught in the act of defection.

"My friend here is feeling cold. Let us get warm first," I said, struggling to keep my composure. As I reached into the breast pocket of my shirt for our identification

papers, I could feel my heart beating. My hand shook as it brushed against my jacket pocket, which held incriminating evidence of treason. I was carrying on my person the poems I had written in secret, having taken them out of my rucksack earlier. When the first lieutenant reached for my identification papers and

saw that they did not belong to an ordinary citizen, he stiffened and sprang out of his chair. Although he was an experienced soldier, he seemed never before to have seen identification papers displaying the gold insignia of a Central Party cadre, nor the blue stamp bearing the secretive authority of the United Front Department. "Why have you come to the border area?" the first lieutenant asked

again. Perhaps my youth seemed incongruous with the gravitas of the emblems, and he looked me up and down. His eyes seemed to ask, "What do you have there in your other pocket?"

I took a deep breath. "We were sent by the party committee. Our mission is to retrieve some documents from Musan KPA headquarters. But the night's turned cold. We came here in search of a guard post where we could stay the night."

"No! I saw them trying to set foot on the ice!" one of the soldiers interrupted.

Well versed in the party's ladder of petty seniorities, I instinctively adopted the demeanor of a cadre who had been provoked by an underling. "You shit! How dare you point a gun at me? Do you know who lam? I want to punch your insolent face .. :'

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Before I could finish, the first lieutenant cut in: "Connect the phone to Musan KPA headquarters and find out if they're expecting two visitors from Pyongyang."

I felt faint. Young-min, who had been warming his hands near the stove, shot me a look of despair. A soldier picked up the receiver and dialed. He waited, and then replaced the phone in its cradle. "Comrade First Lieutenant, there's a power cut down the line. I can't get through."

On hearing those words, my stubborn will to live was rekindled. I addressed the first lieutenant. "Enough of this pissing about. You can have him try again in the morning. Give us some bedding, and do it now! Hurry up!"

I was desperate and blustering, but it seemed to work. Begging them to let us go would have been an admission of guilt, so instead I asked them to let us stay the night. The first lieutenant faltered and glanced down at my papers once more. He even offered me a chair.

As I sat down, the heavy door creaked open and a group of soldiers shuffled in. They were returning from patrol. Gathering round the first lieutenant, they peered alternately at me, at Young-min, and at the identification papers.

A second lieutenant of the patrol came up to me and asked, "Do you know Seo Jung-hwan?" I had never heard the name and felt like I was failing a test. But Young-min jumped up from his chair.

"Seo Jung-hwan from Kimchaek City? The boy whose father is the party secretary for Kimchaek?"

The second lieutenant became noticeably excited. "Yes, that's him! Comrade First Lieutenant, he knows myoid classmate Jung-hwan!"

I remained seated in a daze. The first lieutenant's face displayed an expression of contempt as he looked at the second lieutenant and Young-min, who had begun to chatter away like old friends. I mustered my courage once more and shouted, "Hey! You really know

Iung-hwan?"

"Yes, sir! We go back a long way." "How wonderful! An old friend of a dear friend, and so far from

home. We've been looking for somewhere to stay for the night. Will you put us up?" Before anyone could protest, I took out a bottle of expensive Western cognac and six packets of Marlboro cigarettes. There is nothing more precious to a North Korean soldier than alcohol and cigarettes. While cash served well as a bribe, cigarettes were a more prestigious commodity, especially if they were a foreign brand. Besides personal items, I had packed my rucksack with three boxes of Marlboro cigarettes and two bottles of cognac, in preparation for just this kind of occasion. As the first lieutenant saw the alcohol and cigarettes, his eyes lit up.

Even the most basic rations for soldiers were intermittent, and not only that, foreign goods exuded an intoxicating aura: tokens of the Other World that exists beyond the borders. One of the soldiers exclaimed that this was the first time in his life that he would get to try Western liquor, and the first lieutenant proceeded to distribute the cigarettes to his men as if they were his own gifts.

Provided with prickly military blankets for the night, we lay awake listening to the snoring of soldiers, as well as to the change of patrols with each passing hour. As each group of soldiers set off, they took over the weapons of the previous shift and armed themselves with spare cartridges and hand grenades. The metallic noises screeched, Death to the traitor! I prodded Young-min lightly, and saw that he too was unable to sleep. Time crept by as we lay awake in the cold.

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The next morning, we left the guard post with a letter from the second lieutenant addressed to Seo Jung-hwan. A group of soldiers waved good-bye and we reciprocated awkwardly. As soon as we were out of their sight, we high-fived each other and excitedly recounted moments from the night before, albeit in a low voice. But our

IN THE RIFLE SIGHT I 91

footsteps soon turned heavy. The border area was much more tightly controlled and tense than the tranquil countryside we had imagined from Pyongyang.

Young-min spoke first. "Should we go home?" Facing each other, we slumped down onto a disused section of

railway track that stretched along the Tumen River. "It's too late for that now," I reasoned. "We've missed too many

days of work already and they've probably put out a search warrant for us. You know the party. We can't go back."

"Then how do we cross?" It was as if he wanted me to admit defeat on our behalf. Wearily,

I looked at our surroundings. In the silence it seemed that we were the only people left on earth. The hills and river were white, covered with snow. Somewhere far away, a whistle blew three times-perhaps another arrest. Just over the river, on the other side of the border, we couId hear the lowing of an ox. The sky seemed exceedingly blue and a bird flitted across that borderless space. We could see over the river, but we were helpless to cross it.

Young-min spoke again. "We've come all the way here from Pyongyang. Just across this river-just there-is China. It's right in front of us. How on earth do we cross?"

As he'd pointed out, nothing much lay between us and China, and each side of the border looked alike. Our lands were covered with snow, and so were theirs; except that their mountains were covered with trees like balls of cotton, and ours were sheer and bare. In the summer, our hills would be hellish red and theirs green with foliage. To me, this confirmed that we had every reason

to cross the river. "Let's cross, now!" I was surprised by my own words. Until this

moment, I had been focused on moving under cover of night. "Now's the time-the soldiers keep watch at night, but now, it's bright as day, and we can see them before they see us. Let's cross!"

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As if we had planned it, I glanced round on the North Korean side and Young-min checked the Chinese side. "No one's around," he said. "Should we stand up?"

"Now?" "Yes! Nowl" Although we spoke with confidence, neither of us stood up. What

frightened us more than anything was that neither of us had the courage to act. We breathed deeply, and as our humiliating weakness of mind was laid bare, it was also cathartic. The silence recharged our resolve, and we reached for each other's hand to feel the heat of our bodies. We had walked to the edge of this cliff together, and would

jump together. We counted in unison. "One .. ~) "Two .. ~) "Three!') We leaped up and started sprinting across the frozen Tumen River.

My heart pounded with every step, and the ice bellowed under our feet. Over thirty, sixty feet? Someone started yelling. "Hey! Get those bastards!" I turned to look towards the noise. A group of soldiers stood with

their rifles aimed. I saw the barrel, and heard the rifle cock. The roof of my skull seared with pain, where I knew the bullet would enter. I screamed but could not hear my own voice.