Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  After a few minutes two Western men walked into the room. “Mr. Bae,” a blond, athletic-looking man said to me in accented English. He looked to be around forty. We shook hands as he introduced himself. “I am Karl-Olof Andersson, the Swedish ambassador to the DPRK. This is my secretary, John Svensson,” he said, motioning toward a larger man about six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds. “Please, have a seat,” the ambassador said.

  Mr. Lee and I took our seats across from the ambassador. One of the two DPRK officials that had met us at the door had already sat down. I noticed he was writing down everything that was said.

  “We have only a few minutes,” the ambassador began, “so I have to be quick. We are here representing the United States’ interests. I want to assure you that the United States government has been notified of your situation and is doing everything in its power to secure your release. Since your government does not have diplomatic relations with the DPRK, the US State Department will communicate with Pyongyang through our office. Your family will also be able to reach you through us. Also, until all of this is resolved, we will check in on you and monitor how you are being treated.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I was relieved to know that someone outside North Korea actually knew about my situation and cared about me.

  “How have they treated you so far, Mr. Bae?” the ambassador asked.

  I glanced across at the man from the foreign affairs office, who was rapidly taking notes. Then I looked over at Mr. Lee. I wasn’t sure how much English he understood.

  “My treatment has been okay,” I said. “I have not been physically mistreated or anything like that.”

  “Did they tell you why you are being held?” he asked.

  “They have charged me with conducting a smear campaign against the country’s leadership and with setting up mission bases in China to overthrow the North Korean government. They have also charged me with bringing people into the country to pray,” I said. The ambassador wrote all this down. I then said something I probably shouldn’t have said. “They also objected to things I said about North Korea in my orientation sessions for the tourists I brought in.”

  “How so?” the ambassador asked.

  “I told people that North Korea attacked the South and that’s what started the Korean War.”

  The ambassador just nodded and said, “Okay. Is there anything you would like to say to the US government?”

  “I’m standing strong now, but I need their help. I need them to step in and do something so that I can go home.”

  The ambassador gave me a reassuring smile. “I understand,” he said. “I know they are doing all they can right now. All right, I have another couple of things to address in the short time we have left. First, I have a privacy waiver I need you to sign. It authorizes us to release information about your situation. You need to check who we can give this information to. There are boxes for your family and friends, as well as the general population through the media.”

  I checked the boxes for family and friends. I did not want the media to become involved, nor did I want total strangers knowing about my being held. Deep down I still believed the misunderstanding that led to my arrest could be cleared up fairly easily. Until it was, I wanted to draw as little attention as possible to myself or the North Korean government. As crazy as it now sounds, I still held out hope that I could resume my work and bring tour groups back into North Korea. I thought that by showing respect for the North Korean government and by not embarrassing them in the media, we could go back to the way things were before.

  “And last but not least,” the ambassador said, “I have letters from your family.” He pulled out a manila envelope and handed it across to me. I had never seen anything so wonderful in my life. “Your wife also wanted us to give these to you.” He gave me a package that contained some warm shirts and a new pair of shoes. “I understand you have something for us,” he said.

  I looked over at Mr. Lee. He handed Mr. Andersson the letters I had written the day before. “Yes, please, if you would send these to my family, I would very much appreciate it,” I said.

  “Of course,” the ambassador said. “If you need anything, have the DPRK officials contact our office, and I will see what I can do.” Mr. Andersson and his secretary then stood to leave. I thanked them for coming and turned my attention to my letters.

  Mr. Lee also stood. “You can read your letters first,” he said as he and the other official left the conference room, leaving me alone.

  I ripped open the large envelope and dumped out the letters on the table. My heart soared. I grabbed the letter from my wife and read, “My yeobo,” she wrote, using the Korean word for “darling,” “I am so worried about you. I waited three weeks before I wrote this letter, because I thought you would already be home. Stream told me what happened. She also informed me that the DPRK officials assured her that you were going to meet her at the customs office when she left the country. I keep waiting for you to come home. Where do they have you now?

  “The first snows have fallen in Dandong. When you left, you did not pack for cold weather. I am so worried you are cold. Have they given you the medicines you need? I wish I could bring you your diabetes medication. I pray they have provided this for you. Your mother is holding up well. Your reputation is good in North Korea, so we hope you are treated decently while they clear up this misunderstanding.

  “Please do not worry about us or the ministry here in Dandong. I will carry on the work until you return. No matter how long it takes I am here, waiting for you. I love you. Lydia.”

  I wept as I read her letter. I reread it several times. I could hear her voice. It was almost as though she were in the conference room with me. But at the same time, hearing from her made the distance between us seem so much greater, and it made me miss her so much more. I had never felt so far from home.

  My mother and sister also sent letters to me. I wept as I read those as well. Both asked where I was. They tried to sound confident in their hope that I would come home soon, but I could tell both were very worried about me. They asked about my medications and whether or not I had seen a doctor.

  “Why are they holding you?” my mother asked. She did not understand what was happening to me.

  I’m causing them so much pain, I cried.

  The conference room door opened. I assumed it was time to go back to the detention center. “Stay seated,” Mr. Lee said. “To show you how humanely we treat even those who commit crimes against us, I am going to let you call your family.”

  “Now?” I said, my heart racing.

  “Yes. Right now. You may call whomever you would like. Now, the purpose of the call is for you to inform them of the seriousness of your crime and to let them know that you are facing a trial for very specific charges. You must tell them exactly what the charges are against you. Here,” he said, “take this paper and write down exactly what you are going to say based on what I just told you.”

  “Everything?” I asked. How could I possibly write down everything I was going to say? I didn’t know what was going to come out of my mouth when I heard my wife’s voice for the first time in two months.

  “As close as you can. It is clear your family does not know how serious the charges are against you. They call this a misunderstanding. This is far more than a misunderstanding.” Mr. Lee had clearly read my letters from home. Many people probably had. “You have to say, ‘I am charged with violating Article 60 of the constitution, which carries with it the highest maximum penalty.’”

  I did not want to say “highest maximum penalty,” because I knew the words were code for the death penalty or life in prison. The phrase would further upset my family. But, of course, I had no choice.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I scribbled out a basic outline of what I was going to say and
slid it across the table. Mr. Lee gave it a quick read. Then he retrieved the telephone for me. “Who first?” he asked.

  “My wife.”

  He dialed the number and handed me the receiver. My heart beat in my chest. But the call failed.

  “May I try?” I asked.

  Mr. Lee nodded.

  I redialed the number. This time the call went through. The phone rang. Then I heard Lydia’s voice.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Lydia. It’s me, Kenneth.”

  She burst into tears. I also began to weep. I tried to keep to the script I had written for Mr. Lee, but it was so hard. I told her the charges against me, and I included the maximum penalty line, because Mr. Lee was standing right next to me.

  “But do not worry too much about this,” I reassured her. “Everything will be all right.”

  “How do you know?” she asked, crying.

  “God has promised me I will not be harmed,” I said.

  I tried to say more, but Mr. Lee stepped toward me. “Time,” he said.

  “I have to go. I love you. I will be home soon,” I said.

  I then called my mother and my sister in Washington. Both calls were filled with tears.

  “Please keep this as quiet as you can,” I said. “I don’t want a lot of publicity.”

  After I hung up, Mr. Lee escorted me out of the room, down the stairs, and to the lobby of the hotel.

  I looked around. I was just here a couple of months ago, I thought. I stood right here, in this lobby, a free man. Now I am a hated American criminal on his way back to jail.

  Christmas was four days away. The thought of spending it in the detention center sickened me. I wished I could turn back the clock. The sight of the lobby only made this feeling stronger.

  Once I was back at the detention center, I read the letters from home over and over again. I tried to stay strong, but I could not stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. In the six years I’d lived and worked in China, I had never once missed a Christmas with my family. I always flew home to the United States in time to celebrate with my children and spend time with my mother and sister. But not this year. I felt like the worst father and husband and son and brother in the world.

  When Christmas Eve morning arrived, I remembered an idea I had had on my previous trip to Pyongyang, a few months before that fateful eighteenth trip. Back then I still enjoyed the officials’ favor as a respected businessman who brought much-needed tourist dollars into the country. I had stayed at the Koryo Hotel, the finest and most famous hotel in Pyongyang. It was not far from the hotel I had just left. One evening I had looked out at the city from my window. Even though I had already led many prayer teams into the area around Rason, I still wanted to find a way to actually reach all the North Korean people, to show them that God is real and that he loves them.

  It’s hard to make a difference from a distance, I had thought to myself. Then a lightbulb came on. Maybe I could actually live here for a couple of years. Yes, I could stay in Pyongyang for a year or two and maybe even have a special tour to celebrate Christmas in the capital. That might do it!

  “Well, you got your wish,” I told myself. “Now what?”

  I thought about this for a moment. I had wanted to bring people into the capital to celebrate Christmas, so I figured the least I could do was celebrate on my own. Sitting on my bed, I started singing Christmas carols, one after another. The more I sang, the better I felt. I kept on singing and singing and singing. It didn’t really matter whether I was home in the United States or sitting alone in a North Korean detention center. Christmas celebrates Christ coming to earth, and that’s what I was going to do. One of the names of Christ, Immanuel, means “God with us.” I experienced Immanuel as I sang. God came near.

  I sang all through the day. At five o’clock the guards told me to turn on the television. I was surprised by what I saw. It seemed the entire country was celebrating too. Then I remembered December 24 is treated as a national holiday in North Korea that celebrates the birthday of Kim Jong Suk, the wife of Kim Il Sung and the mother of Kim Jong Il. The movie of the day showed her as a freedom fighter, standing alongside Kim Il Sung as she mowed down Japanese soldiers with her gun. The movie made her out to be an action hero—like a real-life Black Widow from the Avengers movies, but more graceful and charming.

  The movie played on the television while parties celebrating her life and the Great Leader went on around Pyongyang. I couldn’t help but notice the irony. They celebrated the birth of their leader while I celebrated the birth of mine. I started singing “Silent Night” loud enough to drown out the noise of the television.

  ELEVEN

  OUT FOR BLOOD

  “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.”

  —MATTHEW 5:11

  THE HOLIDAYS CAME and went. When I had left Rason, I had thought I would be home before Christmas. Instead, I was still in Pyongyang, waiting. My hopes rose when a newscast showed that Bill Richardson, former ambassador to the United Nations, was in North Korea, along with Google chairman Eric Schmidt.

  This is it, I thought. This is how these things always end, with a high-ranking or former high-ranking US official negotiating a deal. But I never got to see Ambassador Richardson. Later I learned he personally carried over a letter from my son, which I received through the Swedish embassy a couple of weeks later. I assumed that Ambassador Richardson had pleaded for my release, but I was no closer to going home.

  After having my hopes dashed following Ambassador Richardson’s visit, I made a calendar to count down the days until I would go home. I set the count at thirty. There’s no way I will be here more than another month, I told myself. God won’t leave me here like that, will he?

  Psalm 34:22 promises, “The LORD will rescue his servants.” I prayed every day that God would rescue me, and quickly. Mr. Lee seemed to indicate that the government planned to send me home with nothing but a stern rebuke once he verified everything I’d written down during my month of detention in Rason. I prayed God would make it happen.

  My hopes evaporated on February 12, 2013, when North Korea detonated a nuclear device in an underground test. This was North Korea’s third successful test of a nuclear device. The United Nations immediately condemned the DPRK’s nuclear program and issued more sanctions. Even China and Russia, North Korea’s closest allies, spoke out against the test.

  North Korea did not react well to the sanctions. Newscasts talked as though war with the United States were about to break out, and everyone seemed to believe it.

  “America is a bully,” one news anchor said, “but now we will stand up to him. Now he will not dare invade us.” People interviewed in the street said things like, “America launches its own satellites and has thousands of nuclear weapons. Why can’t we have one? This is not fair!” I heard people yell at the camera, “We’re gonna nuke you if you guys don’t leave us alone!”

  I could tell they meant it.

  The anger and hatred in the detention center increased as well. The chief prosecutor came to see me with a new threat. “You know,” he said, “people are very upset about America. They are out for blood. What do you think would happen if they knew we had an American criminal here?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “Angry crowds would storm this place and kill you, and we wouldn’t be able to protect you,” he said. “People would stab you and cut you into pieces, and no one would stop them.”

  The guards’ hostility grew more and more open every day. They made no secret of how tired they were of me. I overheard one asking the chief prosecutor why they were even bothering with me. “Why is he even here?” he asked. “He should already be in a labor camp or be put to death.” I got the distinct f
eeling that any one of them would gladly volunteer to carry out the latter sentence. I was glad none of them carried guns. But then again, they didn’t need guns to take me out.

  The increased tension within the detention center was made worse by the disappearance of Mr. Lee. Without explanation, he just didn’t show up one morning. Instead, the third prosecutor came into my room. I had learned his name was Mr. Min, which is pronounced “mean.” The name fit him.

  I stood when he came into my room, just as I was supposed to do. I even bowed in deference to him, which I also had been instructed to do whenever an official came into my room. Mr. Min just glared at me before he dismissively waved his hand at me to sit down. He pulled out a stack of papers, which I assumed was my confession and the other papers I had written in Rason.

  Glancing over them, he shook his head in disgust. “You know what?” he said. “I don’t buy it.”

  “Buy what?” I asked.

  “Your story. I don’t buy you saying you are repentant and sorry for what you’ve done. I don’t believe it for a second.” He gave me a cold look. “No, no, I don’t. You say you are sorry for bringing people into the country to pray, but I know you aren’t. I know that if you had not been caught, you’d still be bringing groups in. You are just sorry you got caught.”

  I sat as still as I could and tried not to react.

  “You know why I know this? It’s because you aren’t just a Christian. You are a pastor. You are a missionary. You are hard-core.”

  “I admitted I am a pastor and a missionary,” I said in a low-key, very calm, nonthreatening voice.

  “Of course you have, and I know what that means. You are just trying to get out of this mess you got yourself into. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, hoping we will let you go, but you aren’t sorry at all. You just said what you had to say so that maybe we would go easy on you and send you back where you came from.” He paused and then said with a sinister-sounding voice, “Didn’t you?”