Proud of what was being done in Korea, Mother often took me along with her when she visited new facilities. One day when I was four, she brought me to a farming district in Taedong County. We were walking along a footpath between rice fields when I saw farmers at work in the distance. I could hear them singing “The Song of Farmers” as they performed their tasks.
“Do you like that song?” Mother asked me. “They’re happy because they’re working their own lands for the first time in their lives, thanks to the General.”
THE AGRICULTURAL REVOLUTION
General Kim Il Sung had wasted no time in implementing reforms. His first goal was to eliminate the economic foundations of the reactionary classes, beginning with the landlords who he had so despised since he’d been a child. Accordingly, he proclaimed the agrarian reform law on March 5, 1946. Any land that wasn’t considered proper for distribution—things like orchards, irrigation facilities, and forests—would be controlled by the government. Any land owned by Japan, Japs, Jap supporters or other such class enemies was confiscated and distributed to the peasants. All debts owed to landlords were voided, and their land and property was also confiscated and distributed to the people.
The entire reform was carried out in under a month, a miracle. The General followed this up with measures such as the labor law, the law on the nationalization of key industries, the law on sex equality and measures for the democratization of judicial administration and education. Just like that, the anti-imperialist, anti-feudal people’s democratic system was established in a very short time.
I didn’t know much about the legal system and the changes that had been made. All I knew was that the farmers were singing and seemed happy. Still, they were sweating quite heavily as they hauled up water in the scorching sun. “Is there any easier way to raise crops?” I asked Mother. “Transporting so much water seems exhausting.”
“For now, no,” she admitted. “But I’m proud that you’re thinking along such lines.”
“When I grow up,” I promised, “I’ll free the workers from such toilsome labor.” I knew that this wouldn’t be an easy promise to keep. The situation was the same everywhere. When I visited the Pyongyang Silk Mill with Mother the following week, for example, I was struck by how terribly strenuous that work seemed as well. Eliminating such hardships would truly take a revolution.
After we visited the mill, Mother and I climbed up a hill and gazed down on Pyongyang. “Look how wonderful it is!” she said with a sigh. “Koreans used to live in single-story shacks. Now, thanks to the General’s leadership, a city of tall buildings is taking shape. Son, you must build tall buildings for the people one day, buildings of 30 or even 40 stories.”
“Mother,” I replied, “I will build for the people houses 100 stories high!”
“I know you will,” she said. “I know you will.”
As quickly as Korea was changing, so too was our family. As the weeks passed, General Kim Il Sung began to have ever more issues to manage. His task of building a regular armed force, for example, made steady headway: the Korean People’s Revolutionary Army developed into the Korean People’s Army. And when my sister, Kim Kyong Hui, was born in 1946, Mother had to divide her time between the baby and her duties to the General. As for me, it became time to enroll in school.
I always went to class in simple clothes and rubber shoes, carrying my books in a wrapper just like all the other pupils. If I was ever offered boots or a satchel, I declined. “I like living like the others,” I insisted. Even though I was only in kindergarten, I was already reading newspapers and magazines. I was also so extraordinarily talented in math that I was able to solve three-digit arithmetic problems very easily.
Like most gifted children, I had an enormous sense of curiosity. Once a question crossed my mind, I delved deep into its core and made the answer clear at any cost. I sought the help of my teacher in the rare cases where I couldn’t work out a solution by myself. It seemed I was constantly asking her about something or other. “Why aren’t there any black flowers?” I wondered during one lesson.
“Because it’s harder for the bees to see them,” she said.
“How do day and night and the different seasons come about? Why is the moon full sometimes but half at other times?”
“I can recommend a book to help you understand.”
“Why does the wind blow, and why does it snow or rain? Why does the river flow? And does the sea flow, too? How do fishes keep their eyes open and breathe in water? Why do stones fall to the ground but balloons go up into the sky?”
She sighed. “Let’s go to the library after class. I’m sure I can answer all your questions about the natural world then.”
I smiled and then considered what she’d said. I decided to avoid questions about nature, so asked about politics instead. “When did man come into being, and how did society develop? How do landlords and capitalists exploit peasants and workers? Which is worth more: man or money? Why did the Americans come to south Korea?”
“Maybe you should ask your parents when you get home,” she sighed. It was the smartest thing that she could have said. My parents never faltered with any of my questions. Even though they were busy, they took the time to explain answers in detail so that I could get a correct understanding of complex natural and social phenomena. “If you have any more questions,” Mother said that evening, after a very long talk, “don’t exasperate the teacher. Just wait until you come home. Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
The next day, I did my best to keep all my inquiries to myself. I kept quiet during reading, and I kept quiet during drawing. Then it came time for counting. “Class,” the teacher said, “if I have an apple and I add another apple, how many apples will I have?”
“Two!” the other kindergarteners yelled out.
“And if I have a cake and then I bake two more cakes, how many cakes will I have?”
“Three!”
And so it went on, the children adding guns and chairs and anything else that they were familiar with. The math was far too simple for me, so my mind began to wander. I did my best to hold my tongue, but when the teacher went to move on to another subject I couldn’t help myself. “Wait!” I said, rising abruptly. “There are cases when one and one do not make two, but make one.”
It was so unexpected that the teacher couldn’t quite follow what I was saying. “Um...when do one and one not make two?”
“When my lump of clay is added to my sister’s, it makes a large one. A large one. When I water the flowers, one drop of water on a petal joins another drop to make a large one. And if many drops join together, they make a still larger drop.”
I was so exceptionally clever and bright that I had often surprised the teacher. But this was truly amazing. Here I was, a kindergarten student, seeing cases which contradicted and challenged such a self-evident truth as “one and one make two.” This was something entirely beyond ordinary people.
The teacher hesitated for a while, not knowing how to respond. “Today,” she said, “I have taught you the fact that one and one make two. And that is the end of the matter.”
I was not at all satisfied by that answer. I sat quietly and patiently like a good pupil, but as soon as school let out I headed home as fast as I could. When I found Mother I told her what had happened. “So which one of us is right?” I said. “Me, or my teacher?”
Mother was moved with great surprise at my amazing question. “Both your thought and the teacher’s answer are correct,” Mother explained. “On the surface, your teacher explained a simple fact. But you have hinted at a deeper understanding. Sometimes, small things make one large thing when they are put together. Take the example of people’s minds: When the minds of the many people who support the General are put together, they become a united force. And if all the minds in Korea were put together in such a way, it would become the greatest and most formidable power in the world. Do you see?”
I did see. Not only did I see th
e mathematical fact, but I also saw the sociopolitical implications behind it. It made me realize how important education was in shaping the minds of the people. Even a simple kindergarten math class could have profound ideological implications—for the better or the worse.
Yet I wasn’t the only one receiving an education. All of Korea was being schooled in the nation’s new communist ideology. Public discussions were held by Workers’ Party (WPK) organizations, government bodies and rural communities. The masses’ political awareness, patriotic enthusiasm and positiveness rose high. Selfishness, hedonism, immorality, laziness, bureaucracy, irresponsibility, mercurial spirit and other surviving traits of outdated ideas were exposed and overcome. Hostile elements, position-seekers and loafers were discovered and then purged. It was a time of celebration.
This pervasive sense of hope took hold at school as well. All the students decided to put on a play for our families. My class was chosen to perform a song-and-dance number called “I’ll Become, I’ll Become.” One by one, we would sing what we would become when we grew up, ranging from teachers, doctors and scientists, all the way to musicians, workers and, finally, soldiers.
“You are the brightest student in the class,” the teacher told me. “You should enter the stage first, singing the verse about becoming an educationist.”
Something about that didn’t sit quite right, but I agreed to do as I’d been asked. As the rehearsal went on that day, I grew increasingly upset. Then I realized what was the matter. “I won’t participate in this play!” I announced.
The students looked at one another. It was grossly out of character for me to refuse to participate in any activity. “What? Why not?” the teacher said.
“I don’t want to become an educator. I want to become a soldier of the Korean People’s Army!”
“But that would mean entering the stage last,” she explained. “Don’t you want to enter the stage first?”
“What I want is for the soldier to enter first. Why should the soldier, who has the best profession, enter last?”
The teacher had learned how insightful my suggestions were, so she carefully considered what I had said. “You’re right,” she said, with a sigh of appreciation. “You’re always right.”
The order of the performance was changed beginning with the next rehearsal, with the soldier’s verse now receiving top priority. The change in sequence emphasized my idea that the KPA is number one, but it also improved the harmonious flow of all the songs and dances. There was no contradiction between strong art and a strong message—especially when such things praised the military.
While we students were singing what we would become in the future, Korea herself was making the very same decision. What kind of nation should Korea become? Under the auspices of the General, the first democratic elections in Korean history were carried out in 1946, with ballots cast for all the provincial, city and county people’s committees. No one was prouder and happier to cast her ballot than Mother. This is what she’d been fighting for all her life.
Over the following months, it became increasingly clear to all parties—the US, the Soviet Union, the United Nations and Korea—that elections needed to be held nationwide. Terrified of losing his unelected grip on power, in early 1948 Syngman Rhee asked the United States to hold a separate election in south Korea alone so as to consolidate his position. The US imperialists, delighted to abort their ongoing negotiations with the USSR, decided to push through Rhee’s regional election by means of force. For the first time since the dawn of mankind, Korea was threatened with permanent national division. In response, General Kim Il Sung called for a general election across the whole of Korea, to be held by secret ballot on the principles of universal, direct and equal vote. He also called for the withdrawal of both the American and Soviet armies. A fierce struggle arose, particularly in occupied south Korea. The US imperialists dissolved the local autonomous bodies of south Korea and the people’s committees at all levels by coercive methods. They forced democratic parties and organizations underground. Loyal anti-imperialist Koreans were arrested, imprisoned, tortured and murdered. A general strike was staged by two million workers, and a revolt on Jeju Island in April 1948 brought out 250,000 people.
As a result of such unrest, the south’s May 10, 1948 elections ended in failure. It was a “national” election only open to certain segments of the population living in the lower half of Korea. The Yankees only believed in democracy when the democratic process delivered a result that they approved of. In order to maintain their grip, the United States simply faked the election results to validate Syngman Rhee’s puppet regime.
Faced with the danger of the country’s division, General Kim Il Sung convened a conference in Pyongyang on June 29. There, a decision was adopted to hold a general election on August 25 in both north and south Korea. Frantic to cut off this democratic action, President Truman recognized Rhee’s “government” as the Republic of Korea on August 12.
Despite Truman’s assault on Korean sovereignty, the historic north-south general election was held anyway. In the north, deputies to the Supreme People’s Assembly were elected openly by direct and democratic suffrage. In south Korea, for fear of American reprisal, the people’s representatives were first elected in secret by the indirect method of collecting the signatures of voters. Then, the elected assembled in Haeju and held a conference to choose the deputies to the Supreme People’s Assembly.
On the basis of this brilliant north-south general election, the historic First Session of the Supreme People’s Assembly was held in Pyongyang in September 1948. The session proclaimed before the whole world the founding of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the only legitimate government for the whole nation. The DPRK Constitution was adopted and General Kim Il Sung was unanimously appointed Head of State, reflecting the will of the entire Korean people. It was a shining victory won in the struggle to build a unified, sovereign and independent state.
By the end of 1948, the Korean nation—which had lived on the same territory with the same blood from ancient times—had been divided into two. Though there were two competing governments, only one bore any claim to legitimacy: the government led by the new Prime Minister, General Kim Il Sung. He spent many nights worrying about the situation in the south, and Mother and I did all we could to support him. No one knew what the future would hold, but it increasingly looked problematic.
One September morning in 1949, Mother and I saw the General off as he went to deliver guidance at a factory. As she helped me shoulder my bag for school, I noticed that she looked very pale. “Are you feeling well?” I asked her.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, wincing in pain.
“I’ll stay home from school today. You’re ill. Let me help take care of you.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I’ll get better if you learn your lessons well. Now off you go.”
“Why would that make you better?” I asked. “Promise me you’ll go to the hospital.”
“Fine, I promise. I’ll see you when you come home, and you’ll feel silly for worrying so much.”
Holding back tears, I reluctantly left Mother and went to school as she’d requested. I couldn’t concentrate the entire day. I was so worried about her that I rushed home the instant when class was over. I ran to her room to check up on her—but she wasn’t there. That meant one thing: she had gone to the hospital as she’d promised. Just because she hadn’t returned home yet wasn’t a cause for concern, I told myself. I resolved to stay brave, just as Mother would have.
My little sister Kyong Hui came into the room soon after. “Where’s Mother?” she asked. “I want Mother!”
“She’ll be home shortly,” I promised her. “But I want to see her now!”
I did my best to calm Kyong Hui. I played some games with her and read to her, and even managed to get her to fall asleep when it came time for bed. I knew that trying to sleep would be pointless for me, however. I stared out the window as time went on, expec
ting Mother to return home at any moment. In the middle of the night—I have no idea what time—I finally saw a car come in at the gate. I ran into Kyong Hui’s room and shook her awake. “Mother is coming! Get up quickly!” I ran out to the porch, pulling my drowsy sister behind me.
My heart froze in my chest when I saw that it wasn’t Mother who got out of the car, but one of her revolutionary comrades. The woman saw Kyong Hui and I standing there, and gave us a nod of acknowledgment. Then she walked past us to the sitting room. I followed her inside and watched as she took out Mother’s best uniform. “Why are you taking those clothes?” I asked her. “Where’s Mother? When is she coming home?”
The brave woman guerrilla wouldn’t look me in the eye. “She’ll come back when the day dawns,” she said. “Just wait here for her.”
“I’ll be very patient.” I sat there and waited with Kyong Hui, who soon fell asleep on my shoulder. Yet Mother still hadn’t returned home by the time that the sun rose. I couldn’t bear sitting around anymore. If Mother was too ill to come home, I’d simply take Kyong Hui and go see her myself. As I resolved to leave, I saw that many woman fighters and distant relatives of mine had started to gather in the house.
That’s when I realized that Mother was never going to come home. I looked in the direction of the hospital, unable to believe what was happening. Since the day that I’d been born, Mother had always been there for me and for the General. She came out to greet me with a smile whenever she heard my footsteps coming home. She could look at my face and know what I was thinking. “Mother!” I yelled, hoping there was some misunderstanding. “Mother, Mother, Mother! Come back!”
Dear Reader: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Kim Jong Il Page 4
