Dear Reader: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Kim Jong Il

by Michael Malice

  One night in early 1979, I was spending a typical very late evening in my office. The building was completely quiet other than the sound of my pen making marks across the paper. I was looking over some lyric sheets when the phone rang, startling me. I glanced at my watch; it was well past midnight. I picked up the phone to hear President Kim Il Sung’s voice.

  “Great Leader, is everything all right?” I asked, hoarse from exhaustion. “Is there anything you need from me? Are you feeling well?”

  He chuckled, in that kindhearted paternal manner of his. “You sound tired. They say you never sleep, you know.”

  “How can a person endure not sleeping?” I said. “It’s true, I only sleep for two or three hours a night. But I make up for it with short sleeps in the car on my way to field guidance trips. I don’t consider it to be a hardship. I’m so used to living this way that a bed seems uncomfortable to me.”

  “I’m still worried about your health.”

  “Please, let me worry about yours!”

  “You shouldn’t strain yourself,” he said quietly. “A cart can’t be moved with just one wheel, and the revolution can’t be accomplished in a day or two. A person needs rest, no matter how exemplary he might be.”

  “Yes, Great Leader. I understand.”

  “I asked your aides to try and reduce your workload,” he said. “They told me that they’d tried, but that you simply found more and did it faster than it would have been done otherwise.”

  I sighed. “I just want to do right by you. I don’t want to disappoint the revolution again.”

  “Then I want you to accept the Order.”

  I put my hand over my mouth, and felt my lips quiver as I almost burst in tears. The Order of Kim Il Sung, Korea’s highest honor, had been instituted in March 1972. The Central People’s Committee had decided that I should be the first recipient. When I gently declined, they tried to insist. At that point I rebuked them, rather sternly in fact. They got the message and left the Order unawarded for four years. They tried again in 1976, and then again on occasion of the thirtieth anniversary of the Republic in September 1978. Now President Kim Il Sung himself was urging me to accept.

  “Very well,” I told him. “If that is what you want, I’ll be happy to accept it.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I knew that I made the right choice when I named you as my successor. Go home and get a nice quiet sleep.”

  With those simple words, I knew that the DMZ misadventure had been forgiven, and that my position was once again secure. “Yes, Great Leader. Thank you.”

  For the first time in my life, I completely defied President Kim Il Sung. I didn’t go home when I hung up the phone. Instead, I turned back to the lyric sheets and happily returned to work.

  Chapter 12

  Construction Time

  October 1979 witnessed a huge uprising of the south Korean people, rocking America’s colonial ruling system to its foundations. The citizens took to the streets, frustrated at the heavy hand of the regime. Watching the events unfold reminded me of the collapse of the Syngman Rhee dictatorship in 1960.

  As far as I could see, the US imperialists only had two options left to them. The first would be to allow for a second “Iran incident,” doing nothing while their ally—in that case, the Shah—was in trouble. This was highly unlikely, as it would mean ceding control of events to the masses. The second would be to oust south Korea’s “Shah” themselves. South Korean “President” Park Chung Hee was so grotesquely unpopular that his removal would appease the people, bringing some modicum of oversight back to the situation. To no surprise, Park Chung Hee was assassinated on October 26, 1979 just as his wife had been five years prior. His murderer? The head of the Korean CIA.

  Let me repeat that: the President of south Korea was killed by the Director of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency. There is no doubt that this is what happened, it is no secret and there is no ambiguity. Nor is this DPRK “propaganda.” These are the facts recognized by every member of the world community—including the US imperialists themselves. The only thing that is in dispute is the degree of American involvement behind the assassination.

  On May 17, 1980 General Chun Doo Hwan staged a coup and declared martial law, dispensing even with the appearance of a civilian, democratic administration. Once again, the Americans either acquiesced or were powerless to stop matters. Personally, I find it impossible to understand how the latter could be true. The south was their closest ally, and there were many Yank troops stationed there.

  Shortly after the coup, the Americans had no choice but to show their hand and choose sides. Would they side with the military dictatorship, or with the Korean people who they so publicly claimed to protect? On May 18 there came a huge uprising in the city of Kwangju in direct response to the imposition of martial law. Tens of thousands of troops descended upon the city in response. Armed with warplanes, tanks and armored cars, they buried Kwangju in a sea of blood. The atrocities were so horrific that even monsters would have looked away from the scene. The fascist thugs themselves admit to over one hundred deaths during the massacre, though the actual number was over a thousand.

  Once again, let me be clear: in 1980—nearly a decade before the hostilities in Tiananmen Square—the Americans did the exact same thing in south Korea. They don’t bother to hide it or even deny it. The US imperialists still speak of the Chinese events but never the Korean ones, because China is their rival and south Korea their “ally.” It behooves them to denigrate the former and praise the latter.

  America’s actions were not those of a nation committed to “justice” or “democracy” or some arbitrary concept of human rights. These were transparently the actions of a nation committed to imperialism. And what did this imperialism mean, in practice? It meant young people being killed in the streets for speaking their minds. It meant civilians being detained and imprisoned indiscriminately, as happened in the days after. It meant patriots being executed without trial virtually every day. Above all, it meant accepting and downright endorsing the actions of any murderous tyrant so long as he followed the dictates of American policy. “Making the world safe for democracy” is simply a kinder, gentler version of “forcing the world to obey America.”

  So much for the myth of the “peaceful south” and the “warlike north.” In fact, the contrast between the two parts of Korea was as clear as ever during this period. The Sixth Workers’ Party of Korea Congress was held in October of 1980. There, before the eyes of the entire world, I was publicly declared to be the successor to the Great Leader Kim Il Sung. Overcome with joy that the revolution would continue through for another generation, the people proudly hung my picture alongside that of the Great Leader in their homes.

  THE SUCCESSORSHIP QUESTION

  The enemies of the DPRK criticized President Kim Il Sung for allegedly establishing a “hereditary monarchy,” a misconception that many people unfortunately still believe. Let me put this nonsense to bed once and for all. To begin with, in a feudal system the rulers are both afraid of the popular masses and are incapable of governing them. Those of royal blood inherit the throne regardless of their abilities, intelligence or competence. Denying any other possible option for succession is a mechanism to force the masses into absolute obedience for generations.

  The feudal use of hereditary succession to the throne is an attempt to institutionalize the king’s absolute power and guarantee the survival of the reactionary ruling class. The interests of the masses are never a concern, thus making the relationship between a king and a people that of exploiter and exploited or oppressor and oppressed. An actual hereditary monarchy is a function of the very same feudal society that the Great Leader opposed since the very beginning of his revolutionary career. Trying to equate the working-class leader’s successorship—chosen with the absolute support of the masses—to a hereditary monarchy is a twaddle lacking both basic logic and an elementary ABC knowledge of politics.

  What was most absurd is that much of
the criticism came from socialist nations. If there is one historical lesson of the international communist movement, it is that the problem of the successor could not be any more crucial. Again and again, the state fell into the hands of careerists and plotters, stopping any progress dead in its tracks. Choosing the correct successor is choosing to perfect the revolution through the generations until the end. Rather than a mere blood relation, the successor must be a distinguished person competent enough to supplant the leader and fill his role.

  There are many qualities that I’d developed that distinguished me from everyone else in the DPRK. First and foremost, my loyalty to President Kim Il Sung was thorough, enthusiastic, sincere, lofty and unrivalled. Second, my understanding of the Great Leader’s thought was unsurpassed. Third, I was able to mobilize the popular masses due to my leadership ability. Finally, I had a strong sense of revolutionary duty that was expressed in my love for the people. All these characteristics allowed me to properly assess any current situation, pinpoint the wishes of the people, put forth the appropriate tactics and then organize the masses to implement the correct plan. All these characteristics demanded that I be chosen as successor to the great cause of Juche.

  Only a great man creates a great thought and a great history, and only a great man can best understand another great man. It was therefore the highest honor of my life that President Kim Il Sung decided that I was the man to succeed him.

  One day I paid a field guidance visit to the Mansudae Art Studio. I wanted to see what the artists had been working on, with an eye to matching their works to the best possible locations for display. I was disappointed to the point of bafflement by the murals that they were painting. The art was dull, literally looking as if it was faded and covered with dust. I was familiar with these artists’ usual work, and knew that it was usually among the best that Korea had to offer. For some reason, here their talents weren’t being given free rein. I paced back and forth across the entire wall, getting increasingly agitated. “Come here,” I called to one of the artists. “Why are these colors so insipid? Is this the best you can do to portray the shining reality of Korea?”

  The painter spoke cautiously, familiar with my expertise. “It’s been widely accepted,” he said, “that murals are usually painted in opaque colors. We’re painting these to be subordinated to the architecture. This way, the buildings’ beauty won’t be spoiled. We’re following the precedent of the walls of the Pyongyang Grand Theatre.”

  A truth is obvious once it’s made clear—but it will never be revealed as long as it’s suppressed by outworn conceptions, patterns and conventions. The artist clearly wanted to reject the prevailing view on murals, but he also didn’t want to stick his neck out. “The murals of the Pyongyang Grand Theatre are misty and dull,” I told him. “But they need replacements, not duplications.”

  “I agree,” he said, glad to have my support. Now he could truly be an artist and not simply a painter.

  “Why should murals be subordinated to the buildings, anyway? What is the use of painting murals if they’re to be overshadowed by the architecture? Only when the colors of a mural are bright and clear can the beauty of a building be enhanced by them. Murals ought to be painted in a concise yet forceful way, like Korean paintings. They should be socialist in content and national in form, as with all the other arts which the Korean people like.”

  The artist took my words to heart, as did his colleagues. Following my guidance, they then began to paint a mosaic mural masterpiece entitled “The East Sea in the Morning.” Their plan was to represent the sun by using much smaller tiles than usual. But instead I recommended that they use a highly polished disc of cut glass, an entirely new idea which no one had ever previously thought of.

  On the day that the mural was installed and unveiled, flocks of kingfishers from a nearby lake gathered around the piece. One by one, the birds flew toward the mural’s evergreen pines, striking themselves dumb and falling to the ground. When they got up, they once again tried to fly into the “forest.” From that day forward, piles of kingfishers constantly had to be cleared away from the floor by the mural. Nature herself was praising the realistic beauty inherent in Juche art.

  Soon after the mural was unveiled, I was walking down Ryunhwanson Street in Pyongyang when I stopped short. So much of my recent work had been about creating a beautiful lifestyle for the people that I hadn’t even thought to apply my artistry to where the masses needed them most: their homes. Ryunhwanson Street was lined with two- and three-story apartment buildings, housing several thousand families. But the buildings were a postwar construction built by flunkeyist officials in servile imitation of foreign plans. Then and there, I resolved to totally destroy the outdated street—a pile of dirt left over by the flunkeyists—and build an ideal Juche street in its place.

  In the same sense that a mural is a painting on an enlarged scale, there was no reason why a street couldn’t be regarded as a enormous “sculpture” of sorts. Reconstructing Ryunhwanson Street was a historic opportunity to demonstrate to the world that I wasn’t simply an artisan but an able city planner as well. My knowledge of architecture was extraordinary, far deeper and wider than technical architects themselves. I was very familiar with the contemporary trends, and had a profound understanding of both architectural theory and practice, as well as building design and decoration. Yet this was my first opportunity to actually implement all that I had studied.

  I knew it was crucial for me to ignore old conventions in order to boldly demonstrate my originality and skill. The first thing I decided to change was the street’s layout. The current buildings were large, low and wide. They were laid out on a horizontal line, with each building identical to the other. My plan was to have the street mirror the dynamic spirit of the time and the people “in our way.” I spent weeks putting together a diorama to illustrate my new approach. I proposed to have the buildings soar along a vertical line. The roofs of the 20-, 25- and 30-story buildings flowed into one another in an aesthetic way. The buildings themselves harmonized with their surroundings. Their shapes—square, circular, towering and jagged—called to mind Korean items such as towers, saw blades, folding screens and gardens. The bright colors of the buildings—sky blue, light yellow, blue and yellow—were in concordance with the people’s tastes. I covered every detail, including the size and shape of the windows, door handles, showers and even the faucets. Despite all the variations in style and form, every apartment was exactly the same. In a communist nation, a person should only have to pack a suitcase when he moved his residence.

  The street was rebuilt in record time, and renamed Changgwang Street to demonstrate its new beginning. It’s no exaggeration that I began to view Pyongyang itself as a work of art, with all the unlimited potential that art had to offer. My new goal was to turn the city into a picturesque world-class capital. It was well-known that the skyscrapers of New York, Paris and London looked choky and gloomy. Compared with those fashionable locations, Pyongyang increasingly became refreshing, cubical and popular-oriented. All of the new buildings that I constructed were the best in terms of both quality and content, literally “monumental edifices” to hand down to posterity in the Juche style.

  THE PYONGYANG MATERNITY HOSPITAL

  In the past, Korean women gave birth on straw mats in their neighbor’s kitchens or even by the side of the road. After 1980, they became mothers in a palace: the newly constructed Pyongyang Maternity Hospital. The new building was tender and gentle in every element of construction, as befitting a hospital for women. The gloriously multicolored floor, the varied sculptures throughout and the shining chandeliers gave it a fairy-tale appearance.

  The hospital was outfitted with the latest medical technology, such as a centralized oxygen-supply system and a general air-conditioning system. Telescopes were installed into completely sterilized operating rooms, enabling any interested person to watch ongoing operations from outside. The fantastic amenities freed the patients from every inconvenience, an
d included a signal to contact a nurse at any time, a telephone receiver, a device to freely change the bed’s height and/or angle and even a handy table.

  My architectural prowess earned me an instant reputation among Pyongyang’s engineers. I was often summoned to look over plans and solve problems. Many architects simply wanted my approval for their work in the broader context of the city at large. Some issues, of course, were much bigger than others, and much more involved.

  I could tell that the officials were at their wits’ end when I was called in to discuss the upcoming Changgwang Health Complex. “We need several thousand tons of water to fill the swimming pool and bathrooms,” the main official explained. “Refilling them every so often is no easy job.”

  “What solutions have been proposed?” I asked him.

  He laid out the plans in front of us on the table. I looked back and forth between the blueprint of the building itself and a map of where the complex would stand in Pyongyang. Though the edifice would be impressive, I could already anticipate several difficulties. “I hesitate to say it,” the official hesitated to say, “but it seems like we’re going to need some sort of extremely efficient filter to deal with such a huge volume of water. Yet I don’t know that such technology exists in all of Korea.”

  I examined the data in front of me quite thoroughly, quickly coming up with possible solutions—and then dismissing them just as quickly for various reasons. This truly seemed to be an impossible dilemma. “First things first,” I said. “We must solve the water problem on the principle of the best conditions for the people. That’s who the swimming pool and bathrooms are for.”

  “Of course.”

  “Forget filtration. There shouldn’t even be one contaminated drop in the complex’s water. We must find a way to pump out one hundred per cent of the old water and refill it with fresh water.”