The official was taken aback. This only made things more difficult, not less. “Where are we going to get that much water from?” he asked. I could sense the official’s skepticism hardening against me. He trusted his years of expertise over mine, just the writers and the producers once had. But I’d learned from my conflict with the artists. I knew that I needed to teach the man, to demonstrate my knowledge to him, rather than simply giving him advice that he’d regard as ill-advised.
I picked up a red pencil, and on the map of Pyongyang I drew a line from the health complex to the Taedong River. “That’s where we’ll get the water from. We have an entire river flowing through the city, full of fresh Korean water just as our people like.”
“I don’t quite understand,” he said, biting his tongue. “Not only is there a huge distance between the river and the complex, but there are many high-rise buildings in between.”
“We can lay pipe underneath them, can’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose we could,” he said. “But we’d need to use very large-diameter pipes.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do!” I declared.
“But the cost would be enormous, both in money and in materials!” I put my hand on his shoulder. “We should do what needs to be done in order to ensure a happy life for the people, even if our state coffer is emptied. We must stop calculating when it comes to doing work for the people. That is my math, and that is our party’s method of economics.” “It just seems like an enormous waste. Filtration could serve the same purpose.”
I could tell that I needed a new approach to convince the official of the wisdom of my plan. “In the south, the Yanks take any Korean women that they want. Did you know that some of these beasts don’t even stop at ravaging them, and even force the woman into marriage?”
He began to gag at the thought, his eyes tearing up at visions of our sisters and daughters beside hook-nosed, sunken-eyed brutes. “I’d hoped those tales were just propaganda,” he said quietly.
“No, it’s the truth. And do you know how they defend their acts? Oh yes, they defend them! They say that it’s not a big deal, that it’s just a drop of ink in the south’s Han River.”
“Not even one drop of ink must be allowed,” the official said with a scowl. “Not that kind of ink, and not in that river.”
“So you see why filtration actually bears a far greater cost than bringing in fresh water.”
He didn’t say another word.
Thus it was decided to spend whatever was necessary to pump in fresh water into the Changgwang Health Complex, without any regard for cost. I even went one step further than the plans originally called for, installing a barbershop and a beauty parlor on the ground floor. These quickly became full of happy customers, who could choose their favorite from no less than thirteen styles of hairdressing.
In fact, that same official was the same one later put in charge of building the Pyongyang Ice Rink. When I insisted that all the stale air be extracted and fresh air pumped in, that no trace of used air must ever be allowed to remain in the ice rink, he didn’t even bat an eye. He knew exactly why I said what I did—and what’s more, this time he completely agreed with me.
I applied this people-first approach to all the new construction, both in Pyongyang and throughout Korea. But even though the people were put first, they themselves were never the first to test a new facility. To ensure maximum safety, I always tested things for myself before allowing any structure to be opened officially. It was very grueling, difficult work, but it was necessary and I was glad to do it.
When I showed up at a shipyard, I pinpointed a number of engineering defects on a ship—and even told the engineers how to remedy them. When I went to a power plant, I ordered a leak in the ceiling to be repaired at once, since the leak was increasing humidity in the room and might cause the workers to contract arthritis. When I went to a workers’ hostel at the Hwanghae Iron Works, I made them switch out the flat pillows for the cylindrical pillows which Korean people like. I even checked the water pitchers as I left, since cold water wasn’t good for the workers’ health. And whenever I visited new apartment complexes, I always looked at the toilets, because the toilet is a barometer of a people’s living standard.
I always spoke with the people themselves on these tours, shaking every farmer’s grimy hand and listening to every housewife. By doing so I both awakened them politically and listened to their concerns. I went everywhere, and my traces linked together would form a comprehensive map of the entire country. In this way I shaped the policies of the Party in a manner that the masses actually desired, just as the President had done. This was why all the people spoke of my “politics of faith” and regarded the government’s work as “our policy.” They worked hard to implement these policies and brought about world-startling miracles as a consequence.
All of this new construction had an enormously positive outcome. As building the ice rink demonstrated, the people increasingly spent less time on labor and had more time to spend on leisure. I couldn’t be happier than to accommodate the masses with wholesome, entertaining attractions. Thanks to my architectural planning, soon the DPRK became known for our plentiful fun fairs.
Building a fun fair (also known as an amusement park) is notoriously expensive. Constructing one costs as much as buying a plant for a big factory. A roller coaster alone is comparable in cost to that of a large public building. For this reason, even rich capitalists rarely have the funds for a complete set of fun-fair rides. They usually first install two to four attractions, earn money with those, and then build some more. In this way fun fairs are built up over the course of a decade or longer in capitalist countries. This is why hardly any fun fairs in the world have a whole set of recreation facilities. But calculations didn’t enter into economic decision-making in the DPRK, which allowed me to provide several complete fun fairs for the masses.
I of course kept up on all new construction in Korea, and one day I was delighted to learn that the Taesongsan Fun Fair was finally complete. That Sunday afternoon I went to make a full inspection, wanting to approve the grounds for opening as quickly as possible. When I arrived at there and took a look around, the scale of my work instantly became clear. I would have to ride every single merrymaking facility to ensure that it was safe. I had no other choice.
One after another, I went from ride to ride and then offered suggestions. When I went on a ride which revolved at a high speed, for example, I advised that it be slowed down and shortened in duration so that old people and children wouldn’t get dizzy. Before I knew it, it had turned to dusk. It started to get a bit chilly as the wind picked up.
“It’s getting late,” noted the park guide. “I’m sure you’re busy. Let me take you to certain selected facilities, instead of riding everything.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’ll feel uneasy unless I make the complete rounds. It’s because I’m so busy that I need to stop at every ride tonight, even if it takes me hours. It would be too hard to find time for me to visit again.”
The guide and all those around us were stunned by my dedication and selflessness. “I’ve never seen such diligence,” he admitted.
“Though I grow tired, the people give me energy. Now, let’s go on Mad Mouse.”
“Mad Mouse! Comrade, Mad Mouse darts, circles and bounces up and down at a very high speed. It’s getting dark, and this is dangerous! Please don’t ride it.”
I laughed. “Nonsense! I won’t feel dizzy in the dark.”
Reluctantly the guide strapped me into the seat. Before he was about to start the ride, the man sidled up to me and spoke into my ear. “What do you think about me riding it as well?”
“I won’t allow you to put yourself in danger,” I insisted. “Now start the ride.”
“I’ve never seen such bravery,” he muttered. With bated breath, many officials watched me take the ride. I could feel their tension as they anxiously followed my path along the winding course. Finally, the ride ended an
d I stepped off.
“Even though it rocks a little,” I said, “it’s fine for younger people. But we must strictly follow the rules to prevent every possible accident.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” said the guide. “Tell me, if it’s fine for young people, is the attraction cleared for the elderly to ride as well?”
I looked back at the course. “That’s a fair question. I hadn’t considered it from that perspective. Well, I’d better ride it again!”
And so I did. Then I rode it one more time. Then I went on the monorail twice, and the carousel three times. Even though it got past midnight, and the work was excruciating, this was how much I cared about the people. By the time I was done, I concluded that every device was faultless. As I returned to my car, exhausted beyond belief from the grueling struggle of that day, I could see the fun-fair officials waving me away. Their eyes were full of tears as they were overwhelmed with admiration. The expressions on their faces made all my difficult work worthwhile.
Only then did I feel comfortable in reconstructing one last thing: myself.
Chapter 13
The Red Balloon
In Korea we say that “clothes are wings,” our equivalent to “clothes make the man.” In the same way that a beautiful container can make eating the food within that much better, so too does a man’s value correspond to his clothing. The effect goes both ways. A man feels most free to act when he wears clothing tailored to his form. Wearing another’s clothes—or the clothing of another nation!—makes a man feel awkward and uncomfortable.
When I was a student, I of course wore the same uniform as the other children. When I worked on the Party Central Committee I stuck to plain four-buttoned suits. I began to dress like the Great Leader around the time that he designated me as his successor, in the People’s Suit with the stand-up collar. It was an homage and a sign of respect—but in this I wasn’t following my own advice.
One day a Party official came to my office to report on the latest construction. “Dear Leader, as you can see—”
“Why do you call me that?” I interrupted.
“My apologies,” he said. “It’s how everyone refers to you, in contrast to the Great Leader, President Kim Il Sung.”
I rolled my eyes. He hadn’t been the first to refer to me in that way, it was true. “Doesn’t ‘comrade’ sound friendlier? Please call me that instead.”
“Of course, comrade.”
But later that day, another Party official came in for a talk, and once again it was the same thing: “Dear Leader” this and “Dear Leader” that. In fact, the man kept referring to me in that way after I’d chastised him. He would catch himself and then apologize, only uneasiness into our discussion. “Tell me,” I said. “Why is your every impulse to refer to me as ‘Dear Leader’?”
He thought about it for a moment. “It’s because your picture hangs alongside that of the Great Leader in my home, and this association encourages me to use the corresponding term of respect.”
I sat there and considered what he’d said. The man was absolutely right. The two standard photographs of President Kim Il Sung and me had us both wearing the People’s Suit. If I ever wanted the masses to view me as a peer, I would need to dress the part. “Do you know what my flower is?” I asked the official.
Now he was absolutely confused as to where these questions were coming from. “I don’t know, comrade.”
“Take a guess.”
The official paused. “If I had to choose, I would say the magnolia, since it’s the national flower of the DPRK.”
I smiled. “That’s a very good guess, I grant you that. But my actual favorite flower is the cotton flower.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say that before.”
“Neither have I, to be fair. I’m assuming you’re fond of roses?” He nodded. “They are lovely, yes.”
“Everyone is fond of roses. They look beautiful. What’s more, they’re surrounded by a wonderful perfume. Now imagine there were a person like a rose. He looks beautiful and always smells nice—but he’s unfaithful to his job and only seeks out personal gratification. Now imagine another person, not so attractive and not having any scent whatsoever. But this second person works very hard, regardless of whether anyone notices. Which of these men would you prefer?”
“The second, of course.”
“That’s precisely right. True beauty lies in working faithfully for one’s country and fellows. ‘Better a good heart than a fair face,’ they say. These two men are like the rose and the cotton flower. Roses contribute nothing of use except their flowers. The cotton flower, on the other hand, is neither fragrant nor ostentatious. The flower bows its head to the ground, as if it were shy and humble—but it leaves behind cotton, which is of huge benefit to the people.”
From that day forward I began to dress more like the cotton flower and less like the rose. I always wore ordinary people’s clothes, regardless of whether I was on a field guidance trip or meeting foreign dignitaries. President Kim Il Sung once said that the plain would always be noble and fashionable, and I couldn’t agree more.
The jumper jacket that I favored became something very closely associated with me, and my outfit was the kind of thing that the people wore themselves. From then on they didn’t feel odd calling me “comrade,” for I was no longer dressed like the Great Leader and in fact was dressed like them. In the past, I used to spend far too much time and effort patching up my People’s Suits—they were subject to constant wear and tear, often getting caught on things, and I was always on the go. Now, my new standard attire was far easier to repair.
What surprised me was how iconic my wardrobe became. In Korea and throughout the world—even in the West—people recognized me in photographs at a glance. Though it hadn’t been my goal, I became known worldwide for my fashion! It became viewed as a unique emblem of the DPRK. No other world leader, no matter what the country or climate, dressed in the same way that I did.
All this gave me something to consider. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I applied these principles to construction? If I built some edifice that would be uniquely Korean, as well as instantly identifiable and immediately world-famous? It would be terrific for Pyongyang’s reputation, to have a concrete symbol of Juche for everyone to admire. I was so thrilled by my new plan that I sat down with several prominent architects in my office— but told them nothing. I decided to make a little game with them, to see if these accomplished men could guess what it was that I had in mind.
“Comrades,” I said, “I intend to put up a tower that will make Pyongyang the glory of the world, more so. Can you figure out what it is that I’m planning?”
These were the best and the brightest, some of them men who’d been engaged in construction for as long as I’d been alive. Yet they all scratched their heads in puzzlement. “Give us a hint,” one said. “Is it to be built in memory of some historical event?”
“No!” I said with a smile.
“I know,” said another. “It’s to commemorate some famous man, one who’s contributed to the progress of mankind.”
“No. Those types of towers have all been done. The tower I’m planning will be something unprecedented in the history of monumental architecture.”
“Something unprecedented...!” they muttered. Now the challenge was infinitely more difficult. How could they guess something that had never been done before? Try as they might, they simply couldn’t think of any possibilities. They soon stopped guessing, eager to hear what it was that I had in mind.
“There’s never been a monument dedicated to a great human thought,” I pointed out. “Comrades, I propose that we build a monument symbolizing the great concept of Juche: the Tower of the Juche Idea.”
They all burst into applause, immediately seeing the wisdom, courage and insight behind my plan. “What a genius!” whispered one architect.
“I’m eager to see what sort of design you come up with,” I said. “I’ll come back next week to examine h
ow you think such a tower should look.” Even though the following seven days were packed with work, I couldn’t help but be distracted by trying to anticipate what the architects would envision. Would the tower be minimal, or would it be ornate? How tall would it be? What material would they suggest that we use? The possibilities were endless—appropriate for a tower that symbolized Juche Korea.
One week later, I met with the architects in my office again. They laid out several plans on my desk, anxiously aware of the importance of what they were designing. At a glance I could see that their schema wouldn’t do. To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. There were so many flaws in each design that I didn’t know if any of them were even salvageable. “For one thing,” I sighed, “we should set the number of layers forming the surface of the tower at seventy, symbolizing the seventieth birthday of the Great Leader.”
“But comrade,” one architect said, “we’re already building the Arch of Triumph for the President’s birthday.”
I shot him a dirty look. Yes, what he said was true. We were already constructing such a monument. But that was still irrelevant. “The Great Leader’s seventieth birthday is literally a unique historical event. We could put up seventy monuments, and still it wouldn’t be enough to honor him and all that he’s done for the Korean nation!”
The man lowered his head, chastened. “You’re absolutely right.”
“We need something symbolizing the light that is Juche,” I said. I thought and thought and thought. The architects thought as well, but of course they were of no help. “I have it! Let’s mount a structure at the top of the tower. Quick, give me a pencil.”
“Here.” They all gathered around to see my addition to the least-bad design.
“The Juche idea,” I said, “is an eternal flame lighting the path ahead for the independence-seeking peoples of the world. We can illustrate this literally, by having an illuminated, torchlight-shaped sculpture capping the tower. Unlike an actual fire, the light of this sculpture will never go out—just like the inextinguishable light of the Juche idea.”
Dear Reader: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Kim Jong Il Page 22
