by Hyeonseo Lee
‘What are Christians?’ she said. ‘I didn’t know, so they kept hitting me.’
The slightest noise, I noticed, of a door closing or of a chair scraping, sent Sun-mi into a bunker in her mind.
On an afternoon toward the end of my first week in the women’s room, Sun-mi was watching a television show I knew she’d been looking forward to. I was reading a book. The Bully entered, sat directly in front of Sun-mi so that she blocked her view of the screen, picked up the remote, and changed channel.
It’s funny how the final straw is invariably a trivial incident.
I heard a voice yelling. It was mine. It was using foul language, which I had never used before in my life, and it was speaking disrespectfully to an older person – also a first. In a scene that still seems unreal, I was directing a torrent of invective at this woman – the worst I could think of, finding within myself a rage I never knew I possessed. The others gaped open-mouthed. The Bully looked diminished, suddenly. I didn’t stop until I was out of breath. In the silence that followed there was just the sound of my panting.
One of the oldest women there turned to her. ‘This is what your behaviour’s earned you. The disrespect of a young person. You’ve been humiliated.’
After two weeks in the women’s room, a guard came for me. It was time for my face-to-face interrogation with a special investigator. I was taken to a windowless cell, and kept in solitary. It was grim, but I was relieved to be by myself. The cell had a wooden desk, two chairs and a metal-frame bed, with a blue woollen blanket and a small white pillow. It was five steps long and four steps wide. A bare bulb cast an anaemic glow; a tiny surveillance camera watched me from one corner. The door was kept locked. Beside it was a telephone that connected me to a young guard who would unlock the door when I needed the bathroom.
On the second morning, a middle-aged man in a suit entered, looked at me, glanced at his file, and left. A minute later, he returned.
‘You’re twenty-eight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your name’s Park Min-young?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your present age is twenty-eight?’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
This man was my interrogator. I wondered why he’d double-checked and looked confused. The information must have been there in his hand.
He asked me to write out my life story in as much detail as I could. Some people submit a thick wad of paper, like an autobiography, he said. This document would form the basis for his questions. He also asked me to draw a map of the part of Hyesan where I had lived. I spent a long time doing this and put in as much detail as I could remember.
Often during the questioning he went silent and stared deep into my eyes, tilting his head slightly as if searching for something. It was unnerving. It crossed my mind that this was some bizarre form of flirting. After what the women had told me about the Thai prison, nothing would have surprised me. I tried to keep a blank face. I didn’t want to give him any ideas.
I remained in solitary for a week. At first, I’d felt intimidated by my interrogator, but after a few days I looked forward to seeing him every morning at nine. He was my only human company. During one of my long afternoons alone, for something to do I practised my Chinese calligraphy, writing down my thoughts and feelings on a couple of pages. I described the oppressive bleakness of the cell walls and stated my conviction that a room was incomplete without a window. Then I screwed the paper up and threw it in the trash can. The next morning, the young guard came into my cell.
‘Did you write this?’ he asked. He was holding my crumpled sheet of paper.
So they’re checking my trash.
‘What does it say?’
‘Just my thoughts and feelings,’ I said. ‘Is that allowed?’
‘Yes,’ he said, surprised. ‘I studied Chinese at university, that’s all. So I tried to read it. I just wondered why you wrote it.’
‘There’s nothing to do.’
Early the next morning, he opened the door and put his head in.
‘It’s snowing. Would you like to see?’
He led me to the bathroom, opened the window, and left me there. It was just before dawn. A bar of gold along the horizon illuminated the underside of the clouds. Snowflakes were floating like goose down, such as I hadn’t seen since I was a young girl. It was far below freezing. Lights burned in every building I could see, and dotted all across the city were glowing red crosses. There are so many hospitals, I thought. (Later I learned that the crosses marked churches, not hospitals. I’d never seen such signs in North Korea or China.) It was magical. I thought of that far-off thundery day in Anju when I’d waited for the lady in black to come down with the rain. ‘If you grab her skirt, she’ll take you back up there with her,’ Uncle Opium had said. I’d been scared stiff she’d carry me away into another realm. In a way, she had. And I was looking at it.
The next day, the interrogator smiled for the first time. The questioning was over, he said. ‘I believe you’re North Korean.’
‘How did you know?’ An enormous grin spread across my face. By now I felt as if I’d known him for months. ‘The women think I’m Chinese.’
He made a modest gesture with his palms. ‘I’ve been vetting people for fourteen years,’ he said. ‘After a while you get a feel for the psychology. I can usually tell when people are lying.’
‘How?’
‘From their eyes.’
I felt my face redden. That explained the lingering eye contact. He hadn’t been flirting at all.
‘Still, you were a curious case,’ he said. ‘You’re in the one per cent that I’ve seen in fourteen years.’
One per cent?
‘First, you’re the only person I’ve met who arrived here easily, by direct flight from where you were living. Second, it took you no time to get here – just a two-hour journey – and, third, you didn’t have to pay any brokers. That’s what I mean. You just jumped on a plane. Was it your idea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re a genius.’ He was quite different now, talkative and friendly. ‘I knew things would go smoothly with you, because you didn’t lie about your age. Most North Koreans do. The old ones claim to be older than they are in order to claim benefits. Young people make themselves younger so that they’re eligible to study for free. But you said you were in your late twenties. When I came to question you, I expected to meet someone in her mid-thirties, but you looked about twenty-one. I thought I had come to the wrong cell so I went back to check. Why would a North Korean who looks twenty-one admit she’s in her late twenties? Because she’s honest, I thought.’
I smiled, but a part of me thought I’d missed a trick here.
The next morning I awoke refreshed. It was the first sleep I’d had without nightmares since I’d arrived at my uncle and aunt’s in Shenyang more than eleven years before.
Chapter 39
House of Unity
With a large group of others I boarded a bus early in the morning for the two-hour drive to Anseong, in Gyeonggi Province. The morning was clear and mild. This was my first proper look at my new country by daylight. The trees were budding with bright green leaf. Within the city, and surrounding it, far into the distance, were many soft green hills, an iconic Korean landscape familiar to me. As the sun rose, one crest of low hills would materialize in the haze; then the row behind it, and then, faintly, the row behind that. Hanawon, which means ‘House of Unity’, was among these hills. It is a facility in the countryside south of Seoul that enrols defectors on a crash course, teaching about the society they’ll soon join. Without the two-month stay there, most North Koreans would not be able to cope. As many discover, freedom – real freedom, in which your life is what you make of it and the choices are your own – can be terrifying.
I was high on optimism. I vowed to myself that I would succeed in this beautiful country, no matter what. I would make it proud of me. I thanked it with all my heart for accepting me.
&nb
sp; The facility is nothing special to look at – a complex of classrooms, dorms, a clinic, dentist, and a cafeteria, all surrounded by a security fence – yet there is probably nowhere else like it in the world. It is a kind of halfway house between universes, between the parallel Koreas. People who’ve crossed the abyss begin to adjust at Hanawon. Few find the transition easy.
We were given an allowance to buy snacks and phone cards. I immediately called Kim. This was the first call I’d been allowed to make since arriving in the South. He shouted with joy when he heard me. As time had dragged on, he’d become seriously worried.
‘I thought they’d sent you back to China,’ he said.
We had a long talk, and when I heard that gentle, relaxed laugh of his my heart swelled. I could not wait to see him.
Next I called Ok-hee. She had arrived by ferry and had been processed much faster than I had. We talked excitedly. She already had an apartment in Seoul, she said, and was going to job interviews.
When I replaced the phone I wanted to jump in the air. My new life was just weeks away.
Later, at the time I had agreed with my mother, I called Hyesan. She gave me the news that Min-ho had a serious girlfriend. Her name was Yoon-ji. My mother said she was very beautiful and from a family of good songbun. Her parents adored Min-ho. This brought a lump to my throat. I was never going to meet his lucky girl.
This complex in Anseong was for women only, and I shared a room with four other girls. I was told that every week the aggressive women I’d been with in the NIS detention room had gone out to meet the bus to see if I was on it. They were so convinced I was Chinese that they’d been taking bets on whether I’d been caught. When I met them again, however, they had softened. I learned that some of them were plagued by guilt over family members they’d left behind, or by memories of terrifying treatment at the hands of the Bowibu. They carried that darkness in them, so strongly that it obscured their hopes for the future. Despite the tight security, some of them obtained alcohol from the outside and would get rolling drunk, for which they were severely reprimanded by the staff at our morning assemblies. In this more lax environment, fights often broke out, too. The Bully was there, but she avoided me.
My nightmares had stopped, but curiously, it was here, in this haven, that many defectors’ ordeals caught up with them, and tormented them in dreams. Some suffered breakdowns, or panic attacks at the thought of the super-competitive job market they were about to enter. Psychologists were on hand to talk to them, and medics too, to tend to chronic, long-neglected ailments.
Many arrivals found it hard to shake off old mentalities. Paranoia, a vital survival tool when neighbours and co-workers were informing on them, prevented them from trusting anyone. Constructive criticism, which everyone needs when learning a new skill, was hard for them to take without feeling accused.
I attended classes on democracy, our rights, the law and the media. We were taught how to open bank accounts, and how to navigate the subway. We were warned to be careful of conmen. Guest lecturers visited. One was a North Korean woman who’d set up a successful bakery in the South. Her self-belief inspired me. Another was a priest who introduced us to the Catholic faith (many defectors embrace Christianity in the South), but his justification for the celibacy of priests and nuns caused much mirth among the women. Another speaker was a kindly policeman called Mr Park who told us what to do in case of emergencies, such as needing an ambulance or reporting a crime.
We also attended some extraordinary history classes – for many at Hanawon, their first dogma-free window onto the world. Most defectors’ knowledge of history consisted of little more than shining legends from the lives of the Great Leader and the Dear Leader. This was when they were told that it was an unprovoked attack from the North, not from the South, that began the Korean War on 25 June 1950. Many rejected this loudly, and outright. They could not accept that our country’s main article of faith – believed by most North Koreans – was a deliberate lie. Even those who knew that North Korea was rotten to the core found the truth about the war very hard to accept. It meant that everything else they had learned was a lie. It meant that the tears they’d cried every 25 June, their decade of military service, all the ‘high-speed battles’ for production they had fought, had no meaning. They had been made part of the lie. It was the undoing of their lives.
We ate three good meals a day, each one different, and everyone put on weight. Eat as much as you like, the staff said. Once you leave here, it may not be so easy to eat well. In fact the instructors warned us that life, generally, would be challenging. It might not be easy to find a job, they said. We’d have bills to pay, and if we didn’t pay them we’d get into debt. This was a source of extreme anxiety for those who owed large sums to brokers, who waited daily for them outside the main gates. The staff gave us the impression that the path to a happy and successful future was winding and obscure. I had hoped to hear: ‘Work hard, do your best, and you’ll succeed.’ They were trying to manage our expectations, but this vague uncertainty made me nervous. Soon I would no longer need to live by my wits. I would have the freedom to shape my own life. But whenever I tried to picture what lay ahead, I saw not clarity but a swirling fog, and hidden in it were unresolved questions to do with my mother, with Min-ho, and with Kim.
To prevent the creation of a North Korean ghetto, the South Korean government disperses defectors to towns and cities all over the country. We can’t choose where we are sent. Ninety-nine per cent would prefer Seoul but, given the shortage of housing, only a few were selected. Each of us was given a grant of 19 million won (about $18,500) for housing expenses.
I desperately hoped to live in Seoul. I thought my best chance of finding a job was there, and it was where Kim lived. I thought of him every day at Hanawon. I daydreamed about him in classes. I tried to picture his apartment in Gangnam, what it would be like to meet his family, his stylish friends, how he spent his Sunday mornings – with espressos, and jazz music, and stock-market news.
My mood plunged, however, when I realized that only ten people out of hundreds would be chosen for an apartment in Seoul. Ten people. So to avoid any accusations of unfairness, Hanawon selected the people destined for Seoul by a transparent lottery of numbers placed in a box. In a packed auditorium, a staff member shook the box, as if it were a game show, and picked out ten numbers. One by one, he called them out: 126, 191, 78, 2, 45 … Each winner threw up her arms, cried with happiness, and was embraced by her friends.
I was only half listening. The whole spectacle depressed me. I was trying to imagine where else I might get sent in the country.
201, 176, 11 …
The man was looking around the auditorium. ‘Eleven? Who has it?’
The west coast wouldn’t be so bad.
‘Eleven? Come on.’
A memory came to me of a summer on the beach near Anju, and my father telling me how the moon made the tide go out.
I felt a sharp pain in my arm. The woman next to me had poked me. She was pointing at the number in my hand. ‘Eleven – that’s you.’
Chapter 40
The learning race
I was met off the bus by Mr Park, the smiling policeman who’d taught us about personal security at Hanawon. ‘You’ve moved to my neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘I’m here to help.’ He was in his early forties and was from the Security Division of the National Police Agency. His calm authority reminded me a little of my father. He helped me find my feet, and to do the paperwork to apply for my South Korean ID and passport. Mr Park remains one of the most warm-hearted people I have ever met in South Korea.
My new home was a small, unfurnished, two-room apartment in the Geumcheon district of southwest Seoul, near Doksan Subway Station. I was on the thirteenth floor of a twenty-five-storey block. It had a view of similar blocks and the street. There was a large hill behind it. This was not an affluent neighbourhood.
Red Cross volunteers had shown me to my apartment. When they said goodbye, and my metal
door closed, echoing down the corridor with a clang, I was alone. Not in hiding, but free. I stood at the window for a long time, watching life go by below, and the shadows of the buildings lengthen as the sun moved into the west. I didn’t know what to do, I realized. I could go out and buy a mattress and a television and watch soaps all day; I could let laundry and unwashed dishes pile up; I could stand here and wait for summer to turn to autumn, and autumn to winter. The world would not interfere. Freedom was no longer just a concept. Suddenly, I felt panicked. It was so frightening and unsettling that I called Ok-hee and asked if I could stay at her apartment that night.
Ok-hee was very relieved to see me. After we’d embraced and congratulated ourselves on achieving our dream, we sat on the floor and ate instant noodles. Her own experiences since arriving in Seoul made a sobering story. Despite living for years in Shanghai, as I had, Ok-hee was not finding life here easy. She told me of an experience she’d just had after a job interview. The interviewer told her that he would call her to let her know the company’s decision. After days without hearing, she phoned the company and was told that they hadn’t called because it was impolite to reject someone directly.
North Koreans pride themselves on their directness of speech, an attitude that had been encouraged by Kim Jong-il himself. Foreigners are often taken aback by the bluntness of North Korean diplomats. Ok-hee’s experience was the first hint I got that the two Koreas had diverged into quite separate cultures. Worse was to come. After more than sixty years of division, and near-zero exchange, I would find that the language and values I thought North and South shared had evolved in very different directions. We were no longer the same people.
The next day Kim flew home from Shanghai and came straight to my apartment. I melted when I saw him. It had been three months. We spent a long time simply hugging, pressing our faces together, whispering how much we’d missed each other. I’d missed his touch, his fragrance, his calming voice. He’d grown his hair longer. If it were possible, he was more handsome than he was before.
