by Hyeonseo Lee
Min-ho said he’d help Omma get into China, but that he was staying behind. Yoon-ji’s mother worked for the Bowibu, he said. He believed this would protect him. The family could be trusted with our secret.
There was nothing more I could say. It was clear that Min-ho felt strongly about this girl.
I started to plan. My first step was to contact the Reverend Kim, a middle-aged Protestant pastor whose organization demonstrated in Insa-dong, a popular market area of Seoul, every Saturday for North Korean human rights. Rowdy demonstrations are part of everyday life in Seoul. Any time I’d go downtown I’d see a lone protester outside a government building with a placard advertising his grievance, or workers with slogans on their headbands singing songs and punching the air. The first time I saw them I was amazed – citizens here could shout out their complaints without being arrested and publicly executed.
Using his contacts in China, Reverend Kim had helped hundreds of people escape. His specialty was shepherding defectors through the southwestern Chinese city of Kunming and over the border into Vietnam, from where they could make their way to the South Korean embassy.
The journey across China is more than 2,000 miles and takes a week. It is dangerous, so much so that some escapers carry poison with them to kill themselves if they’re caught, rather than face the consequences of being returned to the North. As South Korea does not wish to antagonize China by accepting North Korean asylum seekers at its embassy in Beijing and its consulates throughout China, it colludes with the Chinese authorities in keeping them away. Even if a defector makes it through an embassy gate, that person may have a very long wait. Some have waited seven years before China has granted permission for them to leave.
I found Reverend Kim on the sidewalk at one of his Saturday protests. Over the noisy chanting of a sit-down demonstration he told me that my mother would have to cross the Yalu River by herself, but that he could guide her from that point onward. It would cost $4,000. Alternatively, she could make her own way across China to Kunming and be guided from there to the South Korean embassy in Vietnam. That would cost $2,000. She would be in the hands of a Chinese broker arranged by him. I thanked him, and took his phone number, but I had a sinking feeling.
Brokers.
That evening I mulled this over in my apartment. Kim called and asked what I’d done with my day. I opened my mouth to tell him, and changed my mind. He would not understand. He would tell me it was insanely dangerous, and wonder why I wasn’t content to let things be. He understood little about North Korea. It was the same with his friends – most of them did not want to think about the North, let alone talk about it. I would see a shutter come down behind their eyes if I mentioned it. The North was their mad uncle in the attic. A subject best avoided.
I had hoped Reverend Kim could somehow avoid using brokers, but I knew that even humanitarian organizations had to rely on some unsavoury characters at local level. As these brokers were breaking the law and their motivation was money, they were seldom trustworthy or pleasant. If a situation turned dangerous, they’d vanish like morning mist and leave their clients in the hands of the police, or worse. I would never forgive myself if that happened to my mother; if she were returned to the North. After talking it over with Ok-hee, I decided to use the broker only for the very final part of the journey – getting out of China.
I would go to Changbai, and meet my mother on the riverbank. I would guide her across China to Kunming myself.
Chapter 42
A place of ghosts and wild dogs
I pressed the bell feeling that familiar flutter of nerves. Suddenly I was seventeen again, standing outside this very door, at the start of my adventure. I shivered. It was much colder in northern China than it was in Seoul. I was wearing a thick, hooded sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers, and carried all my stuff in a backpack. I heard someone coming, and a latch jangling.
‘My goodness,’ my aunt said, looking me up and down. ‘You’ve changed. You were only a girl when I saw you last.’
The difference in her appearance surprised me, too. She had become an old lady, thin and stooped, with swollen, rheumatic fingers. It immediately made me think how much older my mother must have become.
My aunt invited me in. She had redecorated the apartment, and showed me around. The guitar was still in my old room. My uncle was away on business, she said.
I had long repaid the debt I owed him, and had stayed in touch. I hoped time had healed the hurt I’d caused all those years ago when I’d fled this place to avoid marrying Geun-soo. I’d heard that he’d married, and was glad for him. It had released me from my penance never to marry. I wondered whether he had provided his fearsome mother with the grandchildren she’d wanted. I didn’t dare ask.
My aunt was warm and welcoming. It was clear that all was forgiven, if not forgotten. I was relieved, because I needed her help again. And it was a big favour to ask.
‘My ID card?’ She was taken aback.
I lowered my eyes. ‘I’ll mail it back to you in two weeks’ time.’
For my plan to work, I needed to borrow a genuine Chinese ID that my mother could use. When I explained this, my aunt laughed. I was grateful for that laugh.
‘Well … I suppose so.’
I had timed everything finely, and couldn’t stay long at my aunt’s. Having taken her ID, I told her apologetically that I had to leave immediately. She shook her head, gave me 500 yuan (about $75), and wished me all the luck in the world. Within an hour I was on an overnight coach to Changbai.
I stowed my aunt’s ID carefully in my wallet. I had enough cash with me for the broker’s fee, for food, accommodation and travel. The money was the last of my savings from Shanghai. I’d been living off that and my small monthly stipend of 350,000 won ($320) from the South Korean government.
It was now the end of September 2009. All going well, in two weeks’ time I would be back in Seoul, and my mother – a shudder of apprehension and excitement ran through me – my dear omma would be safe in the South Korean embassy in Ho Chi Minh City, claiming asylum. This meant I would still have enough time to take the entrance exams and attend interviews at any universities that had accepted my application for the 2010 academic year beginning the following spring.
Mr Park the policeman had warned me to be extremely wary. ‘Tell nobody you’re a defector.’ There had been cases of Chinese police handing defectors over to the Bowibu even though they were travelling on valid South Korean passports. So as soon as I’d passed through immigration at Shenyang, I hid my South Korean passport and took out my old Chinese ID. This made me feel safer.
It was 3 a.m. by the time I arrived in Changbai. I checked into a two-star hotel to make preparations. Once Min-ho had brought my mother across, my plan was to have a few days’ vacation with them both before Min-ho returned to Hyesan. To help them blend in as Chinese I bought some trousers for him, and some colourful, good-quality clothes for my mother, who would have to throw away any North Korean-made items.
I went to several hotels in the town to see which would be safest, and decided on the Changbai Binguan, the hotel with the largest lobby, and where we wouldn’t have to walk past the reception desk every time we came and went. It was also the most expensive hotel in town, and the last place Chinese police or Bowibu agents would expect to find an escaped North Korean. I checked in the next day and took a room with two double beds.
Min-ho had confirmed the plan – he would bring our mother over the next evening between 7 and 8 p.m. He told me where on the river they would cross. I knew the spot: there was a derelict house on the Chinese side.
My mother had prepared her departure ingeniously. If she had done what most escaping families did – leave everything and disappear – the authorities would come after Min-ho. But she also knew that if she sold the house, the authorities would still want to know where she’d gone. Either way, Min-ho would be questioned. To pre-empt this, she sold her house and told the city authorities that she was moving to Hamhung. Howeve
r, instead of registering her residency in Hamhung, she bribed a hospital doctor there to file her death certificate and funeral documents. If the Bowibu investigated, it would appear as if she had died en route to Hamhung.
At 6.15 p.m. next evening, I began to get ready. I was frightened yet strangely exhilarated, my senses sharpened, my body tense with nervous energy. I set my phone to silent, dressed myself entirely in black, picked up the bag in which I’d put the new clothes for my mother and Min-ho, and walked calmly and purposefully through the hotel lobby. Outside I hailed a cab and directed the driver to take me to the point where the town ended, about 200 yards from the river. There, at the end of a row of low buildings, was the derelict house among the trees. I crouched down behind an old garden wall, and waited. The place was cold and damp and smelled of mouldering leaves and animal droppings. I peeped over the wall and saw North Korean border patrols passing on the opposite bank. In the half-tones beneath the trees, I felt camouflaged.
The sunset looked ominous, a palette of murky reds and yellows. On the other side of the water Hyesan seemed lifeless, a city dug from rock, or an intricate cemetery. A place of ghosts and wild dogs. I felt no nostalgia for it. Only defiance. I dare you not to give me my mother.
An icy breeze lifted swirls of leaves, and sent wavelets lapping across the surface of the river. If I hadn’t felt so alive with nerves and excitement I would have found somewhere warmer to wait. It was too cold to stand still.
Not long now. I’m about to meet my omma again. I could hardly believe this was happening.
Min-ho had told me he would lead her waist-high through the water, and help her up one of the ladders on the Chinese bank. The water must be freezing.
I checked the time on my phone every minute for an hour.
At 8 p.m. there was still no sign of them. A keening cry from a night bird made me jump.
A quarter of an hour later, night had fallen like a cloud of ash. I could see nothing on the other side of the river. The power was out in Hyesan.
The blood was no longer circulating in my hands and feet. The temperature was dropping by the minute. I didn’t know whether my teeth were chattering from cold or panic. Where are they?
Another hour went by.
Then out of the darkness someone called: ‘Ya!’
My heart went into overdrive. Along the North Korean bank a beam of light was bouncing on the dirt track. Border guards, patrolling in pairs, greeting another patrol. They were passing every two minutes. I didn’t remember there being so many guards. They were just fifty yards away from me. I could hear their conversation.
One patrol had a dog, which turned its head toward me and barked, setting off a dozen other dogs. A memory came to me, long suppressed, of seeing blood on the ice one morning. A failed escape. I put my hands to my ears. If the dogs would stop barking—
My phone was buzzing.
Min-ho’s voice was fast and tense.
‘We’ve had a problem.’
Chapter 43
An impossible dilemma
Quickly, Min-ho explained that just as he and my mother had been about to cross, they had walked straight into a border guard. Luckily he was someone Min-ho did business with. The guard told him there was a general alert out for a high-ranking family from Pyongyang who were attempting to escape this very night. There were extra guards all along the river, he said, as well as Bowibu agents. The whole area was in lockdown. The guard then asked Min-ho to stay a while and keep him company while he kept a lookout. At that moment, my mother had said good night, and had walked away.
Min-ho said he and my mother would try again to cross just before dawn.
I returned to Changbai. It was now midnight. The town was deserted and, alone in the dark, I felt exposed. I was too nervous to sleep, so I found an all-night diner. I ordered a bowl of bean-paste stew and went over what Min-ho had said. I couldn’t believe this. I had picked the worst possible night of the year to bring my mother across, and it was already going horribly wrong. I willed myself to stay calm, and to think clearly. In a few hours everything will be all right. I couldn’t finish the stew. I went back to the hotel and tried to doze for a while in my clothes.
I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew the phone was buzzing next to my face.
‘We’ll be there at six,’ Min-ho said. I jumped off the bed. Minutes later, as I was in the taxi, he called again. ‘We’re across. We’re hiding in the derelict house.’
I was elated. I had not seen my dear mother in eleven years, nine months, and nine days. Now I was minutes away from her. I asked the driver to wait, and walked across the rough ground toward the riverbank.
The sky to the east was turning a faint duck-egg blue. Then, there, about fifty yards ahead, next to the derelict house, I made out the silhouettes of two figures. They were walking at a crouch, coming toward me.
My omma. In the half-light I saw a strained, old face, and a body moving very stiffly. Min-ho was behind her, protective and guiding with his arm around her.
I ran to meet them, but there was no time for a reunion. ‘We have to go,’ I said.
We were exposed, between the river and the town. At daybreak the Chinese border guards would start patrolling. The taxi driver, who I hoped was waiting out of sight on the road, might have got out and been watching. He could report us.
I pulled out the clothes I had brought for them. ‘Put these on. Over what you’re wearing. Quick.’ Once they were dressed I led them towards the taxi. ‘Act normal, but don’t speak. He’ll think you’re locals.’
We got into the taxi. In case the driver reported us, I asked him to take us to a different hotel. We sat in silence for the ten-minute ride. I paid the fare. It wasn’t customary to tip but I didn’t ask for the change. We got out and, once he’d driven away, walked to the Changbai Binguan. It was so early that no one was around. The lobby was empty and the sole receptionist was engrossed in her cellphone. Once I had put my mother and brother in the elevator and told them to go to the room, I went over to the desk.
‘Hey there,’ I said, sounding casual. ‘The lady’s with me. I’ll bring her ID when we come down for breakfast. The man’s not staying. He’ll go soon.’
‘Fine,’ she said, stifling a yawn.
I closed the hotel room door behind me. For a moment we looked at each other. Half a lifetime had passed since the three of us had been together. No one could speak. Then my mother broke down, and all her tension released. I held her. A lump rose to my throat. I had never felt such extremes of joy and sadness at the same time. She was weeping uncontrollably. Over her shoulder, Min-ho’s face looked immensely sad. He’d shared her pain all these years. And soon he would say goodbye to her and probably never see her again. We stepped back to stare at each other, taking in the changes in our faces, the ravages of time. My mother looked helpless and frail. My mind still held the image of her face the night I’d last seen her. She was forty-two then, and a woman of so much energy she could hardly sit still. Now she was fifty-four, but she looked much older. She was far thinner than I remembered, and her mouth was drawn and lined.
They were both different. Min-ho was a grown man. I could see the strength in his shoulders and arms. Eight years had passed since that brief reunion with him at Mr Ahn’s house, cut short by the gang. He kept his feelings bottled up, as our father had, but his eyes brimmed with tears at the sight of our mother’s distress. Her hands were shaking, touching my face, then touching her own face, then mine again.
‘Omma,’ I said. She saw the concern in my eyes.
‘I’ve aged twelve years in the last twelve hours,’ she said.
I laughed and hugged her again. She’d always made fun of her own appearance. As I held her I suddenly remembered the clothes she had on underneath were icy and soaking wet.
They were both visibly more relaxed after a hot shower, but I was back in worry mode. We were not safe. I had to stay in control, and be vigilant. By far the most dangerous part of the plan la
y ahead.
‘Why are you so spotty?’ my mother said, as if no time had passed. It was exactly the comment she would have made when I was seventeen. The stress of the preparations had wreaked havoc with my complexion. ‘If I’d known I’d have brought bingdu for you.’ Crystal meth.
‘I don’t think so, Omma.’
‘It’s great for your skin. Mix it with water, wash your face with it, and it’ll clear up in no time.’
‘I use it for night driving,’ Min-ho said.
There was no point debating this with them now. Two separate worlds were colliding in this room. Min-ho had put on the new jeans and top I’d bought for him. He looked handsome. My brother. I did not want to think about our imminent goodbye.
None of us had been to bed, but no one felt like sleeping. I wanted to know what had happened last night. After they’d run into the border guard on the riverbank, my mother had gone to wait at a friend’s house nearby. Min-ho had kept the guard company for a few hours, then gone back to Yoon-ji’s house, where he’d been living with her and her parents prior to the marriage. The wedding plans were under way, but a date had not yet been set.
‘You should have stayed together,’ I said, looking at both of them.
‘I couldn’t let Yoon-ji know I was helping Omma escape,’ Min-ho said. If their relationship ever went sour, this fact could be fatal for him. ‘If we’d come over last night, I was just going to call her and say I was here on business and would be back in a day or two. She was still asleep when I left this morning. I wrote her a note.’
Two guards had been patrolling when Min-ho had returned to the riverbank with my mother just before dawn. They asked him who the woman was. He told them she was a client meeting someone in China, and would be coming back.
