by Suki Kim
I returned to the Sunday service although Ruth had told me not to participate in communion, which took place only occasionally, for some reason. Afterward, at lunch, a student asked, “What did you do this morning?” I stumbled for a moment and answered, “Well, a teachers’ meeting.” My breath felt caught.
“You have meetings on Sundays too?” Their eyes widened. “Where? In the dormitory?”
Everything on campus was visible from all angles and, just as we wondered what went on when they as a group were not visible for a few hours, they must have wondered the same about us. I answered, as truthfully as I could, that we sometimes met to discuss small details like the teachers’ trips, and how much to pay and who was going. They nodded, although they did not seem convinced.
The temperature was dropping every day. On some days, my fingers were too numb to hold the chalk while teaching. We all wore winter coats all the time, even in the classrooms. I still had to wear a skirt, so I doubled up on tights. Now that it was almost Thanksgiving time back home, I was even more homesick, though I had grown up celebrating Chuseok, the Korean Harvest Day, not Thanksgiving, and I did not eat turkey. At some meals, the students tried to distract me with funny stories, almost as if they could sense my spirit sinking.
One evening, Chang Min-su, a bumbling student from one of my groups, told me about his older sister’s impending wedding. She was twenty-seven and worked at the swimming pool at Changgangwon. She had met her fiancé in college, and he also worked there. An amateur boxer, he was a very nice man but with a “terrible appearance,” which Min-su proceeded to describe in minute detail: the man was short and fat; his nose was so big that it took up his entire face; his mouth was positioned too low, at the bottom of his chin; and his eyes were slivers, set too far apart. Worst of all, his eyebrows were so faint that they were virtually missing. The first time he saw him, Min-su said, he was appalled because he had never seen a man with missing eyebrows. This man would wait for Min-su’s sister in front of their house every morning; his sister was very pretty since she had had plastic surgery on her eyes and nose.
So far, several students had mentioned that plastic surgery was not uncommon, and one of the older professors who had worked with North Koreans for a long time told me that the local women described plastic surgery as a sort of reward that their government granted some women to enhance their looks. On previous visits, I had often noticed women in Pyongyang who looked as though they had had double-eyelid surgery, the most common cosmetic surgery in South Korea.
Another student, Park Se-hoon, then burst into a story about his girlfriend. During the summer, they had all insisted that they had none, but the barriers between us were breaking down. He said that he had had a girlfriend at his former university, who was very sad when he left for PUST, but now he had a new girlfriend, supposedly thanks to the homework paper I had assigned on “how to successfully get a girl.” He had remembered the lesson, and during the vacation, he had met a girl at the Grand People’s Study House, where they saw each other every day. The other students laughed and said he was joking, but he was emphatic. She was pretty and a student at Pyongyang’s Foreign Language University, and she was enamored with him because his English was better than hers, and because she found him very handsome. I told him that I was impressed that he had been able to find a girlfriend in the short time he had at home. The other students began laughing hysterically and said, “This guy is very talented in girl catching!”
It was Hong Mun-sup’s birthday that day, and the students planned to gather at 7:30 p.m. in one of the dorm rooms to celebrate. Everyone, with the exception of the six on duty, would take turns singing a song for Mun-sup, and then they would all gather in a TV room and watch their Chinese drama. I asked Mun-sup what his mother usually gave him for his birthday, and he said teddy bears. He had about ten of them. Another student, Kim Yong-suk, said that his parents gave him a watch for each birthday; however he was very forgetful and had managed to lose every single one. Finally, his father stopped buying them. On his last birthday, his father said, “I would rather give a dog a watch than you!” He then said that his mother had bought dog meat from the market and made him his favorite meal, dog-meat soup. Another said that his mother gave him filleted cat meat to put on his skin to ease sore muscles. They were thrilled by gross descriptions. They knew I did not care much for meat, and they watched me to see if I would turn queasy at the details, until finally I said, “Okay, enough, I get it!” At this, everyone at the table would burst out laughing.
Then, out of nowhere, Chang Min-su asked, “Are Americans racist?” He said he had read a mention of it in a textbook and worried that perhaps white Americans treated me badly since I did not look like them. I paused, not due to my usual fear about getting anyone in trouble, but because it was a complicated question. He was genuinely curious, and I had a lot to say on the topic. However, before I could answer, he continued, “What about dark people?” He meant African-Americans. They had never seen any ethnicity but their own until they arrived at PUST, where there were white teachers but no black teachers, so it was a very abstract concept for them. I was impressed that he would wonder about such a thing after spending a relatively short time with foreign teachers, but Mun-sup quickly hushed him. “Boring! Please change the topic. That has nothing to do with our lives.”
It was always like this; immediately the discussion was dropped. But scraps of new information stayed with them, partly because they were young, but also because so little happened to them. For example, a student asked, “Is J. K. Rowling a famous writer?”
Then another: “Is Hogwarts a nice place?”
And another: “Quidditch does sound fun!”
It sounded as though they had read the book or seen the movies, but of course neither was possible. Apparently the story had been mentioned ever so briefly in one of their textbooks from the previous spring, but they remembered it vividly. I began to fantasize about showing them one of the Harry Potter movies. So I could not believe my luck when Martha mentioned that she had with her a copy of the third film. I was thrilled. We had scheduled a movie day for the entire freshman class after their final exam, and I suggested we get the Harry Potter movie approved by the counterparts and show it to the students.
Unfortunately, Ruth overheard our conversation and informed me that the teachers had already chosen The Chronicles of Narnia. I suggested making it a double feature and adding Harry Potter or, better yet, just swapping them. Ruth said no. Narnia had been chosen for its Christian message, she explained. Some teachers did not agree with the message of Harry Potter. Besides, she felt that Harry Potter would be the first thing the students would be exposed to when their country opened up. I brought it up with Mary, who also told me that my wish was an impossibility.
“Movies are influential. The counterparts might not have a problem with Harry Potter, but we do. There’s a reason why Narnia was chosen. He says so,” she said, motioning toward the ceiling.
Any new information had to go through two sets of gatekeepers. What I saw as pop culture the missionaries saw as heresy, and so might the counterparts, so whatever information reached the students was doubly censored. But it seemed strange that their Lord did not like Harry Potter but had allowed the story to spread around the world faster than just about any in modern history.
AS LIGHT AS some of those exchanges with the students were, or perhaps because of the joy we shared, I would feel heavier than ever as I put the metal tray away and walked down the cold, dark enclosed walkway to the teachers’ dormitory. It felt as though any ray of hope that had shone over us in those moments was being shut off with each step away from them. Upon reaching my room, I would reflect upon my day with the students, going over each detail, writing it down, and would be struck by a gnawing feeling, a disturbing, almost physical sensation that something was deeply wrong.
Being in North Korea was profoundly depressing. There was no other way of putting it. The sealed border was not just at the 38t
h parallel, but everywhere, in each person’s heart, blocking the past and choking off the future. As much as I loved those boys, or because of it, I was becoming convinced that the wall between us was impossible to break down, and not only that, it was permanent. This so saddened me that some frozen dawns, when I woke up to the sound of the boys doing their group exercises, I had to fight not to shut my eyes and go back to sleep.
24
“I FEEL LIKE THE DAYS ARE JUST ABOUT WAITING,” A STUDENT said at dinner. They rarely expressed their feelings, and I felt exactly as he did, so I said, “Me too.”
“Professor Kim Suki feels that way too?” he exclaimed. He seemed surprised that I commiserated.
I nodded. “What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“To see my mother and father, of course!” he said, breaking into a big smile.
They were also anxious about their studies. They were to continue with only English lessons until the arrival of science and technology teachers. By then, it would be one and a half years of a break in their studies since they were first brought to PUST. “I am worried,” a student confessed. “I don’t know if it is okay to stop studying my major for that long.”
For the last writing assignment of the semester, I told them to write a letter to anyone. I was giving them a break after a recent five-paragraph essay assignment, which they had found too difficult, and I was also giving myself a break, since reading and marking those essays on topics such as banning cell phone use and cigarette smoking had been so tedious. I had been afraid that another assignment would put them off writing forever, but surprisingly they seemed happy with it. Once I read them, I could see why.
Many wrote to their mothers. They were heartfelt letters. One wrote:
Dear mother, the faster the days elapse, the more I miss you. But this takes a toll on my studying so I try to avoid feeling homesick. I look at your picture every night before bed, and I want to make you proud.
Some wrote that on Sundays, they kept photos of their mothers with them all day for strength as they did their duties. Some talked about their fears of failing to master English and bringing shame to their families. The contents of these letters were similar, but they rang with the same truth. The boys were lonely and scared.
Those who wrote to their friends were uncharacteristically open about their frustrations. “I am fed up,” one wrote. “I know you are working at the construction site. I feel bad for complaining about my life but I am fed up with my daily routine. I get up at the same time, eat at the same time, leave our room only to learn English. I get stressed about grades.” Another wrote, “I study only English and I am forgetting basic algorithm.”
Several talked about essay writing to their friends:
“I am not learning our subject but instead learning a lot of English. Do you know what ‘essay’ is?”
“One of the most difficult challenges is to pass the writing exam and win over our Reading and Writing teacher Kim Suki with my essay. Essay in English is completely different from writing in Korean. When I first began to write them, I did not think I could finish one because writing an essay was very confusing to me. But the more I learned, the more attractive I felt to essays, and through essays I could change peoples’ mind.”
“Here there are many good professors, but one in particular, Kim Suki, is very close to me. She taught us essays. I consider writing essays is climbing a peak of mountain everyone is afraid of climbing.”
Some wrote to their friends at the construction sites, using the address of the sites: “I am afraid that it is too exhausting for you at the building site on Mansudae Avenue. I think about you, dear friend, all the time.”
“In August, you showed me the video in which the buildings were flattened down with a loud explosion. It was a wonderful scene. Now you are building a modern teaching building there. I am sorry I cannot work with you.”
“Now that the winter is getting worse, it must be difficult at the construction site, and you may come down with a cold. Remember you are one person to the world but to me you are the world.”
In their letters to friends and families, they referred to the last time they had met, which was often more than a year ago. They apologized for not being in touch, referring to events they had missed, such as birthdays. But they never mentioned that they were not allowed to write. Instead, they blamed themselves:
“I thought of you, dear mother, on your birthday. I am sorry I could not write, but you know how I am a lazy boy.”
“I am sorry I could not call you on your birthday, my friend, I had too much English homework.”
“I am sure you never thought you would not hear from me for three years. I don’t know if you are ill or how you are living. You will be surprised to receive this letter from me tomorrow, and I am sorry for not writing, but I was busy with exams.”
Some either wrote to their girlfriends or referred to them in their letters. One wrote about her beautiful appearance and how he missed her and longed to see her during the winter vacation. Another wrote to his friend about his girlfriend: “My girlfriend who is very active likes to go bowling. What does your girlfriend, whose nickname is Talkative Sparrow, like? Please send my regards to my fabulous angel.”
Another student wrote to his best friend, who had been dating his sister and had just broken up with her. His letter described a romance between two people who had known each other for a long time, ending when the boy broke up with her for something silly and she was very hurt. He told his friend to forgive her so that when he came home for the winter break, he would be able to see the couple smile. I knew that he was an only child and had no sister, so this seemed to be a veiled letter to his ex-girlfriend about their own situation.
The most detailed one was by a student whose spoken English was not as good as the others’. He was quiet and rarely participated in class, so I was surprised when he handed me a very long letter, saying that it was a secret:
I was sixteen when I first met you. You were fourteen. I taught you math at your home, and your parents were happy. Then you moved away and I did not know how to find you until you called me one day to tell me that you were taking the exam for the university. I then called you every day to see if you passed. Then I tempted you to come out, and we met often, I walked you home, then you walked me home. The last time we met at the skating rink and had a fight. I am sorry. Next time when I come home, I will do what you want. You can teach me Russian. I will teach you English. Big ship leaves slowly, so wait for me.
He added a postscript—“Professor Kim Suki, she is a real person”—then wrote down her name.
One wrote to his brother in the army whom he had not seen in three years. Another wrote to Katie about Sports Day and how all the students had fun but thought of her well-being. “We ran together with you in our hearts,” he wrote.
Despite their guardedness, what came out in those letters was astoundingly tender and deeply earnest. “I am so glad at this chance to write down what is on my mind,” several wrote. This prison-like life was really getting to them. They were cut off from everyone to whom they could express themselves. These letters, which they knew would never reach the recipients, were their only outlet, and although it was in a language that was not theirs and only for homework that would be graded, they embraced the assignment as though the letters were real. And not one mentioned the Great Leader or the “powerful and prosperous nation.”
Then I came upon a troubling letter addressed to me. It was from Kang Sun-pil, who explained, in great detail, that he had come by during office hours a few weeks ago to show me his homework assignment about kimjang, and that I had glanced at it and told him that it was “okay.” But when he received his paper back, he saw that he had gotten only 87 points. He considered this a betrayal. Part of the letter read:
I felt disappointed and felt as if you are changeable and deceived me. After that, I lost my temper for several days because of regret. Of course it is not acceptable to criticize a profess
or, according to grades. And I thought it is not appropriate to ignore the respect and expectation of a student. You think I am rude to you and criticizing you but I don’t want to deceive you and pretend to feel happy … Even though you think I am not a gentleman, I want to write honestly.
Instead of closing with “sincerely,” he wrote, in Korean: From a student who once respected you.
Sun-pil, one of the highly ranked students, was nervous that he might lose his place. From an early age, he had been selected for Number One schools. I could almost never read his feelings so I was surprised by his highly emotional letter. Also, he had signed his name in Korean for an English class assignment, which was not allowed. From then on, he stopped meeting my eyes or making any effort in class. Finally, I asked him to come see me during an office hour.
As expected, he came with his buddy, Shin Dong-hyun. He sat there, visibly upset, and the mood was tense. But other students came in with questions and acted as if he weren’t there. Suddenly they all seemed to have blocked him out.
“Why don’t we wait until you answer all their questions?” he said to me quietly.
Once everyone was gone, and it was just me and him and his buddy, we began to talk, or rather I began to talk. I told him that I understood that he felt betrayed because he thought I was “changeable” but I found his accusation hurtful since I did not intentionally deceive him. He sat quietly without a word. Dong-hyun just stood by the door as though he did not hear us. I could see that Sun-pil was nearly in tears.
“I would like your permission to speak in Korean,” he said finally.
