Aquariams of Pyongyang

AQUARIUMS OF PYONGYANG

His story - which is equally the story of my family and of all those who leapt so confidently into the maw of misfortune - mostly demonstrates the force of human illusion and its awesome power to render us utterly blind. I have since learned that at other latitudes and at other times, the same Communist powers created similar traps for making people believe and hope in illusions. This led to the misery of countless peoples: in France, in America, in Egypt, and perhaps most notably, in Armenia. Tens of thousands died there in 1947 under the spell of Stalin's propaganda, which had painted the Soviet Socialist Republic of Armenia as the land of milk and honey. The Soviets allowed that much remained to be done and that everyone would have to roll up their sleeves, but it also promised that the ancestral culture and religion would be respected and that the newcomers would shortly see a new generation rise and flourish in social justice. pg 24

One of them came up to my uncle. "What happened?" he asked. "We sent our friends and family letters warning people not to come! Why didn't your family listen?" My uncle turned suddenly pale. My father stepped forward and answered in his place, asking the young man how long he'd been in the North. "A few months," he answered, "but that's long enough to understand." My father insisted that the Chosen Soren had hidden nothing of the difficulties and challenges involved in building the country. "But its just propaganda," responded his interlocutor. "You're not going to build a new life here; your parents will be stripped of all their belongings, then left to die. You'll soon find out what these North Korean Communists are all about." pg 25

Newly arrived and still unfamiliar with what passed for good behavior, I was overanxious to win the teacher's good graces and demonstrate my superiority over the rest of the class. Perhaps the other kids in the room really were bad eggs, but I certainly wasn't. My grandmother had been a member of the National Assembly, and my grandfather had given his entire fortune to the Party. To show I was one of Kim Il-Sung's good soldiers, I kept asking questions and putting in my 2 cents whenever possible.
What a mistake! As the teacher was lecturing about the Nambodu conference and Kim Il-Sung's brilliant speech of April 27th, 1936, I became aware that he was confusing the circumstances surrounding this address with the intrigues of the Dahongdan conference. I raised my hand and asked him about the possible confusion. The man with the revolver walked over with a heavy step and slapped me hard across the face. There was a burst of laughter in the room. The new guy had just got his first lesson. I was terror stricken - though more outraged than sad, more hate-filled than despairing. I decided that I would do everything in my power to undermine that vile brute who was passing himself off as a teacher. I would do like the others and sit there without saying a word. Yet my silent compact would prove a weak palliative against the lasting pain of that episode. In receiving that slap I grasped that my life had fallen in a "nasty place" to recall the phrase of my former Pyongyang comrade. pg 66

The Wild Boar treated us more like animals than children - which, he never failed to remind us, was already a considerable indulgence on his part: "Since your parents are counterrevolutionaries, they deserve to die, and you, their children, along with them. Fortunately for you, the Party is kind and its Great Leader magnanimous. He has granted you a reprieve and the chance to redeem yourselves. You should be grateful, but instead you commit further offenses! Commit too many and you wil not be forgiven!" WE would all lower our eyes, wishing for our torturer's death. Boys and girls were equal beneficiaries of his undiscriminating brutality and his favorite punishment, which consisted of ordering a student down on all fours and making him or her crawl in front of the class saying, "I'm a dog... I'm a dog..." pg 69

My father, uncle and sister seemed as exhausted as I. When we returned to our hut at night and sat around the little low table eating our corn, hardly anyone said a word. As soon as we were done eating, we hurried off to bed, knowing instinctively that to survive here, we'd need to recuperate all the strength we could.
Still, before getting into bed, I would spend a few minutes hunched over my aquarium. It seemed too large now for the 3 or 4 fish that still clung to life. It mattered little that I changed their water and that I provided them food by catching insects during my work. They were having as hard a time at Yodok as I was. Eventually there was only one survivor: a black fish who had succeeded in adjusting to his catch-as-catch-can diet. As temperatures dropped throughout November, he continued to hold strong; then he held out through December too. To keep the aquarium from freezing over, I wrapped it in rags and asked Grandmother to move it near the stove whenever she did any cooking. Yet winter deepened, my efforts seemed everyday more hopeless. The temperature soon fell below freezing in our hut, and we spent our nights shivering in our blankets.
Despite all my cares, the black champion died. Over the last weeks of summer I had gathered roaches, dragonflies, silkworms, and any other bugs that might pass for fish food. I had dried these in the sun and ground them into a powder. My fish accepted the food, but the cold got the better of him. Seeing his lifeless body floating on the surface of the water filled me with great sadness. Yet distraught I wasn't. By this time I was struggling with the problem of my own survival and had little energy left for grieving. What I was staring at was the final dissolution of my former life: a door that was closing. That fish had known our life in Pyongyang and, from time to time, he reminded me of the pebbles, sand and diptychs I had bought at the store around the corner from our house. With his death, my former world had taken another step. pg 75

During this dark period, my uncle first confessed to having attempted suicide. It happened during his first week in the camp, before the rest of the family's arrival. I remember my grandmother listening to his story in complete silience and then just sitting there for the longest time, looking stunned and broken. When she snapped out of it, she stared straight into my uncle's eyes and pronounced the following with a depth and solemnity that admitted no contradiction: "If anyone should die first here, it's me, not you, but me. Don't ever start up with that again." Unsure whether she had succeeded in convincing him, she followed with another argument - or a cry , rather - asking, "How could I live if you died?".
My uncle tried to end it all again the following year. THis time along with my father. When I got home from work my grandmother told me the two of them had gone up to the mountains with the intention of hanging themselves from a tree. I started to shake uncontrollably, then threw myself on my mat and thought about them as hard as I could, muttering, "Come back, come back." I don't know how long I had been this way when I heard the shack door creak open. It was them! I cried from happiness. They had thought themselves ready to depart the camp at any cost, to leave the hunger, the humiliation, the filth, the thrashings. In the end, the only thing that had stopped them was knowing their suicide would bring trouble upon the family. pg 99

THe work did one benefit, though it usually came too late to help the weakest among us. In the fields, it was sometimes possible for us to catch frogs, which were plentiful in this season. The amphibians could be skinned and cooked fresh or set out to dry in the sun and used later. Their eggs were also very much in demand. Besides the frogs, we also ate salamanders that we caught near a sweet-water spring. I never much liked the way they tasted, but they were said to be very nutritious. Eating three a day was supposed to keep you in great shape, like vitamin concentrates, though I have no idea whteher this was science or faith. The way to eat a salamander is to grab it by the tail and swallow it in one quick gulp - before it can discharge a foul-tasting liquid. I often brought my grandmother salamanders so that she would stay healthy, but she never got the knack of swallowing them whole. We kids were the only ones who could do it easily. We ate anything that moved, making even the undiscriminating adults look picky by comparison. By the time a group of prisoners finished working a field, no animal was left alive. Even earthworms were fair game. When we were done with her, nature always needed a couple of seasons to recuperate before she could provide a fresh bounty of food. And yet our hunger remained, piercing, draining. pg 104


Finally the head of the camp stood up to read the condemned man's resume. "The party was willing to forgive this criminal. It gave him the chance here at Yodok to right himself. He chose to betray the Party's trust, and for that he merits execution." During the silence that followed, we could hear the condemned man scream his final imprecations in the truck. "You bastards! I'm innocent!" Then suddenly his cries stopped. We saw 2 agents pull him down from the truck, each holding an arm. It must have been ages since he had last eaten. All skin and bones, it looked as if he were being floated along by the guards. As he passed in front of the prisoners, some shut their eyes. Others lowered their heads out of respect. A few of the prisoners, especially the younger ones, stared widely at the barely human figure, hardly able to believe their eyes. THe unhappy being who walked to his death seemed no longer a member of the family of man. It would have been easy to mistake him for an animal, with his wild hair, his bruises, his crusts of dried blood, his bulging eyes. THen I suddenly noticed his mouth. So that's how they shut him up. They had stuffed it full of rocks. The guards were now tying him to a post with 3 pieces of rope: at eye leve, around the chest and at the waist. As they withdrew, the commanding officer took his place beside the firing squad. "Aim at the traitor of the Fatherland.... fire!" The custom was to shoot three salvos from a distance of five yards. THe first salvo cut the topmost cords, killing the condemned man and causing his head to fall forward. The second salvo cut the chords around his chest and bent him forward further. The third salvo released his last tether, allowing the man's body to drop into the pit in front of him, his tomb. This simplified the burial.

That unfortunately wasn't the worst spectacle that I beheld at Yodok. In the fall of 1986, a condemned prisoner who didn't have enough pebbles stuffed into his mouth, or had somehow managed to spit them out, began proclaiming his innocence and screaming that Kim Il-Sung was a "little dog" - one of the worst things you can call someone in Korean. To shut him up, one of the guards grabbed a big rock and shoved it into the man's mouth, breaking his teeth and turning his face into a bloody mess.
In October of 1985, two prisoners were executed by hanging. The victims members of an elite military unit that had succeeded in fleeing the country. THey were well trained and very familiar with the terrain. One of them got as far as Dandong, China, at the mouth of the Yalu River, before he was stopped by CHinese security forces and sent back to North Korea. The Korean authorities had searched for them everywhere, even in the camp. For 2 weeks, Yodok's prisoners were mobilized in the effort and forced to scour the camp grounds every afternoon. ..... It wasn't until we were called to Ipsok one morning that we learned they had been caught. Adding to our surprise were the gallows that had been erected in place of the usual execution posts. Our two heroes were brought forward with their heads sheathed in white hoods. The guards led them up to the scaffold and slipped nooses around their necks. The first fugitive was nothing short of skeletal, but the second one, the one who had gotten as far as Dandong, looked like he still had some reserves of energy. Yet he was quicker to die. The other one clung to life, wriggling at the end of his rope like some crazed animal. IT was a horrible sight. Urine started trickling down both their pants. I had the strange feeling of being swallowed up in a world where the earth and sky had changed places. 138 to 140

Once both men were finally dead, the 2 or 3 thousand prisoners in attendance were instructed to each pick up a stone and hurl it at the corpses while yelling, "Down with the traitors of the people!" We did as we were told, but our disgust was written all over our faces. Most of us closed our eyes, or lowered our heads, to avoid seeing the mutilated bodies oozing with black-red blood. Some of the newer prisoners - most of them recently arrived from Japan - were so disgusted they couldn't cast their stones. Other inmates, seeing an opportunity to rise in the estimation of camp officials, chose especially large rocks, which they hurled hard at the corpses' heads. The skin on the victims' faces eventually came undone and nothing remained of their clothing but a few bloody shreds. By the time my turn came, stones were heaped at the foot of the gallows. The corpses were kept dangling on the ropes all through the night, guarded by security agents, who made sure no one would try to bury them. To keep warm, the sentinals built a fire, which still smoked in the morning as the crows began circling above the lifeless bodies. It was a ghastly scene. Awful. pg 141

I attended some fifteen executions during my time in Yodok. With the exception of the man who was caught stealing 650 pounds of corn, they were all for attempted escape. No matter how many executions I saw, I was never able to get used to them, was never calm enough to gather herbs while waiting for the show to begin. I don't blame the prisoners who unaffectedly went about their business. People who are hungry don't have the heart to think about others. Sometimes they can't even care for their own family. Hunger quashes man's will to help his fellow man. I've seen fathers steal food from their own children's lunchboxes. As they scarf down the corn, they have only one overpowering desire: to placate, if even for just one moment, that feeling of insufferable need.
Ceding to hunger, acting like an animal: these are the things anyone is capable of, professor, worker, and peasant alike. I saw for myself how little these distinctions mattered, how thoroughly hunger alters one's reason. A person dying of hunger will grab a rat and eat it without hesitation. Yet as soon as he begins to regain his strength, his dignity returns, and he thinks to himself, I'm a human being. How could I have descended so low? This high-mindedness never lasts long. THe hunger inevitably comes back to gnaw at him again, and he's off to set another trap. Even when my grandmother was suffering from pellagra, the thought of bringing her soup only crossed my mind after I devoured a few rabbit heads. What leftovers I did bring her, she pounced on with avidity, searching furiously for any remaining shreds of meat. Only after she had eaten her fill did she stop to ask whether I had eaten. Once she was cured of the disease, she became her old self again, stoically mastering her hunger while preparing the family meals. pg 142

Where does reality start? Where does the dream end? Was it I who dreamed of being a butterfly, or the butterfly who dreamed of being me? My obsession with death was not confined to nightmares, but sometimes appeared in daytime, disturbing my fanatical desire to survive. Death often seemed preferable to the hell all around me; but the thought of the cold wet earth that would swallow me was enough to turn me back toward life.
As the years passed, another feeling began to disturb my daily existence: the feeling of injustice, which grew sharper when i considered the discrepancy between everything I had been taught and all that I was living. My opinions evolved much as had my grandmother's - surprise gave way to a sense of injustice, which in turn transformed into indignation and silent denunciation. We had always been taught to think and speak in accordance with our Great Leader's irrecusable axioms, but the guards' actions continually contradicted them. I had memorized almost the entirely A Letter to New Korea's Much Beloved Children, which Kim Il-Sung wrote for the occasion of the Day of Children, "who are the treasure of our country and its future.... " And yet I was being made to pay for my grandfather's crimes. I was no longer the jewel in Kim Il-Sung's eye. I was a prisoner: filthy, tattered, hungry, spent. All those beautiful words had been flouted with perfect impunity. pg 153

I once believed that man was different from other animals, but Yodok showed me that reality doesn't support this opinion. In the camp, there was no difference between man and beast, except maybe that a very hungry human was capable of stealing food from its little ones while an animal, perhaps, was not. I also saw many people die in the camp, and their deaths looked like that of other animals. pg 160

His illness worsened at the end of November 1987. THe pain was not as acute as it had been on several earlier occasions, but he was now bedridden. I remember his last day. He was lying calmly in bed with his eyes closed, when his whole body suddenly went slack. He made a little gesture with his hand, smiling slightly - what I later realized was his final farewell. That's how he died, without our even realizing it. That scene changed my perception of death. Previously, it always wore a mask of terror; I never imagined it could be so peaceful. Since then, death no longer scares me. My father showed me it could be a moment for smiling. pg 166

THe other challenge was avoiding static. THe signal was always clearest between 11 pm and 5 am. We liked listening to the CHristian programs on KBS. The message of love and respect for one's fellow man was sweet as honey to us. It was so different from what were used to hearing. IN North Korea, the state-run radio and television, newspapers, teachers and even comic strips only tried to fill us with hate - for the imperialists, the class enemies, traitors, and who knows what else! pg 185

I told my family i would be going away for a few days and, on the eve of my departure, informed my girlfriend that I wouldn't see her for a while because of work. I got into a car. The window was slightly open and I stretched out my hand to take hers. I nearly burst into tears. I had lied to her, I was leaving and she thought I was coming back. It was unbearable. I'm sure she hated me for leaving the way I did, but there was no other way. pg 193

From a human rights perspective, my case was shocking. Yet how many people really care about the fate of a refugee lost in China? Like every government in the world, the South Korean government acts on the basis of national interests. The way it handles refugee matters in no exception. Yet to consider the plight of refugees exclusively as a matter of national interest amounts to neglecting the rights of individuals. In Seoul, many years later, I ran into the same diplomat who had received me so coldly. "You must realize," he began by way of apology, "that establishing our burgeoning diplomatic relations with China had taken us a very long time and required enormous efforts. We simply could not allow ourselves to act in a manner that would place China in an embarrassing situation vis-a-vis its ally in the North. pg 206

Madame Yi's offer was tempting, but I felt I hadn't yet come to the end of my journey. South Korea attracted me more than ever. During my time in Dalian, I learned more about the country. I had heard it was richer than China and incomparably more democratic. My curiosity was piqued. After 10 years in Yodok, I also felt an obligation to the people I'd left behind. I had to expose the existence of these camps, to denounce the way North Korea's population was being walled in, surveyed, and punished under the slightest pretext. I had to tell my grandfather's story. In South Korea this would be most possible. pg 214

Our initial anxieties - after 25 years in NOrth Korea, its no small matter to be moved into a South Korean security office - lessened. The even-tempered agents never ceased to astonish me. They were made of different stuff than the ones I had encountered in the North. ONe of my 2 interrogators in particular seemed to develop a strong liking for me. He often brought me a book, some money, or a little something special to eat. Even if it was part of his job, a true bond developed, a bond of man to man. We've remained friends to this day. In time, I was granted authorization to leave the interrogation center - with a companion of course. He showed me the famous sites of Seoul: City Hall, Namdaemun, the banks of the Han River, the parks, Itaewaon. One evening, we went up to the Namsam Television and saw all of Seoul lit up below us. The view filled me with wonder. pg 222

THe citizens of South Korea should realize they have an important role to play in welcoming refugees. They aren't just people who have fled something; they are people who have a hard time adapting and a hard time forgetting what they have endured. I continue to have dreams in which I am running across the Yalu or in the mountains, North Korean security agents hot on my trail. It is not enough for people to say they are for reunification. Their actions need to prove it. The rhetoric of reunification is one thing, people's attitudes toward North Korean renegades quite another. I don't question the South Korean population's desire for reunification, even though a large segment couldn't care less one way or another. What I do wish to denounce - based on my experience - are the countless prejudices that are held against people from the North. Their poverty and economic inferiority are too often taken as a reflection of some natural inferiority. I myself have been the target of such misperceptions: whenever I dress elegantly, people look at me with suspicion. I'm not acting the way I'm expected to. The same goes for work. Money is so important in South Korea, I always felt I would never be seen as equal unless I earned lots of money. pg 231
.... much remains to be done. Over the last 10 years, the situation in North Korea has continued to deteriorate. Refugees now crossing into China over the Yalu, or farther east over the Tumen River, tell us terrible things about the conditions in North Korea. Eyewitness accounts gathered by Good Friends - a Buddhist inspired association - are crushing. People have been reduced to eating grass and the bark of young pines and sycamores. Haggard children wander about with their skin often black and rotting from infection. As soon as the first cold spells hit, they die of typhoid fever of cholera. Families are being torn apart. Parents frequently abandon their youngest children in the hope that someone better off might find them and give them a home. People try to cross the border without means or protection. pg 231

We are told that the answer to these little problems - the respect for human rights, the concentration camps, the kidnaping of South Korean and Japanese citizens - currently is not of primary concern. We are told that this debate would be better left for another day, that the North Koreans' lot should improve before we undertake reunification; but by then they'll all be dead!
Reunification is inevitable, but it can only take place once Pyongyang has stopped crucifying the population under its control. How can we stand by while troops of orphans cross the Yalu and Tumen rivers seeking refuge in China? How can we stand by while parents sell their daughters for something to eat? I don't want to see any more skeletal children with wide, frightened eyes. I don't want any more children sent to the camps and their mothers forced to divorce their fathers. pg 238