A Thousand Miles to Freedom (11 page)

But only after our front doors were firmly shut.

*   *   *

All of these memories came back to me while I was ruminating in that nauseating North Korean cell, from which we would soon be taken out for one last interrogation.

There was no delay in giving us the verdict: as we had all betrayed Kim Jong-il and the tenets of socialism, we had to be “reeducated” before being sent to prison.

Thus, one morning, handcuffed and escorted by guards, we left to cross the countryside, by foot, until we reached the reeducation camp. Once we were inside, we were finally relieved of our handcuffs, but the relief was short-lived. We found ourselves in the middle of an immense esplanade, surrounded by a chain-link fence, with some barracks in the middle where we would be tossed to spend each night. The men lay against one side, the women against the other. But we could never sleep for long. We were there to work for the state. It was part of our “socialist reeducation,” an intermediate step before we were to be sent to prison in my hometown of Eundeok.

*   *   *

From dawn until dusk, Keumsun and Mom worked the fields. I, alongside the other children and adolescents in the camp, cleaned the barracks, sorted the corn kernels and protected them from the rats that prowled around. Then at night, we had to attend daily brainwashing sessions. Seated in a circle, we read out loud from the works of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il. We would mindlessly repeat them until we had them memorized. For twenty-five days, we followed the same ritual, which was always exhausting, especially when our stomachs were empty. We were barely fed anything … once again, I was hungry.

*   *   *

One morning, the guards came to take us to Chongjin like we were livestock. There, we would be transferred to the Eundeok prison. Back to where we came from. It was so humiliating to be sent to my grandparents' hometown like we were dirty criminals. How were they going to treat us in this prison? Here we were again, nearly four years after we'd first left, and this time returning as criminals, guilty of committing “grave crimes.” We knew what sort of penalties were reserved for those kinds of criminals. Even if it seems crazy, given that we had just been captured from China and that we'd suffered so much abuse while we were there, Mom had only one idea in mind: we had to get out of North Korea again.

Alas, it seemed that now, our chances of escaping had been reduced to almost none.

*   *   *

And it was then and there that fate gave us a little break, just when we least expected it. A man was sent from Eundeok to escort other prisoners from the same district. At the last minute, the administration realized that we were also from that district, and they decided to add us to the convoy. The man was reluctant, but we convinced him that he had no other choice. The Chongjin prison authorities were eager to get rid of these inmates that they had to monitor, and for whom daily rations of food were an extra burden. The food shortage was so severe that even the policemen and junior military men put their own survival above all else.

Surely, we knew, our escort wouldn't want to share with us his already low supply of provisions. And so, after we had just left the reeducation camp, we exploited the situation. Mom proposed a deal with the man in charge of escorting us: we would travel to Eundeok through our own means, so he wouldn't have to take care of the costs of transporting us or feeding us. Since we had been added to the convoy at the last minute, there were no documents listing our names that obligated our escort to hand us over to the authorities—he wouldn't be taking any risk by letting us go. After a few minutes of persuasion, he agreed, and we were free!

It was a miracle.

But what were we going to do with this fleeting newfound freedom? Between our homeland and us, a link had been broken forever. We had no money, and we were, under the eyes of the law, considered criminals, fugitives even.

We didn't hesitate about our destination, not even for a moment. We refused to be considered exiles in our own country. The only thing we had in mind: flee, once more, to China, despite all the risks.

 

12

Through the windows, I watched as the Chinese countryside passed before my eyes. On the seat of the taxi, Mom was worrying herself sick. We didn't have even one penny to our names, but we told the driver that we would pay him when we arrived at our destination. When we began passing through more familiar landscape, my mom started to tense up. Had we turned completely crazy? In a few minutes, we would be back with the man whom we hated so much. Although we really didn't have any better options, we feared that we might have been jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Keumsun was against returning to the Chinese farmer. In fact, I was the one who had convinced my mother to do so. To be honest, it was mostly because I wanted to see my little brother again, no matter what the price was. I missed him so much that he had started appearing in my dreams. And I was so worried for his future, at the hands of that unscrupulous Chinese peasant. Out of the three of us, I was the closest to him. While my mother and Keumsun worked in the fields around the farm, I, deemed still too frail for the hard work of agriculture, had taken care of him. I loved him, and the knowledge that I was going to see him again consoled me despite the somber reality of the future that was waiting for us on the farm.

*   *   *

Admittedly, we no longer knew where else we could go. Ever since our fortuitous escape in Chongjin a few weeks ago, we had been on the run, and owing to our status as fugitives, we were exhausted. Immediately after our liberation, we went straight north, toward the border, while laying low. Always we moved with only one goal in mind: to leave our homeland forever. The situation in North Korea had gotten so bad that our modest clothes made in China were worth a fortune there. We sold them, and with the bit of cash this brought us we were able to feed ourselves for three days. Then, with nothing left to lose, we headed toward the border.

Groping around in the dark, we found the path at the Tumen River, by now very familiar to us. But this time, luck was not on our side.

While we were preparing to cross the river, a border patrolman appeared. He brought us to the border patrol station for questioning, and then the next day we were transferred to a nearby military base for an even more intensive questioning.

“Did you go to China?” the soldier asked.

“No, I just went to do some business near the river, that's all.”

I was lying and he didn't believe me for a second.

“Do you have any money? Where did you come from?” the soldier wanted to know.

I didn't answer. I was by then used to these interrogations and could handle myself well. He was insistent, but at least he was polite, which I appreciated.

And then we heard the verdict: we were going to be sent back to the labor camp where we had been taken a few weeks ago, when we had first been arrested.

After hearing the news, I felt hopeless. As soon as we left the base, Mom and Keumsun fell to the floor crying and refused to move an inch. I felt a little embarrassed, because I could tell they were trying to gain the pity of the officer, and I didn't think it stood a chance of working.

But somehow it did. The man sympathized with our plight, but he didn't seem to know what to do with us. Finally, after a long moment of hesitation, he told us that we could leave. With our feeble bodies and tattered rags for clothing, he must have thought that we would never be able to make it to China … but he was wrong.

*   *   *

That same night, we tried once more to cross the Tumen. Again, a border patrolman found us. In a panic, I ran to go hide in a nearby barn. To no avail: the policeman found me shortly after. Again, we repeated the same scenario. We spent the night at the station and then, the next day, we were transferred to the military base, where we were found ourselves face-to-face with the same officer yet again. Remembering us, he didn't even bother interrogating us anymore, and he even gave us two pieces of candy. Then he let us escape again, warning us that we should be more discreet this time around.

That policeman showed himself to be compassionate. Since our first escape four years earlier, the number of people trying to flee from North Korea had increased significantly. In response, the regime had also increased the number of patrolmen along the border, but they didn't know what to do with all of their miserable prisoners.

At eleven that night, we trudged through the freezing waters of the Tumen. Luckily, this time, no one came to bother us. In a few minutes, we reached the other side and were in China once again. Immediately, we bolted deep into the countryside, to get as far away as possible from the border. But, in the time since our first contact with the local population and our first stay in China, I understood that the atmosphere had changed quite a bit. At that time, the local residents offered us food and advice. However, as the number of North Korean escapees had been increasing, they stole from the farms, and the towns along the borders began to deteriorate. Now, no one trusted one another anymore, and we were without many options.

*   *   *

After three days of aimless wandering, we were still penniless and living on empty stomachs. And so it appeared that going back to the farm of my mom's “husband,” at least temporarily, was the lesser of two evils. The idea of seeing that awful man again repulsed us but it was, for the moment, the only way we could survive. After one final moment of hesitation, we jumped into a taxi.

A few hours later, we pulled up on the main street of the village that we had left less than two months ago. Through the glass, I recognized the houses, and then the taxi approached the side that led toward the farm.

I held conflicting emotions within me. On one hand, I was afraid of seeing the farmer and his family again, the family that had treated us so poorly. But on the other hand, my heart skipped a beat whenever I thought about seeing my brother again. How was he faring? I feared the worst.

When we finally reached the esplanade in front of the farm, my Chinese “cousins,” the farmer's nephew and niece, were the first ones to spot the car. They screamed in joy when they saw us through the windows. They looked so happy to see their two playmates again: Keumsun and me! This warmed my heart to see.

The farmer, alerted by the commotion, showed up at the entrance of the farm. He was flabbergasted at the sight of us. He could hardly believe his eyes and a big grin appeared on his face. For once, he seemed happy to see us. I got the impression that he never thought he'd see us again. He happily paid the taxi driver and even left a generous tip. Originally, we had offered the taxi driver eighty yuan for the ride, but the farmer gave him a hundred instead. It seemed as if he had really missed us, and that he was genuinely happy to have us back. But I knew it was just a mirage. For him, our return meant that he now had three sets of arms to exploit. And for a lonely man, it was always better to have a woman by his side.

I hardly spent any time dwelling on those thoughts. The only thing that mattered for me was to give my little brother a great big hug. I found him inside the farm. To my relief, he looked well. I felt tears run down my cheeks when I caught sight of him. His cheeks and his stomach were plump and he looked healthy and well fed. His skin was very tan, which we weren't terribly happy to see, because Koreans think that light skin is a sign of beauty. But it hardly mattered, because he was smiling.

*   *   *

Even though we were back, it was impossible to live again on the farm as if nothing had happened. We had to change our survival tactics in China. A denunciation was almost certainly the reason behind our arrest. The police now recognized us and knew who we were, and if they found out we were back they wouldn't hesitate to arrest us again. The farm was no longer a safe place for us. But where could we go instead?

As was her nature, Keumsun was the first to take the initiative. She wanted to go live in the city. I was a bit more cautious, as well as younger, and thus not as willing to take the same risks. Her decision stemmed largely from the attraction of living in the city: she had just turned eighteen and discovered the guilty pleasures of adult life. In this village, eighteen was the age that a woman typically got married. Our neighbors soon started to try finding husbands for each of us. They wanted to introduce Keumsun to suitors. They organized blind dates for her. At first, Keumsun refused. But, at the insistence of her friends and cousins, she finally agreed to go on one of these dates. She didn't like the man she was matched with at all. Moreover, she had no intention of getting married at this age. Eighteen years old was far too young. She wanted to build a life for herself first.

To distance herself from the pressure she faced in the village, she landed a babysitting job in Sukhyun-Jin, a town that was at least an hour away from the farm. For her, it was the beginning of a new life, one of independence. She started to earn her own money. Some weekends when she returned to the farm, she would bring little gifts and cigarettes for the family. Later she would go work in another small city, Yongil, as a waitress in a restaurant, where the boss would exploit her illegal status. Nevertheless, living in the city was less risky than living in the countryside, because it was easier to stay anonymous among the crowded population. Moreover, it was a good idea for Keumsun and me to be separated now that we were adults. At least now, if the police came to take us, we could not be taken together.

For about six months, I keep myself busy at the farm by taking care of my brother and managing the household. I also started to make a bit of money. I often left to go to the forest and collect mushrooms and medicinal herbs that I would sell in the village whenever wholesalers came from the city. These herbs were critical in traditional Chinese medicine, and they are often very expensive. Sometimes I went fishing with my friends at the river, so that we could sell the fish for a profit. I couldn't always go to school, but I still learned many things. There, you had to be proactive if you wanted to survive. And in China, if you had the determination and entrepreneurial spirit, you could go out and make money.