A Thousand Miles to Freedom (17 page)

After the initial agony and solitude, I quickly started to make friends at school. I was five years older than my classmates. At first, I didn't tell anyone about my age or background, for fear of being seen in a negative light. But then, little by little, I started answering others' questions and telling my story. It was so empowering to be able to live in freedom here in Seoul. Life here was hectic, fun, and sometimes also very hard, but it was never boring. There were so many attractions to be seen. After school, my new friends from class would take me to grab a quick bite to eat, usually
tteokbokki
, these little rice cakes soaked in a spicy red sauce that were the favorite snack of students. Then we would all go sing karaoke together. In this society which, to me, sometimes seems self-centered, I needed this group of friends, this feeling of solidarity that I had had while in North Korea and that I had been missing so dearly since coming here.

*   *   *

Over time, I started to feel more and more at ease here. Maybe it was because I was young, so it was easier for me to adapt to a new environment than it was for my mother's generation. Soon enough, I start to extol the merits of life in South Korea to my sister, who was still in Shanghai. It was my dream for her to join us. We started talking regularly via telephone, telling each other about our lives. Keumsun was happy in China, but it wasn't really because of the country. It was because she was still in love, and her boyfriend, a Chinese soldier, treated her so well.

Sometime in mid-2007, she told me a secret:

“I'm pregnant, but don't tell Mom yet.”

I held my tongue, but months passed by, and eventually she had to share the news with Mom as well. She was expecting a baby girl. At the end of 2007, she married her Chinese boyfriend, so that she could “officialize” her situation. The marriage was just administrative; there was no reception or ceremony. But she was getting by just fine in Shanghai. Using fake identification papers, she had managed to officially marry a soldier in the People's Liberation Army! She was able to achieve this through the cunning of her father-in-law, who absolutely adored her. The fake papers that she used originally were good enough to land her a small job, but not to get married. So her father-in-law did something rather ingenious: he bought the papers of a young lady who had passed away recently. Everything was possible in China if you had the money … and voil
à
, Keumsun married under a false name, but using real identification. I was blown away by his ingenuity.

Keumsun was lucky to have found such generous in-laws. Her parents-in-law loved her and treated her like she was a princess, and they spoiled their new granddaughter. Keumsun happily went to stay with them near Hangzhou, not far from Shanghai, while her husband was away in the barracks. She didn't have to cook or do chores, she told me over the phone. Such a situation was quite rare. After learning all of this about her life in China, I realized how difficult it would be to persuade her to come join us in Seoul.

*   *   *

In January 2008, we had been in South Korea for just over a year. Mom had saved some money on the side, and it was currently my winter break. Thus, it was set: we would go to China to visit my older sister and celebrate the birth of her daughter. It was possible because now we were true South Koreans, and no longer illegal migrants. We no longer had anything to risk by going to China. Secretly, we had another motivation for this trip, too: we went with the intention of persuading Keumsun to come back with us to Seoul.

We took the plane for Shanghai, and then on to Hangzhou. It was truly wonderful to see each other again. But Keumsun had no desire to go to South Korea, as she was doing so well with her new family. Besides, she had a charming baby girl to take care of. So, sadly, we returned to Seoul without her.

However, over time, through phone call after phone call, we convinced her to reconsider. I missed her so much that I used any argument I could think of to try to persuade her to join us.

“One day, your cover-up might be discovered, and if you get caught there will be big consequences. It would be in your best interest to come here and become a South Korean citizen, make some money, and then you can go back to China without incurring any danger.”

It was indeed true that South Korea was more developed than China and that, if you were willing to work hard, you could earn a lot more money here.

A few weeks later, Keumsun was convinced. She agreed to come join us, at least temporarily. I was so happy to hear her say that!

But there was still the issue of how she was going to leave China and travel here. She had a “real” Chinese ID, but not a passport, which was required to leave the country. And if she applied for one, the authorities would almost definitely figure out that the ID she was using didn't belong to her. The only solution was for her to leave illegally through another country, just as we had done.

*   *   *

I quickly found the phone number of the smugglers who'd helped us in 2006. They didn't seem particularly enthusiastic, but we had now learned to trust and respect them, because they'd kept their word to us.

To assuage Keumsun's qualms, we promised her VIP treatment. She would be able to leave China without having to walk through the Mongolian desert. Since arriving in Seoul, we had learned that it was easy to organize the transport of a North Korean to South Korea without traveling through any deserts. The smugglers could provide a fake South Korean passport to permit the person fleeing to board an airplane to South Korea. Upon landing at Incheon Airport, all the North Korean escapee has to do was turn him or herself in to the authorities, and everything would be taken care of from there. There was no need to risk your life on the “green line” fences or in the Gobi Desert. Everything was possible … as long as you were able to pay.

The smugglers asked for ten million won (about ten thousand dollars), around three times more than what our passage through Mongolia had cost me and my mom. Mom asked for a discount for her daughter, reminding them that we were “loyal customers.” She negotiated with them until finally we got a nice discount: we would only have to pay seven and a half million won.

*   *   *

In May 2008, with a fake passport in hand, Keumsun left China for South Korea. She left behind her husband, at least for the time being, as well as her young daughter, whom she asked her in-laws to care for. Again, her family members and her husband showed themselves to be quite noble and generous. They understood her decision and they trusted her. They knew that she was going to return one day, as soon as she had made some money and acquired a real South Korean passport. I really appreciated their family and thought that Keumsun was quite lucky for having married into it.

But at the last minute, Keumsun's trip was put on hold. The smuggler had promised her an airplane ticket, but at the eleventh hour, for whatever strange reason, her itinerary was changed. Finally, she was able to hop on a boat and cross the Yellow Sea, and she ended up on South Korean territory. Following the instructions given to her, she turned herself in to customs as a North Korean defector.

She was taken in and interrogated by the NIS, just like we were. After a month, she was released—the interrogations had gone well. And when she got out, she managed to avoid the three months in Hanawon that we'd been subjected to. At the time, the center was overwhelmed by the number of defectors. In 2008, more than 2,800 North Koreans arrived in South Korea after long and perilous journeys like the one we went through. Hanawon was at capacity, and since Keumsun already had family in the country, she was allowed to skip the training there.

*   *   *

And so she came to stay with us. It felt so good to be together again! As usual, Keumsun adapted fast, all the while maintaining her independence. However, her heart was still in China, with her husband and her family. She still contacted them on a regular basis. Every day, she spoke to her husband on the computer. The two of them were inseparable. Her husband seemed to be very much in love with her. Sometimes, Keumsun told him she was too busy to talk for long. She hid her grief very well, but under her calm appearance, I knew that she longed to be with her husband and family. One day, I found an empty bottle of
soju
, a Korean liquor. Keumsun must have been drinking away her sorrows. But she was too discreet to talk about it.

Fortunately, twice a year, for a month at a time, Keumsun was able to see her family in China, who welcomed her with open arms. When her husband finished his military service, she would return to the country of her parents-in-law. She and her husband were excited to be able to raise their daughter together.

It was during this time that I mapped out my future in Seoul. At the age of twenty-two, I made the decision to attend college after I finished with my remedial classes, instead of constantly working small jobs to earn money. I was hesitant, because my studies sometimes felt tedious, difficult, and unrewarding. In China, I had learned to get by on my own, to take charge of my own life, to learn on the job the way adults do. And in Seoul, I found myself in school again, the oldest in the class, with classmates less mature than I was but often much better educated. It was humbling to see how much more the younger students knew than I did, so I had to work very hard to catch up.

Finally, I decided for sure to go to college. I realized that if I wanted to get a good job in South Korea, tertiary education was necessary. The job market was so competitive here, and education was of paramount importance.

The only issue was that this was no easy task. In South Korea, a lot of parents start preparing their children for entrance into the nation's best universities from kindergarten. They often hire English teachers to start tutoring their sons and daughters from a very young age. Additionally, during their adolescent years, the students go to after-class study schools known as
hagwon
late into the night. I, on the other hand, having been out of school for nine years, was at a serious disadvantage.

Fortunately, Sogang University, a Catholic school and one of the most prestigious in the country, offers a special program for students from North Korea like me. Unlike South Korean students, we didn't have to take an exam to be accepted to the school. Instead, we just needed to have an interview. And our tuition fees were also waived. It was an incredible opportunity and I decided to take it. There were about forty of us North Koreans at Sogang University. Without this kind of program, it would be nearly impossible for students like us to have a good career in this country.

I want to take the chance here to thank those who created this program and provided me with such an opportunity.

My admissions interview for Sogang University went well, and I decided on a major in Chinese Literature and Civilization. I had to use my strengths to make up for the weaknesses in my education, and because I spent many years in China, I had a head start in Chinese studies. I got lucky, because in other subjects, I wasn't quite as strong. Still, I always tried my best.

My family—the family that was currently working so hard in a South Korean supermarket to help support my education—had high hopes for me. Mom and Keumsun had found jobs in the cafeteria of the supermarket Homeplus, which wasn't far from the apartment where we were living together. They slept in the living room and let me use the only bedroom so that I could study during late hours and get some rest during the night.

Often when I woke up in the morning, I felt like staying in bed rather than going to class, as a result of staying up too late studying. Luckily, my professors helped me make up my lost years and kept encouraging me to continue. Particularly my English professor, Noh Jae-hoon, who came to school very early in the morning, before classes started, to give me makeup lessons and always encouraged me.

*   *   *

A lot of South Koreans have been very helpful to me these last few years, and I want to thank them from the bottom of my heart.

Others are indifferent, and some maintain their distance from me. They are wary of those from the north—the “enemies.” Don't forget that officially, the two Koreas are still technically at war, and have been since 1950. Some South Koreans don't like that we, the defectors, benefit from the system, thanks to government aid. And yet, I have a South Korean passport and I have the right to vote. I am just as much a citizen as everyone else here. But some people, both young and old, don't think of me as an equal. They treat me like they treat immigrants from Southeast Asia, the Philippines, or Cambodia; the “poor people” they despise so much.

Sometimes, during my conversations with other students at the university, people would tell me that they opposed the reunification of the two Koreas, because they didn't want their tax money to go toward paying for the “poor” North Koreans. I was sometimes hurt at hearing people say things like this. What the newspapers said also shocked me, because they often talked about the totalitarian regime founded by Kim Il-sung and the North Korean population as one and the same, even though North Koreans are the regime's primary victims. South Korea hasn't always been the promised land of Eden, but it has welcomed us and we are thankful for the opportunity to live here.

In those early years in South Korea, whenever we felt sad or lonely, my mom, Keumsun, and I would sit in a circle in the apartment during the evening and turn off the lights. In the darkness, we would tell stories about the past and sing North Korean songs until the end of the night. But rest assured, we were not apologists for Kim Jong-il's regime. It is just that sometimes we miss our homeland, and sometimes we're prone to nostalgia. We are not ungrateful, but I think it is normal to sometimes reminisce about the happier memories of childhood.

*   *   *

I had a lot of North Korean friends who were escapees like me. Among them was my boyfriend, who had escaped from one of the Kim regime's notorious labor camps. When I met him, he was a journalism intern in Seoul at the
Dong-A Ilbo
, one of the big daily newspapers in the country. He came to interview me for an article he was writing about North Korean refugees who were students in South Korea. And so began a story of how two North Koreans fell in love on the other side of the “iron curtain.”