A Thousand Miles to Freedom (6 page)

*   *   *

On that dreary March day after our failed escape attempt, my mother, Keumsun, and I wound up at the Rajin port, where the fishermen unload their cargoes of crab. The most savory and expensive part of the crab was their claws, reserved only for wealthy Chinese merchants. All we could afford were the shells, which were sold at a more modest price. This was the first day of our new, homeless life, and my mom bought several of the shells to help keep our spirits up. The three of us feasted on our crabmeat without thinking about our future or about where we were going to sleep.

Nobody in Rajin could help us, so we left that city to go ask my mom's family in Chongjin for help. It took two days on the train, which was as crowded and as slow as usual, to get to Chongjin, which was over a hundred kilometers to the south. Since we didn't have enough money to buy actual tickets, we snuck onto the back of the train. As the train rattled back and forth, I crouched in a corner to avoid the conductors. Each time they walked by, we pushed through the tightly packed crowd and hid in the restroom. It was no easy feat. We were packed like sardines. The smell of urine was unbearable because a lot of people relieved themselves before they were able to reach the toilets. Plus, you always had to be careful about thieves, of which there were plenty, especially when passing through the dark tunnels. We held our shoes while we slept to be sure that no one would steal them.

It was such a contrast to the luxurious train we had taken to Pyongyang with my dad when I was younger. That train had had upholstered seats, large windows through which you could admire the countryside, and a pleasant atmosphere. Young, attractive women worked as the conductors. During the ride, they would come entertain us by playing the accordion in the central aisle. Passengers would often make song requests, which the conductors would gladly fulfill, but not before asking the voyager who had made the request to sing along. There was even a built-in restaurant on the train.

For the rest of my life, I will treasure that memory, even though I know now that the luxury was just a mirage meant to maintain the image of our country's dictators. The food shortages were already in full force throughout the rest of the country at that time. But I could ignore them, during that trip. I felt happy just to revel in the carefreeness of childhood.

After the exhausting two-day journey, we knocked on the door of my aunt, my mother's younger sister. She was speechless at seeing us dressed like homeless people. My aunt had not heard from us in a long time, but she would never have imagined seeing us like this.

Very quickly, we understood that we were not welcome. My aunt wanted to help us, but her husband had other ideas in mind. Unfortunately, in North Korea, it is the man of the household who calls the shots. Two hours later, we were asked to leave. The famine had resulted in a vicious game of every man for himself.

My mother was shocked. She had helped my aunt so many times in the past. When my mom had worked at the hospital, she frequently sent her sister rice cakes and other provisions through the postal service that was, at the time, more functional. And yet there we were, shoved outside without even so much as a parting gift.

Distraught, Mom went by herself to gather her thoughts at her father's grave. After this failure, she did not dare go bother her youngest sister, her favorite, who also lived in Chongjin. Disappointed, we went back to the station and took the crowded train heading back north toward the desolation of Rajin-Sonbong. One by one, every door was closing behind us. Our plan to escape to China over the frozen Tumen had to be pushed back at least until the next winter. And so, shamefully, we began our homeless life. We had not left our miserable little residence in Eundeok just to return to it again.

*   *   *

I remember very clearly an especially shameful incident that occurred as I was walking on a street in Rajin during the time we lived there. Suddenly, a small boy appeared behind me.

“
Kojebi!
You're a
kojebi
!” he said, sneering, looking me straight in the eyes. I was overwhelmed by anger. I left my belongings on the sidewalk and, furiously, I chased after him.

“I am not a
kojebi
!” After a mad dash, the boy disappeared in the labyrinth of the streets. I came back to my sister, having been unsuccessful in my pursuit. I was visibly shaken up. I started to feel an immense sadness.
Kojebi
is a word of Russian origin. In North Korea, it denotes a homeless child. In Eundeok, I had seen more and more of them appear, and my parents would always tell me to be wary of them. These orphans were the result of the great famine. Since the beginning of the 1990s, many children had lost their parents to hunger. They had to learn how to survive alone on the streets, suffering from the complete indifference of a regime that let its people fall victim to misery and famine, all while giving the international aid it received to the army and the privileged class. Even to this day, these
kojebi
children organize into gangs and steal whatever they can. This is the side of North Korea that the regime keeps hidden, that the propaganda is careful not to show.

I had never felt so insulted in my life as when that boy jeered at me in the street. But worst of all, even worse than being called a
kojebi
, was the realization that it was indeed true. I had truly become a
kojebi
, a child of the streets.

*   *   *

After our failed escape attempt in the spring, the three of us lived a homeless life in Rajin for many months, often going several weeks at a time without being able to bathe. Lice infested our heads and we scratched at them like monkeys. Every night, we had to find new shelter where we could sleep and escape from the foggy rain that clouded the summer. When night fell and all the merchants left, we would slip under an awning that we found at the front of the market. But often an official would come to tell us to leave. So then we would take shelter in the staircases of nearby buildings. The smell from the restrooms around us reeked, but at least we had shelter. That is, until the building managers asked us to leave. After we had been kicked out of everywhere else, our last option was to sleep under a bridge.

When the rain stopped, my mother took us to the forest to sleep under the stars. It was better this way, far from the scathing eyes of others. More important, we could bathe ourselves in the streams and rid ourselves of the thick grime that had collected on us. This also let us save some time, since we were right next to our workplace. Collecting wood had effectively become our means of sustenance. Every morning we participated in this task, which I always hated. We didn't have any tools, so using all of our strength, we pulled branches off trees using our bare hands. It was exhausting, and all for a mediocre result, since at the market stands, our handmade sticks paled in comparison to the ones cut with a saw. We rarely got more than ten or fifteen won. To earn more, Mom came up with a clever trick. She put me, the youngest of the family, behind the display. With my small frame and miserable appearance, I got the pity of buyers who would feel bad haggling with such a poor, helpless girl.

*   *   *

Every day, we had to go to the market and at night return to the countryside, often with empty stomachs. One day, I couldn't take it anymore. The heavy stick I was carrying was tearing into my shoulder. I had no energy left and I refused to move another inch.

“We have to get to the market and sell these before nightfall!” exclaimed my mother.

I didn't move.

“Fine, stay there. We're going to continue,” said my mother in exasperation.

I watched as they became smaller and smaller in the distance, and I let myself fall to the ground. It was decided: I was going to spend the night right here on the ground, alone. I was barely twelve years old.

The darkness came quickly and enveloped me entirely, making me regret my decision almost immediately. The noise that the leaves made as the wind rustled through them frightened me. I kept thinking I had heard someone coming closer, or that I saw shadows moving behind the trees. To drown out everything else, I plugged my ears and closed my eyes.

It was impossible to sleep. I reopened my eyes and looked toward the sky. Pale moonlight piercing through the clouds lit up the night. To take my mind off the spookiness of the forest, I focused my attention on the giant fluffy masses in the sky. Little by little, I started to make out some strange images in them. There was a dragon, a man … I was filled with amazement and slowly started to forget about my fear. Since that night, I've never seen another night sky as beautiful as that one. Then I started to become as sleepy as a newborn baby. In the morning, I awoke, still alone in the forest, but otherwise feeling fine. Then I heard footsteps in the distance. From the bushes, my mother and Keumsun emerged. I was filled with joy to see them. Best of all, they hadn't come back empty-handed. They brought
tteok
s, rice cakes. My secret wish was about to be realized: we were going to enjoy some delicious food and have a marvelous day.

*   *   *

In Rajin, the weather dictated our daily lives and my mother adapted our strategies for survival accordingly. The day after a sea storm, we would head to the beach to collect seaweed that had washed ashore. Using the seaweed we collected, we made a soup to sell at the market. At the harbor, I fetched the fish that the fishermen threw away. One afternoon, near a storage facility, the smell of apples filled my nose. Searching through the facility, I found an entire crate full of apples, many of them rotten, abandoned by Chinese merchants. I took out the ones that were still fresh, and on that afternoon, we feasted.

This lifestyle was exhausting, however. The summer was coming to an end; the foggy mist of the summer was being replaced by a vast blue sky populated by immense clouds. In North Korea, we say that the sky becomes bigger in September. I celebrated my twelfth birthday on the streets, and we were still without hope for the future.

One day, I met another
kojebi
boy. As we were talking on the sidewalk, he shared some tips on how to make it on the streets:

“We steal. Stealing provides us with the means to make money, especially when we steal cabbage. Sometimes we get up to five hundred won for each robbery!”

I understood right away it would be in my family's best interests to change our tactics. Our incessant trips back and forth to the mountains, our feeble attempts to snatch a few branches off the trees, our business of selling wood utterly exhausted us, and all for nothing, or at least not for much. Forget morale. If we wanted to make it out of North Korea, we needed money.

So we started stealing as well. We stole whatever we could: vegetables, cabbage, and corn that we resold at the market. This helped us make a bit of money on the side. But it was a risky business. One morning, while we were snatching a few potatoes, some farmers appeared. We were caught red-handed. My mother begged for them to spare us. They didn't listen to a word she said and started violently beating her right in front of us. Keumsun and I were horrified as we awaited our turn. Luckily, they didn't touch us. We looked too frail and defenseless. Fortunately, they also didn't send us to the police. That was a close call, and we only narrowly escaped.

After this misadventure, my mother racked her brains to find a less risky way to survive. She dreamed of starting a small business with her youngest sister. So, in the fall, she sent me once more to Chongjin, this time with five hundred won in my pocket—quite a large sum at the time. It was enough to buy ten kilograms of corn. I was to convince my aunt to come join us. Even if she said no, Mom told me to stay in Chongjin, because she couldn't afford to take care of me anymore in Rajin.

*   *   *

I took the train by myself. I was no longer afraid, because I had been hardened by my experience as a
kojebi
. My aunt welcomed me with open arms and, thanks to the five hundred won I brought with me, she was able to provide me with good food. Then, carefully, I started to tell her about our plan. Though initially frightened by the idea, my mother's favorite sister started to think it over. She and her husband were having problems in their marriage and argued all the time.

Two days later, the two of us stood at the train station waiting to catch the train to Rajin-Sonbong. We were relatively at ease, because we didn't think anyone knew about my aunt's intent to run away. Suddenly, through the crowd of passengers in the station, we noticed her husband, frantically running around in search of her. We quickly hid ourselves, our hearts racing. My aunt was clearly anguished. She hesitated. Then the train arrived. Right as we were about to get on, my aunt took a step back.

“You know, I do have a husband and two children, after all. I can't just leave them here.”

I didn't have any way of convincing her out of it; she had made her decision. All I could do was say to her, “If you ever change your mind, come meet my mom in Rajin. Wait in front of the train station. We always pass by there.”

The train shook back and forth, and I left by myself. Even today, this memory still haunts me. I have not heard from my aunt, or from the rest of my family, since then. Is she still in Chongjin, alive? Or has she died from hunger? Feelings of guilt follow me everywhere. By saying that she was always welcome to stay with us in Rajin, I made her an implicit promise: that she could depend on us. What if she came to the train station and waited for us, only to find that no one was there? I will never know, because a month later, we left Rajin for good.

When I arrived back in Rajin, my mom realized that there wasn't a future for us anymore in our country. The first winter frost was starting to trickle in. Soon, it would be too cold to survive on the streets. But the cold provided us with another opportunity: the Tumen River would freeze over and become solid enough for us to cross.