A Thousand Miles to Freedom (9 page)

“If we had a son, everything would be different,” my mom said to me.

And so, for nearly a year, he tried to get a son out of my mother, but to no avail. The more time that passed the more aggressive and cruel he became with my mom, my sister, and me. And his mother did the same.

“How is it that this Korean woman is incapable of getting pregnant?” his mother would complain whenever my mom walked by. Mom felt hurt and her sense of self-esteem started to diminish. All day, the man would try to humiliate us in public.

For example, I made many friends in the village who sometimes came over to play. Most of the time, they were boys because there were very few girls in Yang Chang Chon. To control the problem of overpopulation, China had established the “one-child policy,” and for the most part, people did not break this rule. But the majority of Chinese families preferred having a boy, which left many mothers seeking abortions if they became pregnant with a girl. This is because when a girl gets married in China, she leaves to live with the family of her husband, and her parents don't have anyone else to take care of them in old age. In Yang Chang Chon, as was the case in many other villages in the Chinese countryside, girls were hard to find.

I had made a lot of friends there. My sister was a bit more reserved and spent most of her time with our mother. I had a lot of fun playing with the neighborhood kids. We played dodgeball using a ball we'd made by filling a bag with corn.

One day, when the Chinese farmer was extremely angry, he hollered at my friends: “Never be friends with this girl! Her mother doesn't know how to behave herself!”

It was truly public humiliation for me. It was infuriating to think that this man, who had bought us, was claiming that my mom behaved poorly. It was all the more unbearable because my friends from the village were my only source of release from the insufferable world of living on the farm. Whenever I think back to my life in China, the times I spent with my friends from the village are, undoubtedly, my best memories.

*   *   *

Then our situation grew even worse. The arguments between my family and the farmer's family, all in Chinese, became more and more frequent. Everyone yelled and screamed every day. My “stepfather” started to become violent. He began regularly hitting my mom, Keumsun, and me. The nightmare seemed to have no end.

During these times, seeing this violent man who was trying to force my mom to bear his son, I couldn't stop myself from thinking about my father, my real father. My father with the frail frame, who was taken away from us by the famine. On the rare occasions when nothing was going on at the farm, I watched the Chinese sky, and I would sometimes see my dad's face in the clouds. He had been so kind, so generous, and so well educated compared to this uncouth Chinese peasant. He had never yelled at us, and it would have been utterly unimaginable for him to hit us.

We couldn't really do anything other than give in to my “stepfather,” but there came a day when enough was enough, and we just couldn't take it anymore. Anything would have been better than living in that never-ending nightmare.

It was because of this that my mom finally snapped. After one last dispute with her husband during the night, she decided to take us and leave. It had been nearly a year since we had arrived at the farm.

*   *   *

So there we were, the three of us, walking through the night, without realizing the futility of our mad undertaking. We still faced the issue of not having residency permits. My mom's marriage was, after all, unofficial, and there was no record of it anywhere. We were still in this country illegally. If we come across a police officer, he would arrest us and send us back to North Korea.

My mother realized, a bit too late, that she had given in to a moment of anger and desperation which, although it had been warranted, would put us in danger. We wandered around aimlessly, overcome by doubts and fears of getting arrested. Thoughts were dashing around in my head. What should we do? Oddly, I started to feel a bit of pity for our torturer, the farmer. He was a frustrated man who was violent and sometimes evil, but he was also a victim. He was a broke, miserable man, abandoned by his wife, who dreamed of having a son to gain back his position in the family and in society. This feeling of pity might seem contradictory, especially after all the hardships he had put us through. In Korean, there is a specific term used to define this unalterable link that ties two beings together by both hatred and love. We call it “
cheong
.” It's a mysterious connection that bonds two people for the duration of their lives, and that can never be broken no matter what happens.

As we walked, we started to give more and more thought to the idea of turning back. Finally, in the middle of the night, Mom caved in. Just a bit before dawn, we turned around and started heading back to the farm.

In front of the door, the farmer was waiting for us, with a smug look of satisfaction. He must have realized that we had slipped out of the farmhouse through a window. Instead of causing a scene, he savored his victory. I think I could read his thoughts:
You see quite clearly that you have nowhere else to go other than here. I win.

At first, life went on as if nothing happened, but the mirage didn't last very long. A few days later, a violent dispute ensued, with insults and punches showered upon us. The man seemed to be releasing all of the anger he had accumulated during our attempted escape. He hit my mother, and then he tried to tie a chain around her neck, like a dog, to prevent her from trying to escape again. Oh how I hated this barbarian. One of his brothers, who had come back to the farm, also rose to defend his family's honor. Using a broomstick, he started to beat the three of us. All we could do was take it.

To be honest, we never should have returned, despite the risk of being arrested in the countryside. Ever since our attempted escape, life at the farm had gone from just difficult to a true living hell. The family no longer trusted us, and they suspected that we were trying to escape at any given moment. The disagreements of the first few months descended into overt hostility. And my Chinese “stepfather” continued to demand that my mom give him a son. For the following weeks, we kept thinking about our failed attempt to escape, and we regretted our decision to come back. We started to think of new ways to flee, because our situation had become truly unbearable.

*   *   *

Two months later, everything changed yet again: one morning, Mom approached me with a troubled look on her face.

“I think I'm pregnant,” she whispered.

I was taken aback. With her “husband,” she left for the nearest hospital to make sure. When she came back at the end of the day, she delivered the news: “I am indeed pregnant.”

Our fate was sealed; we could no longer try to escape from the farm. We were forever bound to this barbaric peasant.

 

10

My mom was at a loss. For the first time in her life, she confided her deepest, most sensitive thoughts to me. I was thirteen years old, and she figured that by now I was old enough to understand the concerns of her adult world. On one hand, she was relieved because this baby would secure our future. Thanks to the baby, her husband would simmer down, and the family would finally begin to accept us. Perhaps one day, she hoped, we might even be able to obtain the residency permits that we so desperately needed. On the other hand, she was sad, because she had never wanted this baby. But either way, she knew for sure that she was going to have it.

She trusted this secret to me: “A long time ago, long before you were born, I went to see a fortune-teller. He predicted that I would have two daughters and then a son.”

I stayed silent. My mother's pregnancy was a turning point in our lives, but in the moment, I did not realize the extent of what it would bring. It might seem odd, but at that instant, I felt no emotion at all, and had no thoughts on the matter. I dispassionately analyzed the situation in relation to the only thing that mattered to me at the time: our survival. We were in an extremely vulnerable situation, and I did not have the heart to be introspective. I couldn't think about whether or not it was a good thing that my mother was about to bear this violent man's child. I simply thought about the risks of pregnancy for my mom and for us. My mom was already in her forties, so it was possible that the pregnancy might go badly. She might even lose her life. But, in case there were complications, how were we supposed to find medical assistance, there in the middle of nowhere? What would happen to Keumsun and me if she died during childbirth? These were the sorts of questions in my head. I was as emotionless as stone.

Another risk seemed more imminent. In case the police came, my mother would no longer be able to run away to hide in the forest like she used to. She would thus get arrested, and Keumsun and I would be left by ourselves at the mercy of the farmer. The day that I learned I would have a baby brother or sister, these were the kinds of thoughts that occupied me. It might seem selfish, but when you have to fight to survive, it's hard to be compassionate.

*   *   *

The fortune-teller turned out to be right. Mom had a baby boy. I will remember the day of his birth for the rest of my life. The four of us—Mom, the Chinese farmer, Keumsun, and I—were at the farm when she started having contractions.

The farmer wanted to bring my mom to the hospital where she had gotten her checkups done. Despite our illegal status, Mom hadn't had any problems because in that countryside hospital, they didn't ask to see papers as long as you paid the consultation fee. But on the day of the childbirth, my mom refused to leave the farm. The hospital was too far. She insisted that she'd be able to get by without medical help. After all, she had worked at a hospital in Eundeok, and had often helped her colleagues during childbirths. Besides, she had already given birth twice in her life and knew what to expect.

Keumsun and I hardly felt reassured, especially since there was no midwife and we would have to help with the delivery ourselves.

My mom explained to us that this was necessary. When she went into labor, I feared the worst. We disinfected scissors, using water that we boiled in the kettle above the fire in the kitchen. It was the only source of heat in the house. Then, along with Keumsun and my “stepfather,” I pushed down on Mom's stomach. The baby wasn't coming out, and my mom was screaming at the top of her lungs. I was scared to death; I really thought she was about to die.

During her last checkup at the hospital, the doctors had expressed fear that the baby might not be in the correct position. But my mother, stubborn as is her nature, insisted that everything would be fine. In the end, the baby came out correctly. He had a big head and it was very wrinkly. Mom took the scissors from us and, without a hint of hesitation, cut the umbilical cord herself.

The man took the baby in his arms with pride. He had finally gotten what he wanted: a male descendent. Following Chinese tradition, he proudly hung red drapes over the front doors of the house to announce the new baby's birth to the neighborhood. Also according to tradition, for one hundred days, in order to shield against evil spirits and ailments, the mother and child could not go outside. Only the family was allowed to see the newborn during this time.

*   *   *

The ambience at the farm was, for a short period after the birth of my baby brother, noticeably more relaxed. At first, I found the baby quite ugly, but I quickly became very fond of him. Chang Qian, his Chinese name, meant “brightness.”

For the first few days, the baby's dad was filled with joy and was extremely proud of his son. Even his grandmother found him cute, and she began to show my mom, who was still bedridden, something akin to kindness. Keumsun and I started to feel a glimmer of hope. We thought we were finally about to be integrated into the family. The future seemed bright.

Of all of us in the family, I ended up becoming closest to the baby. That's because when spring arrived, Mom had to go back to the fields with Keumsun to work. Since I was the smallest and weakest, I was in charge of taking care of the baby during the day, as well as preparing meals for those who were working in the fields. Every morning I would play with the baby, feed him, and try to calm him whenever he cried. It was an onerous task, but I was happy to take it on.

However, it did mean that I was stuck inside while my friends played outside on the esplanade in front of the farm. I was sometimes split between my desire to have fun and my job as a babysitter. But I didn't mind. And if, miraculously, the baby stopped crying and started sleeping, I could go spend time with my friends. Never for too long though, because before noon, I had to make lunch for the entire family, all the while keeping an eye on the baby. Sometimes I was overwhelmed by the amount of work, but I didn't let that bother me terribly because I absolutely adored my baby brother … even if he was the offspring of the man whom I hated so much.

*   *   *

Alas, the peaceful family atmosphere was short-lived. The arguments and fights started flaring up again, just as they had before the child's birth. My “stepfather” was once again in a sour mood, and he took his anger out on us. However, we never did anything to provoke his anger. In reality, his resentment was directed toward his parents. He had hoped that the birth of his son would help him win the family inheritance. His younger brother was not about to accept defeat that easily, however. Ever since little Chang Qian was born, my “stepfather”'s younger brother had been living back on the farm with us. His objective was to prevent my “stepfather” from claiming the family inheritance. The brother sensed danger; the baby threatened his portion. And so he decided to return to the family farm to demonstrate to his parents his “filial piety.” It was a meager inheritance, but it was better than nothing.