Dear Leader (2 page)

But the same phrase can have a third, more perturbing meaning. The Ministry of State Security uses it when carrying out secret purges of high-ranking officials. On receiving an Extraordinary Summons at night, a cadre might leave his house alone, taking care not to wake his family, before disappearing into a prison camp or being executed.

Thankfully, I am confident that the third scenario will not apply to me. In fact, I can’t wait to leave the house. Only a few days ago, the First Party Secretary had dropped a subtle hint of glory to come.

As instructed, I put on my best suit and tie. In Pyongyang, there are no taxis available after midnight, and motor vehicles must have a special night licence to travel after this time. So although it is pitch dark outside, I hop on my bicycle and pedal to work. Bicycles are one of the main forms of transport, but unlike most bikes, mine is brand new and has been specially shipped to me by a relative stationed overseas.

Outside, there are no streetlights lit. The silence of the capital city is so absolute that I can only sense the presence of passers-by before their dark shapes loom into my vision. The electricity supply is in a perpetual state of emergency, even though there are two power stations serving the city. The ageing Pyongyang Thermoelectric Plant was built with Soviet support in 1961, and the East Pyongyang Thermoelectric Plant was built in 1989, but neither produces enough power to supply more than one district of the city at a time. So, like a roaming ghost, power settles in rotation on sections of Pyongyang for about four hours a day.

One area of the city is always bright, though: the Joong-gu Area, which lies at the heart of Pyongyang. This is where Central Party offices, senior cadres’ residential areas and buildings for foreigners, such as the Koryo Hotel, are located. My workplace, Office 101 of the United Front Department (UFD), lies at the heart of this bright central district. Nearing the compound, I notice that it is more brightly lit than usual, with the grounds as well as the usual guard posts lit up. As I enter the gates, I exclaim to myself, ‘Yes! I am going to meet the General!’

In the courtyard stand thirty or more soldiers dressed in the dark mustard-coloured uniform of Dear Leader’s personal guards. They wear the characteristic X-shaped leather harness that supports a pistol on each side. Three beige Nissan vans with curtained windows are parked one behind the other, each big enough for a dozen passengers. The Party Secretary for South Korean Affairs greets me
in person, beside whom the prestige of the First Party Secretary, who phoned me earlier, pales in comparison. He leads me towards a two-star general with a clipboard, who seems to be supervising the operation. The other soldiers refer to the man as Comrade Deputy Director.

After briefly looking me up and down, the general barks, ‘Stand him over there!’ I look over to where he is pointing and see the nation’s most senior cadres in the sphere of inter-Korean relations standing in line: the Party Secretary for South Korean Affairs Kim Yong-sun, UFD First Deputy Director Im Tong-ok, UFD Policy Director Chae Chang-guk, UFD Policy Deputy Director Park Young-su, and two other cadres from the Department for the Peaceful Unification of the Homeland. The atmosphere is tense, and with six powerful men standing in line like schoolchildren, I feel uncomfortable about greeting them. I go to stand at the end of the line.

‘Are we meeting the General?’ As I whisper to the man in front of me, a voice yells, ‘Don’t talk! Understand?’

I look indignantly at the soldier, about to demand that he speak to me in a more respectful way, but the vicious light in his eyes quickly puts me in my place.

One by one, Comrade Deputy Director checks our identification documents against his list. We climb in silence into the middle vehicle according to our position on the list. We take our assigned seats. The soldier who yelled at me for whispering is the last to step into the van. I’d thought he had treated me condescendingly because I am only in my twenties, but now I hear him speaking in a rude, officious manner even to Central Party cadres who are twice his age.

‘Don’t open the curtains! Don’t get out of your seat! Don’t talk!’ he barks. Even more alarming than his insolence is the fact that my comrades meekly reply, ‘Yes, sir.’ Even Kim Yong-sun and Im Tong-ok, two of the most senior cadres in the country, are lowly men in the presence of Dear Leader’s personal guards.

Through the open door of the van, I watch the remaining soldiers scramble into the other two vehicles. Soon, the door is pulled shut and the engine starts. As the van begins its journey, my stomach churns with anxiety, but I know that an encounter with Dear Leader is a wondrously momentous event.

Thick brown curtains seal off the windows and separate us from the driver. Unable to see out of the van, I begin to feel a little car-sick. After a two-hour journey in silence, and much to my relief, we finally arrive at a railway station. It is around 4 a.m. We climb out of the van and as I regain my bearings I realise we have come to Yongsung, a First Class Station. In a population of over 20 million, there have only been two First Class Citizens: Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il. First Class Stations are reserved exclusively for their use, and there are dozens of these stations scattered across the country. The station roofs are camouflaged in green to make them difficult to spot through satellite imagery. At ground level, the buildings are unmarked, but heavily armed guards patrol them and they are enclosed by high walls.

Yongsung Station is in the northern outskirts of Pyongyang, usually less than half an hour away from where we began our journey. I recognise my surroundings because I have passed by the place on several occasions. At first, I’m puzzled that it has taken so long to get here, but I can’t suppress a grin when I realise that the vans have tried to confuse us by taking a deliberately circuitous route. As we move from the van to a train, we go through another series of identity checks.

The special train reserved for this occasion is different from ordinary trains. The sides of the carriage are painted grass-green and the roof is white. From the outside, the markings suggest that it was made in China: above the door handles the word ‘Beijing’ is painted in bright red Chinese characters. But when I step into the carriage, I spot prominent Mitsubishi logos that betray its true origin in Japan. The seats in the carriage have been replaced by single beds and
everything is arranged open-plan, presumably so that the guards can keep watch over us.

As at the start of the journey, the rules are barked out: ‘Don’t touch the curtains. There are blankets under the beds. Remain in your bed throughout the journey. Sleep until the train comes to a stop. Notify us if you wish to use the toilet. Break any of these rules and you’ll be removed from the train – immediately.’

The guard takes care to put added emphasis on that final word. I feel that if I make one wrong move, I might be thrown off this train and out of my privileged existence altogether. During the long night ride no one speaks a word, not even to ask to use the toilet. There is only the sound of the train rattling along the tracks. I close my eyes and count the rhythmic beats, trying hard to fall asleep.

The special train dispatched for just seven civilians comes to a halt at around six in the morning. We have stopped at Galma, a First Class Station in Gangwon Province. When I step down from the carriage, the cool dawn air on my face is refreshing. I realise how tense I’ve been in the presence of the soldiers. Policy Director Chae Chang-guk elbows me as he overtakes me and flashes a grin. He’s like a child, unable to contain his excitement.

We are transferred once again, to another waiting van. After an hour’s drive, again in silence, we climb out at a small pier surrounded on all sides by cement barriers, where we board a waiting launch. The waves lap gently, but the brackish smell of seawater is overwhelming.

The boat starts with a lurch and a deafening roar as the engine sparks into life. A moment later, I absorb the fact that I am on a boat for the first time in my life. It accelerates recklessly, seemingly intent on tossing me into the waves. I lean forward to hold on to the railing, but a soldier suddenly puts his arms around me from behind and pins down my hands. A shiver runs down my spine. I tell myself that the closer we get to Dear Leader, the stronger must be our show of faith in him. I glance around and see that each of the six other
passengers is similarly held in place by a soldier acting as a human safety belt. Staring back into the distance, where the two strands of white foam in our wake merge into one continuous stream, I shout at the top of my voice over the engine’s roar, ‘Is this a Navy boat?’

My guard smirks, even as his forehead wrinkles with the effort of understanding what I am trying to say above the racket of the engine. ‘The Navy? Hah! The Navy doesn’t have a boat as speedy as this. This one’s ours. It belongs to the Guards Command. It’s pretty fast, isn’t it?’ The Guards Command is responsible for the protection of Kim’s household. It is composed of 100,000 infantry, seamen and pilots.

Although he has to shout, I notice how my guard has abandoned his officiousness and talks conversationally, perhaps because we are speaking without an audience. This makes me feel a little better. As he says, the boat is very fast: a cap blows off the head of one of the guards and flies off into the sea, where it lands on the water. I watch it grow smaller among the waves and then disappear.

After about twenty minutes, we slow down near a tree-covered island. I wonder if we have been going round in circles within a small area, just as we had done on the journey to Yongsung Station. The bow of the boat drops and the island comes into clear view. From the pristine wharf to the manicured woods on either side of the pavement, everything is spotless. It looks as though the place was completed yesterday. I realise I had been expecting to find our Dear Leader waiting for us on the pier with wide-open arms, just as he does in the revolutionary movies. It is a bit startling to see that no one is here to greet us.

The guards lead us to a large hut, where we take our seats in a room that is about a thousand square metres. We are told to remain silent. Everything is white: the chairs, the floor, the walls. There are no windows. Instead, there are squares of green-tinged light shining from built-in wall panels.

At half past noon, more than four hours after we arrived on the island, there is a sudden burst of activity around us. Guards wearing white gloves spray something onto the chair where Dear Leader will sit.

Comrade Deputy Director makes us stand in line again. We are ordered to take off our watches and hand them in, as part of the security procedure. Each of us is then handed a small envelope. The outer packaging has Japanese characters printed on it. Inside, there is a small cotton wipe that smells of alcohol. Comrade Deputy Director instructs us: ‘You must clean your hands before shaking hands with the General.’ He then comes forward, singling me out for a stern instruction: ‘You must
not
look into the General’s eyes.’ He gestures to the second button of his uniform jacket and says, ‘You must look here. Understand?’

I wonder whether this is intended to impress on me my inferiority to Dear Leader, but the thought quickly passes. We continue to wait as Comrade Deputy Director finalises seating arrangements. Again, I’m at the back of the line. There are seven civilians in the room, and more than twenty guards around us. We stand rigidly, staring in silence at a pair of closed gates for perhaps ten more minutes. They are large and white, and decorated with gilded flowers.

When the gates finally open, a guard with the rank of colonel marches through and stands to attention. ‘The General will now enter the room,’ he announces.

Everyone and everything turns to stone. Keeping my head still, I focus my gaze on a point halfway up the arch where Kim Jong-il’s face will soon appear.

Another minute seems to pass. Unexpectedly, a small white puppy tumbles into the room. It is a Maltese with a curly coat. An old man follows, chasing after the puppy that belongs to him. We raise our voices in unison to salute Dear Leader.

‘Long live the General! Long live the General!’

Our combined cheer hurts my eardrums, but the puppy is
unperturbed by the noise, probably used to such fanfare. However, Dear Leader must be pleased that his puppy has shown such courage, because he bends down to stroke it. He then mutters something into its ear.

I feel let down when I see Dear Leader up close, because I am confronted by an old man who looks nothing like the familiar image of the People’s Leader. Even though we are clapping fervently and cheering for him, he doesn’t respond or even seem to notice. He continues to play with his puppy, as if resentful of being surrounded by men who are younger than him. Seeming to read my mind, he looks up and my heart skips a beat. As if we had all been waiting for this moment, we cheer even more loudly.

‘Long live the General! Long live the General!’

He glances round the room, then strides in my direction.

I prepare myself for the glorious encounter, but he walks straight past me, halting before a slogan displayed on the wall behind us. In yellow letters on a red background, it reads:
Let’s serve Great Leader Comrade Kim Jong-il by offering up our lives!

He calls out, ‘Kim Yong-sun!’ Party Secretary Kim Yong-sun hurries to his side. Kim Jong-il asks him, ‘Is this hand-painted? Or is it printed?’ In this close proximity, his voice indeed belongs to a great leader. Every syllable resonates with absolute authority.

Seeing Kim Yong-sun falter, the Comrade Deputy Director answers in his place: ‘Sir, it’s hand-painted.’

Kim Jong-il says, ‘This looks good. When I went somewhere last week, I saw slogans printed on enamel. But this hand-painted one looks much better, don’t you think?’

This time, Kim Yong-sun is ready with his answer. ‘Yes, sir, I agree. In fact, I already made enquiries about this. But I was informed that we will continue to produce enamelled slogans, as hand-painted slogans require the use of costly imports.’

Kim Jong-il ignores him. He steps back a few paces, inspects the slogan for a few more seconds, and gives an order with a quick wave
of his hand: ‘Replace existing versions of this slogan throughout the country with hand-painted ones.’