The Beloved Daughter (8 page)

I pictured my cellmate as a young mother. Traces of maternal beauty still radiated from the Old Woman’s wrinkled face. I imagined her voice as it must have been decades ago, light and airy as she sang lullabies to her children at night, or doting and rich as she soothed away their scrapes and bruises with sweet words of comfort.

The Old Woman tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and went on, “My eldest son was named Chul-Moo, a
weapon of iron
. My husband desired for him achieve a high rank in the People’s Army, and from Chul-Moo’s birth my husband worked in Pyongyang toward that end. When Chul-Moo’s baby brother was born eleven months later, I named him Chung-Ho, as I secretly hoped that in spite of his atheistic upbringing, my son would grow up to be
righteous and godly
. I never lost my faith in Christ, you see; I just followed my heart when it came to romantic notions. Because of my parents’ religious background, my husband demanded that I break all ties with them. Then, in order to protect his own military career, he bribed a comrade to change my birth certificate. If you search Pyongyang’s records, you will discover that I was born to a politically auspicious family, and I have no Western blood in me.”

“But your eyes!” I exclaimed, wondering how anyone could overlook those striking blue irises.

“Little daughter,” the Old Woman chuckled, “if Pyongyang calls a tiger a kitten, then every single Party member will line up to pat its back and scratch that tiger’s ears. In my case, Pyongyang called a half-breed, blue-eyed granddaughter of Christian missionaries a respectable Party girl. And that’s exactly what I became. In spite of my husband’s atheism and devotion to the Party, you see,” the Old Woman continued, “I loved him, and he loved me. It was a strange three decades. I adored my husband and raised our children to be model citizens, but my secret faith made us political enemies.

“I was happier than I deserved to be. I did not have any contact with my parents, I did not know any other Christians, and I did not have a Bible. Still, my husband cherished me, my sons honored me, and I felt blessed. My only sorrow was that I could not explain the good news of Jesus to my children. And so I prayed for hours at night after my boys were asleep, pleading with the Almighty for my children’s salvation. Then during the day, I played the role of an upstanding officer’s wife, loving my husband and our boys zealously but never breathing a single word to anyone about my faith.”

The Old Woman sighed. I was afraid she might be too tired to continue. I was glad when, after giving way to a large and noisy yawn, the Old Woman went on with her story.

“Our eldest son, Chul-Moo, entered the People’s Army like my husband. He quickly advanced and even grew to outrank his father. Chung-Ho, my second-born, became a successful businessman, his work taking him into China and even the Soviet Union at times.” The Old Woman smiled. “It was on a business trip to China that my youngest son Chung-Ho first heard the gospel. He immediately accepted Christ. He was afraid to tell his father, but he could not keep his secret from me. ‘Mother!’ he exclaimed to me the first day back from his travels. ‘Let me tell you what happened to me on my trip. I learned something wonderful in China. There is a man, a perfectly righteous man named Jesus Christ. He is the Son of God. He was killed, but then he was brought back to life. He’s the true and living God, Mother. And I’ve met him!’

“I cannot explain to you, little daughter, how my heart rejoiced at my son’s confession of faith.” The Old Woman beamed with the memory. “It was then, nearly three decades after his birth, that I was able to tell Chung-Ho about his true family lineage. We knew we must keep Chung-Ho’s conversion from my husband, and so in many respects our lives went on as before. Nevertheless, Chung-Ho was a changed man, full of joy and the power of the Holy Spirit. When we were alone, Chung-Ho would beg me to teach him about the Bible.

“Although I praised God for Chung-Ho’s salvation, I nevertheless fretted over my eldest son, Chul-Moo. He was prone to depression; he did not care for anything or anyone other than the Party and the People’s Army. I suspected he was drinking heavily, although I had no proof. Rumors of an illegitimate child were threatening his career advancement. Emboldened by Chung-Ho’s conversion, I finally decided that the time had come to share the gospel with my eldest son Chul-Moo as well.

“I fasted and prayed for several days and begged my youngest son, the only other Christian I knew, to do the same. One Sunday afternoon, I went over to Chul-Moo’s house as usual. ‘Chul-Moo,’ I told him, ‘I am your mother and I love you deeply, and now you are going to sit down and listen to what I have to tell you.’ And so I explained to Chul-Moo the gospel of salvation. Since I did not know how he would react to my words, I did not tell Chul-Moo that his grandparents were born of Western missionaries or that his younger brother was also a Christian.

“But Chul-Moo did not accept what I had to say. He told me that I was a Christian pig, and that even though I was his mother he was duty-bound to report me to the National Security Agency.”

“Your own son turned you in?” I gasped.

The Old Woman nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “Of course, Chul-Moo knew that he himself would also be arrested if he was found to be the son of a Christian. So before he betrayed me, he spoke to a superior officer, who at that time was preparing my son for a position in the Great Leader’s inner circle. Before my arrest, Chul-Moo was transferred to a detainment center along the Tumen River with new papers, a new job, and a new identity. It was a demotion, but he had done his duty to his nation while keeping himself out of prison camp.”

“But how could he have done something like that to you? To his own mother?”

“Things are not always what they seem, little daughter,” the Old Woman remarked. She stretched her arms and rubbed her shoulders and neck. “For years I mourned Chul-Moo’s betrayal, but I wept even more for his hardness toward the good news of Christ. Still, old as I may be, I am not the Lord God Almighty; I do not pretend to know his plans for Chul-Moo, which may yet be for good.”

“Were your husband and younger son arrested with you too?” I asked.

The Old Woman nodded. “After two months at Camp 22, my husband was offered release due to his impeccable record of service to the Party. The National Security Agency told him that he had to sign a statement of ideological conformity, which he did without second thought, but they also demanded that he divorce me.” The Old Woman raised her chin. “Even finding out that I was his enemy did not quench my husband’s love for me. He would not agree to the Agency’s terms. He worked another two months in the Chongbung mine, then the National Security Agency simply announced that our marriage was annulled and resettled him in another province.”

The Old Woman looked away from me. I had tried to find a way to ask the Old Woman about herself for months but always lacked the courage. Now her account did more to pique my curiosity than satiate it. Afraid that the Old Woman might grow too tired if I hesitated any longer, I cleared my throat.

“Honored Grandmother,” I began, trying to choose my words carefully, “you’ve explained to me how you ended up as a prisoner, but you still haven’t told me why they treat you so well here. Why do the guards fear you like they do? And what could you have possibly done to deserve solitary confinement for 23 years?”

The Old Woman sighed. “So many questions, little daughter.” With a quiet grunt, the Old Woman closed her eyes and leaned her back against the cell wall. I watched her silently, waiting for her to explain more of her history. But soon the Old Woman’s lips began moving in silent prayer. I finally realized with disappointment that I would have to wait even longer to find the answers to all of my questions.

Call of Freedom

“The cowering prisoners will soon be set free; they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread.” Psalm 79:11

The nights grew warm. The air was humid, and I ached to feel the warmth of sunshine again.

“Summer is on its way once more,” the Old Woman announced late one evening. I didn’t reply; I couldn’t help but think of all the summers I lost locked away in this bleak prison. Nearly four years had passed since my last breath of fresh air.

“My little daughter is quiet tonight,” stated the Old Woman, who sat calmly, looking as content as if she had been lounging by a rippling brook in by-gone days.

“I just want to see the sun,” I muttered. I was certain that the Old Woman would find some way to make me regret my complaints, to show me how much I had to be grateful for. In the Old Woman’s cell, I was always reminded that I needed so much growth if I ever wished to be truly as righteous and godly as she.

This time, however, the Old Woman simply nodded her head. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is the warmth of summer, even more so than the chill of winter, that makes me also long for freedom.”

“Freedom,” I mumbled, as if remembering the word for the first time. As a child, the idea of freedom brought such a melancholy emptiness. How foolish I had been to waste my childhood pining away for something other than the mountains of Hasambong. I grew up with such restlessness. And now here I was, twenty-one years old, and my only wish was to see the blue sky or the green grass again, even if for a moment.

The Old Woman studied me as I brooded. After several minutes, she moved over beside me and held my gaze with her steady blue eyes. “Our souls’ yearnings remind us that heaven is our true home,” she remarked. “It is only there that we will ever find real and lasting freedom.”

Her words were far from comforting. “Does God expect me to wait until I die here before I see color again?” I asked. “Or feel the wind? Or gaze at the stars?” I looked at the Old Woman’s pale complexion and immediately despised myself.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain. Not to you.” The Old Woman began her solitary confinement in this cell before I was born, yet she had such a peaceful contentedness about her that I never wondered before if she also pined away for fresh air, for sunlight, for freedom.

The Old Woman clucked her tongue. “You have no reason to apologize,” she assured me. “Little daughter, the reason that you are restless for freedom is that God has plans for you that extend beyond the walls of this prison.” The Old Woman squinted as she studied me. “As for me, I know that I will die in this cell.” She raised her hand to silence my protests. “That is my fate, and my assurance of it is God’s gift to me. But you, righteous daughter, you have the seal of freedom upon your forehead. The Lord will not forsake you behind these prison walls. Your destiny reaches beyond the borders of this camp.” As I listened to the Old Woman’s words, something swelled in my heart that I hadn’t experienced in my entire detainment:

 Hope.

“The Lord will lift you up on angels’ wings,” the Old Woman proclaimed, breathing faith and conviction into my languishing soul. A sense of power and truth tarried in our cell, so poignant that I held my breath to keep from spoiling its beauty. “God Almighty will himself provide you safe escort beyond prison walls, over rivers, even across borders of nations.” I stared at the Old Woman, not daring to move for fear of destroying the spell of life and inspiration that her words cast upon my troubled heart.

Then suddenly, without warning or reason, the Old Woman chuckled. The sound startled me. “Little daughter, why do you keep on gazing at me as if I were something supernatural?”

“Your words,” I stammered. “What you just said …”

The Old Woman smiled. “Without a doubt, the Almighty reveals his thoughts to me, but that does not make me any less human than you yourself are.”

I shook my head. “You’re so much stronger than I could ever hope to be. You have a boldness I’ve never seen before.”
Except in my father
, I might have added, were it not for his recantation and suicide in the detention center.

 “Dear child,” she chuckled, “do you truly think that your old cellmate is really a bold witness for Christ?”

Now I was even more puzzled. “But aren’t you?” The Old Woman stopped laughing and shook her head.

“No,” she confessed. “At least I was not always.” The Old Woman smoothed out her gray hair. “Have I told you about my youngest son, Chung-Ho?”

“You told me of that he was converted in China, and that he was arrested with you and your husband.”

“There is more to that story.” The Old Woman shifted her weight. “When my son Chung-Ho was brought to Camp 22, the Lord placed upon him a spirit of great boldness and courage. By the time Chung-Ho was taken to glory, he had already shared the gospel with dozens, maybe hundreds, of prisoners. Many perishing souls were saved because of Chung-Ho’s fearless witness.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, although I was already certain of the answer.

“He was killed by the National Security Agency.” The Old Woman cleared her throat. Her head drooped toward the cement floor where we sat side by side, our shoulders and knees touching. I had never before noticed how frail her bones were. “It was a public execution. Because I was his mother, and because I was a Christian, I was forced to stand in the front row, so close that my prison garment was stained with my son’s blood.”