A River in Darkness: One Man's Escape from North Korea(5)

One thing I learned around this time was that while some people—people like my father—just like to show off their physical strength, others have a particular reason for being violent.

In my final year of elementary school, my father decided that I should go to a Korean junior high school, even though I didn’t speak Korean. I didn’t want to go, but I was too scared to oppose his wishes, so off I went.

Most of us at school came from poor families. Our poverty stemmed from racial discrimination, pure and simple. Most students never actively vented their frustration about this—they were just too busy trying to get by—but that didn’t mean they took everything lying down. My schoolmates often had run-ins with Japanese people when they were playing outside or on their way home from school. Over time, they all came to associate racial discrimination with violence. And the logic was straightforward. If someone hit you, you didn’t turn the other cheek. You hit them back. Twice as hard.

I felt torn as I watched my classmates. Now that I’d shared a classroom with them for a while, I felt a growing kinship with them. I’d come to realize that my grandparents and other relatives were wrong. Koreans were nothing like the monsters they’d described. Oh sure, they were rough—how could they not be—but they were also warm and kind. Although I still kept my distance from most of them, I started talking to a boy named Kan Te-son, who sat next to me in class. The rest of us had closely cropped hair, but Son’s hair was kind of unkempt, despite school rules. His hair resembled a mane that had earned him the nickname “Lion.”

After Lion learned about my family situation, he invited me to come home with him one day. We walked through the maze of a Korean neighborhood near a confectionary factory, and the sweet smell of candy permeated the air. When we arrived at his house, his mother immediately asked me if I was hungry A moment later, she rushed into the kitchen and reemerged with rice, Korean pickles, and several other dishes. The table was soon filled with food.

She kept saying, “Eat more!” even though my mouth was full and I was practically choking on the rice I was wolfing down. Lion and his mother watched me, and I couldn’t help noticing their smiles. I’d experienced maternal love, and of course I loved my sisters dearly, but this was the first time I’d felt real affection from people not related to me. Their warmth and empathy were palpable. To tell you the truth, I was so stunned, I could barely swallow. From then on, Lion’s house was the only place I could ever relax. Even as my life took its twists and turns, I never forgot his family’s kindness.

Once Lion and I had become friends, I felt more capable of talking to my classmates. But most of my classes were still totally incomprehensible to me since they were taught in Korean. Math made sense, as did science up to a point. But the rest was just gibberish. There were others like me who couldn’t speak Korean at all. And you know what? Some teachers bent the rules and explained things to us in Japanese. Dissidents!

We were taught that Kim Il-sung was “the king who liberated Korea from colonialism.” He’d waged a war against US imperialists and their South Korean lackeys—and had won. It was thoroughly drummed into us that Kim Il-sung was an invincible general made of steel. I could tell the teachers were proud of his role as the Great Leader of an emerging nation.

Around this period, Japan was hit by recession. Many companies went bankrupt, and unemployment rose sharply. Korean people were at the bottom of the pile, and circumstances that had merely been difficult before soon became dire for many families. Meanwhile, in North Korea, Kim Il-sung proclaimed he was building a socialist utopia. It was called the Chollima Movement. Like the rest of us, our teachers were living in poverty. So they grasped at straws. There was this land, this “promised land,” a “paradise on earth,” a “land of milk and honey.” In their desperation, they fell for these claims—and passed these lies on to us. I listened to what they said with half an ear at best. Oh sure, there was this “paradise on earth” across the sea, but the here and now was all that mattered to me. How could I improve my life right now? Demonstrations were erupting in the streets, my family was barely scraping by, and we were constantly on edge. Added to that, Kanehara was still living with us, and my sisters and I were still sneaking off to see my mother every weekend. Given everything that was going on all around me daily, it was hard to care much about the “paradise” of North Korea.

One day, about a year after my mother ran away, I came home to find a row of shoes lined up just inside the front door. I was stunned by what I found inside: some guys were berating my father and—most important—they were not being beaten to death. There was only one answer: they had to be bigwigs in the League. I entered the room unobtrusively and listened to their conversation. One of them said, “Look. If you can’t clean up your act with regard to your wife, we’ll break off our friendship with you.” Another said, “We’ll take things up with the League. Then you’ll be screwed.” One by one, they all laid into him. They thumped the tatami mats and raised their voices as they asked him to reflect on what he’d done and set out all the sordid details of his life. After an hour or so, satisfied that they had made their point, they all got up and left. My father and Kanehara also left, but I had no idea where they slunk off to. My father returned later that night alone. I do not know where Kanehara went. I never saw her again.

A few days later, some guys affiliated with the League showed up at our door with my mother. I was so stunned by this turn of events, I could only look on in amazement. One of the fellows from the League prostrated himself in front of my mother. “Your husband has promised he’ll mend his ways. Are you willing to start over with him? This isn’t only about you. Think of the children,” he said. My mother was dazed and speechless, but in the end, she agreed to return. Although my sisters shrieked with delight and excitement, I was worried sick. All I could think about was that my father would start beating her again—it was just a question of when. But a day went by. Nothing. A week, then a month. Nothing. He never hit her again. Men from the League kept stopping by our house to make sure.