Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  To my surprise, Mr. Park said, “Sure, why not?”

  Mr. Park and I went down on the sand and watched the sun come up over the ocean. Even though it was December, the air temperature was not that cold. It was one of the prettiest sunrises I’ve ever seen, even more beautiful than the one the day before.

  Once the sun was up we headed inland, driving straight west toward Pyongyang. The road wasn’t much better than the one we had traveled the day before. Snow started falling, which slowed us down. The snow showed me a side of North Korea I can hardly believe exists.

  In most cold-climate countries, snowplows keep roads clear in winter. That is not the North Korean way. Instead, I witnessed ordinary people all along the highway pushing snow off the road by hand with snow shovels, as if they were cleaning their driveways. I even saw young mothers, with their babies on their backs, out shoveling snow.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  Mr. Park seemed surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “All these people out on the road shoveling snow. Where do they all come from?”

  “They live around here,” he said in a tone of voice that made me feel like I had asked a crazy question.

  “But why are they shoveling the road?” I asked.

  “To clear the snow. When it snows, everyone must pitch in to keep the roads open. That is part of what makes our system great. We all work together and rely on one another. No one is exempt. That’s why you see mothers with children as well as doctors and even party officials out here. We all must do our part,” Mr. Park said with a bit of pride in his voice.

  “Don’t they have jobs?”

  “Yes, but the common good comes first. They come out and shovel before they go to work.” Mr. Park looked out the window at the line of workers with shovels. He smiled at them as we drove past. “What do they do in America, let the snow pile up?”

  “No, we have snowplows that clear the road for everyone,” I said.

  He shook his head with the kind of look a carpenter gives someone trying to drive a nail with the heel of a shoe. For the next few hours we drove past tens of thousands of people with snow shovels clearing the highway all the way to Pyongyang, a distance of nearly two hundred miles.

  The road improved when we got closer to Pyongyang. Eventually we reached one of the few paved highways in the country. It still did not compare to the highways in the United States or South Korea. The constant snow made its condition even worse.

  The drive took two or three times longer than it might have taken in America. I wished we could have driven as fast as on an American highway, because I was ready to get this ordeal over with. The faster we arrived in Pyongyang, the faster I could answer the last round of questions and go home. On my third day of detainment in Villa Three, I had felt the Holy Spirit’s presence and God’s promise to bring me through. Now I felt as if the finish line were finally in sight. It could not come soon enough for me.

  The mood in the car remained light. Music played. A couple of hours out from Pyongyang, Mr. Park pulled up a video on his phone of a comedy club in Pyongyang. The segment made fun of President George W. Bush’s IQ and his looks. Everyone in the car laughed and laughed as the actor had Bush make all kinds of silly commands that made it look like America could be brought down very easily. The video used a couple of clips and music from an American movie that also made fun of President Bush. The video was actually pretty funny, but I felt very awkward laughing at one of our presidents while sitting in a car full of people who hate our country. However, I did not make a big deal of it, because I figured everyone needs to laugh sometimes—even in North Korea.

  After the video the man in the front passenger seat peppered me with more questions about what America is really like. Mr. Park even said, “I never knew some of the things you told me about how people talk about the DPRK in the West. No wonder you think the way you do.”

  A few miles outside of Pyongyang, our car slowed down in the middle of the highway. There aren’t many cars in the entire country, so I didn’t think we were in a traffic jam. I looked up ahead and noticed a black North Korean–made SUV stopped in the middle of the road. Two men in dark suits stood next to the car. Our driver came to a complete stop and rolled down his window. One of the men from the other car walked over to the window and looked back at me.

  “Okay,” he said to our driver, “you follow us.” The man went back to his car and escorted us into the city.

  I turned to Mr. Park. “How long again do you think I will be here?” I guess I needed a little reassurance.

  “Maybe a month at the most. Don’t worry about it,” he said with a smile. “Just stick with your story and cooperate, and you will be fine.”

  I hoped he was right.

  We exited the highway and drove into the heart of Pyongyang. The car in front led us down several streets before slowing down in front of a restaurant. Our driver pulled our car right behind it. The two cars then turned into a narrow alley behind the restaurant that came to a dead end at a large metal gate. The gate opened, revealing a very ordinary two-story building that could not be seen from the street. We pulled through the gate and parked in front of the building. The two men from the front car came back to our car and looked at me. One of them said, “Come with us.”

  Mr. Park opened the door, climbed out, and let me out. That was the last I ever saw of him.

  I was led through the front door. Inside looked like a clubhouse to me. It did not look or feel like a police station or a prison. The two men led me further down the hall, past several doors, to a downstairs room. “In there,” one said. I walked in and found a hotel-type room with a desk, a couple of chairs, and a television, along with a twin bed.

  One of the security officials said, “Make yourself at home and relax. Lie down if you like, or you can even watch some TV. If you need anything, just let us know.” He turned and left.

  I looked around. No one was standing guard, at least not in my room or immediately in the hall. However, I knew they were watching me. On the wall there was a security camera that could see the entire room.

  The drive had left me very tired. I lay down and immediately fell asleep. Later I woke up and flipped on the television. It didn’t take long to go through all the channels because there was only one to choose from. The news was on. Every story was about the beloved Supreme Leader, Kim Jong Un.

  When the news broadcast ended, the channel did not go to commercial. Instead, the scene shifted to a concert. A woman in a tight-fitting military-type uniform was singing before a packed house. The song seemed to be an intense love song. Tears filled her eyes. I thought, Wow, this is a very emotional song for her. Then I listened closely to the words. I’d never heard a love song like this. She wasn’t singing about a man. No, she was singing of her love for the Supreme Leader! I would have changed channels, but this was my only choice.

  After the music video a movie came on. Good, I thought. I love movies, and I haven’t seen one in a very long time. My enthusiasm was short-lived. The movie was about Kim Il Sung, the original Great Leader, as he led troops into battle against the Japanese in World War II.

  I turned off the television and went to bed.

  The DPRK officials pretty much left me alone for those first three or four days, although I noticed guards had been posted at my door. I slept most of the day, trying to make up for the fatigue caused by a solid month of intense investigation. When I was awake, I explored my room. Inside one of the desk drawers I found the words Love Nest scrawled in English. I suspected I wasn’t the first American prisoner detained here. I later learned that almost every American detained through the years had stayed in this same compound.

  When I wasn’t looking for secret messages, I slept as much as I wanted, watched television when the channel was actually broadcasting (which was only a few
hours a day), and read. They gave me back my Bible right after I arrived in Pyongyang. I had not had it during the month in Rason, and I had missed it terribly. Some days I read it for eight hours or more.

  Nearly every day the electricity cut out for an hour or two, sometimes longer. I had come to expect that. From my experience on previous trips, I had learned to always take the stairs in multistory buildings, even when my hotel room was on the sixth or seventh floor. There are few things worse than getting stuck in an elevator during a prolonged power outage.

  Overall, those first few days in Pyongyang allowed me to rest and regain my strength. I assumed officials were going through my testimony and questioning Mr. Park so that they could verify everything I had written in Rason. Once they finished, I expected to be sent home.

  That’s all I wanted—to go home. God had sustained me through my month of captivity in Rason. In spite of the death threats hurled at me, I knew God was going to protect me, and he did. The prospect of going home had made the previous month seem more bearable. Now I had stories to tell. I even held out hope that I might get to resume my work in North Korea, or, at the very least, back in China.

  On my fourth day in Pyongyang, I was sleeping in my bed after lunch when a man burst through my door. I jumped up.

  “Please sit down,” the man said. He looked to be about my age, in his midforties. He was thin but taller than the average North Korean. “My name is Lee Chul, and I am from the supreme prosecutor’s office,” he said, introducing himself. “It took me a while to get up here to see you myself because there was so much information to go through. Mr. Park was quite meticulous.”

  “You talked with him?” I asked.

  “Of course. We’ve talked many times over the past four days.”

  I was relieved. If they had talked, then surely they had discussed my release.

  “Bae Junho, I am here to inform you that as of today you have been officially charged with crimes against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Your government has been notified of the charges against you. Today marks the beginning of the pretrial proceedings.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Trial?” I asked. I was so taken aback by the word that I did not ask why the United States government only now had been notified of my situation. I was led to believe that they had been contacted right after I was first detained.

  “Yes. Trial. During the pretrial period we will verify all the information you gave Mr. Park in Rason. Just because you said something doesn’t make it true. We will question witnesses and investigate your case thoroughly. Once we are ready, you will stand trial.”

  I could not believe my ears. “I’m going to be tried, as in go to court and be formally prosecuted?”

  “Yes. Of course. What did you think was going to happen to you?”

  “I . . . uh . . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

  “Mr. Park told me you have cooperated in the past. If you continue to do that, then everything should go well for you. I am sure you will have a good result.”

  I didn’t ask what a good result might be. I hoped he meant I would go home, but it didn’t sound like I was going home any time soon. “How long will that be?”

  “As long as it takes,” he replied.

  NINE

  FAR FROM HOME

  I love you, LORD, my strength.

  The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer;

  my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge,

  my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

  — PSALM 18:1–2

  I WAS ACTUALLY excited the first time I was allowed to watch television in the Pyongyang detention center. After weeks of no music, no movies, and no books or magazines, I welcomed the break from the silence. For me and for most every American, television is entertainment. Not in North Korea.

  I quickly learned my captors were not “letting” me watch television. As part of my reeducation program, I had to watch it every day from the time the central channel began broadcasting—around five in the evening—until it went off the air at ten thirty. Later in the evening a second channel started broadcasting, with a third that came on, only on the weekends, but they weren’t much better. The government uses television as a propaganda tool to shape the minds of the North Korean people. My captors hoped to shape my mind as well.

  Every day one of the four guards assigned to me came into my room at five o’clock and told me to turn on the set. (The four guards rotated their shifts, changing every three hours, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.) I had no choice but to obey. On the days I turned the set off early, a guard immediately came in and ordered me to turn it back on.

  The television was the best and worst part of my day. It was the best because it broke up the monotony of sitting in a solitary, silent room. But it was the worst because of the nonstop propaganda I had to endure.

  I can recall almost every line from the shows I watched because they aired the exact same show over and over for days at a time. Every day for a week they might show the same documentary of Kim Il Sung’s rise to power. By the third or fourth repeat, I prayed for a power outage.

  I once made the mistake of switching the channel in the middle of the Kim Il Sung movie. “What are you doing?” the guard stepped in and said. I explained to him that I had already seen this documentary four times.

  “I do not care,” he snapped. “You watch.”

  One weekend evening I turned on the central channel with a sense of dread. I could not take another movie about Kim Il Sung or Kim Jong Il. To my great surprise, a film started that appeared to be a drama about a family in the countryside.

  Finally, something new, I thought.

  I soon learned a lesson about North Korean moviemaking: no matter the genre—action film, love story, or crime drama—every movie ends the same way. The Great Leader, Dear Leader, or Supreme Leader always steps in and solves everyone’s problems. This is the consistent message North Korean people hear from the moment they come into the world: The Leader is all you will ever need. He loves you. He cares for you. He will provide you with whatever you need.

  Worse than the movies were the music videos that filled the time between programs. Most featured music from North Korea’s number one pop group, the all-girl group called the Moranbong Band. Kim Jong Un himself handpicked the girls for their looks as much as for their musical abilities. I could not turn on the television without coming across their music videos. Every night I was forced to listen to songs with lyrics like,

  Today, tomorrow, always, I will stand next to him.

  Until the end, I will share my destiny with him. That is the confession of my heart.

  Our comrade Kim Jong Un, our heart is being pulled to him because of his leadership.

  Until my life ceases, I will never change my heart.

  That was their hit song, “Confession.” Another of their most popular songs is called “Burning Desire.” The song kicks off with these lines:

  As we think about the Marshal who will go to a long distance at this late night,

  Our hearts sincerely follow along his steps.

  Since our destiny, our happiness depends on the Marshal, our only desire is the Marshal’s well-being.

  The Marshal is Kim Jong Un. His grandfather, the original Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, is the President, while Kim Jong Il, the son of Kim Il Sung and father of Kim Jong Un, is the General.

  “Burning Desire” also included the line, “Because of the Marshal, our future has no limits.” One night while I was watching this music video, the power shut off the moment after that line, and the television, along with the entire compound, went dark.

  I laughed. “Yes, your future has no limits, but you can’t keep the lights on,” I whispered to myself.
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br />   I heard these songs so many times that the lyrics got stuck in my head. I found myself singing them without even realizing I was doing it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the lyrics out of my head. But then I thought about the words. It hit me: the songs weren’t so bad. All I had to do was remove the word Marshal and replace it with Jesus, and the songs made great worship songs that we could even sing at church. I walked around singing the new versions. The more I sang them, the more I enjoyed them. I doubt if the Moranbong Band or Kim Jong Un would have felt the same way about my changes to their lyrics.

  Besides giving me new songs to sing, the constant propaganda barrage helped me understand how ordinary North Koreans feel about their leader. I tried to imagine what it would have been like for me to have been born here, which is what would have happened to me if my grandfather had not escaped during the Korean War. If I had been born here and had seen and heard and been taught all this stuff every day for my entire life, I would be praising the Supreme Leader as well.

  I came away with much more compassion and understanding for the North Korean people. The world where Kim Il Sung is god is the only reality they know. No wonder they found me to be such a threat.

  The impact of the constant propaganda campaign was most obvious in the news programs. Every story reminded the viewers that North Korea is paradise on earth. According to their media, the DPRK is the envy of every country on earth. Newscasts also pick up wire feeds of stories from America and the West. North Korean newscasts show every video of shootings, street riots, and acts of violence in America, along with footage of every wildfire and hurricane and tornado and flood. Basically, they show anything and everything that makes America look bad. From watching the news night after night I came to understand that people here sincerely believe America is nothing but poverty and violence and death.