Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  “Do you think it would be possible to turn the light off?” I asked the guard.

  “No, 103, do not ask such a foolish thing. If the light is out, how will I be able to keep an eye on you?” the guard snapped back.

  “Okay, thank you,” I said. I didn’t want to make the guards mad on my first day. Instead, I rolled over and tried to ignore the light. Fifteen years of this, I thought to myself. Oh, Lord, please get me home.

  FOURTEEN

  DOWN ON THE FARM

  But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

  —2 CORINTHIANS 12:9–10

  THE TALLEST KOREAN man I had ever met came into my room a little before eight o’clock on my first morning in the labor camp. He had to be at least six feet three inches tall.

  “Good morning, 103. I am the acting deputy warden,” he said. “I am the one who will make sure you complete the tasks assigned to you. Your work begins now. Follow me.”

  He led me out of my room, down the hall, and out into the field that ran up the side of a hill. I think the field covered about two acres. A stack of tools sat next to the field along with a bag that I assumed was filled with seeds. The tools included a wooden A-frame carrier that I wore on my back like a backpack. I used it to carry the bag of seed into the field. They also gave me a hoe. Thankfully, the deputy warden also gave me a ball cap to wear to keep some of the sun off of me. Three guards stood near my equipment, all in full military uniform with sidearms, all with their arms crossed, all trying to look very, very tough.

  “In this field you are going to plant and grow soybeans,” the deputy warden announced. “We are self-reliant here in this camp. We grow what we eat and take care of ourselves just as we are taught in juche. You will learn this as well. It is a good system.”

  My only experience with soybeans before that moment had been eating tofu dishes. I had grown up in Seoul, a city of ten million people, and then moved to the Los Angeles area when I was sixteen. Before I walked out in that field, I had never even seen a soybean plant, much less tried to plant and grow one. For that matter, I had never planted anything before. I assumed—and hoped—it was as simple as digging a hole and dropping in the seed.

  “This field is not large. You should be able to plant it in a few days at the most,” he continued. “But you must go quickly. It is late in the season to just now be planting. If you are to harvest any beans, you need to get the seed in the ground now. Do you have any questions?”

  “Where do you want me to start?” I asked.

  “There,” he said, pointing to a front corner of the field. “Work your way across in rows, one row at a time, moving up the hill. You will have a water break at ten o’clock, then lunch at twelve thirty, and another water break at three thirty. If you have completed all of your work, you will go back to your room at six. If you have not, you will stay in the field until your chore is finished. Now, go get started.”

  I walked over to my supplies. The three guards spread out in a triangle around me. One patted his sidearm to make sure I noticed it. I attached the seed bag to the A-frame and hoisted it onto my back. The weight of it dropping down pulled at the sore part of my back, making me wince. I said nothing and tried not to let on that anything bothered me.

  I picked up the hoe and walked over to where I was supposed to start. The sun was not yet hot, but I could tell it was going to be a very warm day. I was already sweating, and I hadn’t even started my work yet. I prayed I wasn’t going to have to do this for the next fifteen years.

  I set down my A-frame and bag of seeds and stared at the ground for a few moments, unsure of what to do first. The ground was hard and dry. A few weeds were sprinkled all along the hillside along with some grass. “Get the seed in the ground,” I’d been told. Not knowing what else to do, I took the hoe and started digging. When I had a little hole a few inches deep, I reached into the bag, took out a seed, dropped down on my knees, and placed it in the hole. I then scooped the dirt back over the seed with my hands.

  I stood up and noticed the guards staring at me. “What are you doing?” one of them asked.

  “What do you mean, sir?” I replied. I had to call the guards sir even though all three were at least fifteen years younger than me. One looked to be about the same age as my son.

  “You look like you’ve never done this before,” he said.

  “I haven’t, sir,” I said.

  All three guards laughed. “Oh, come on. Seriously, 103, what are you doing? Why are you messing around like that?” another guard said.

  “I’m not messing around, sir. I’m trying to plant these seeds.”

  “Have you ever done any farming before?” the first guard asked again.

  “No, sir. Never,” I said.

  All three let out incredulous laughs. “Then how did you survive?” the third guard asked. “How can anybody live without knowing how to farm?”

  “Where I come from, the farmers do all the farming, just like fishermen fish and carpenters build things,” I said.

  “How can a few farmers grow enough food for everybody?” one asked. He clearly did not believe me.

  “The farms are very large. Farmers have tractors and plows and other machinery. With the right machines it doesn’t take very many people to grow a lot of food,” I replied.

  The looks on the guards’ faces made me feel as if I had just stepped into the Twilight Zone or as if I were some crazy person describing life on Mars.

  “So what do you do to make a living?” the second guard asked.

  “I talk, sir. I am a pastor and a missionary. I talk for a living.”

  The guards reacted as though this were the most absurd thing they had ever heard. “So you just talk with your mouth into a microphone or something? That’s how you survive, huh?” the first guard said in a mocking tone.

  “Yes, sir. That’s right,” I said. “I don’t have to know how to farm or how to grow or catch my own food, because I can go to a supermarket filled with food I can buy.”

  I might as well have told them that birds fly into my house at night and deliver groceries to me. I think they might have found that story more believable. The three exchanged looks. Then the first guard said, “Enough talking. Get to work.”

  I dug another hole with the hoe and then stooped down to drop a seed in it. I repeated this a few times before the second guard, a young, thin guy, finally said, “Enough of this foolishness, 103. Let me show you how to do this right. If I don’t, it will take you all summer to just get the field planted.”

  He grabbed my hoe and scraped out a little trench along the ground. “Like this, 103.” The hoe looked like an extension of his arm, not a tool. He moved quickly and efficiently. “Now drop the seeds in the ground, spacing them out like this.” He held out his hands about a foot from one another. “Then cover them over all at once. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Yes, sir. I think so,” I said. I reached into the bag and grabbed a handful of soybean seeds. I got back on my hands and knees and placed each seed exactly a foot apart. The guard shook his head. “Stand up to do it,” he said.

  I tried. The seeds never landed in the trench. I ended up on my knees anyway, picking the seeds up out of the weeds and placing them into the trench before scooping dirt back over them.

  Over the next couple of hours, I tried to plant my seeds like the guard had shown me, but I wasn’t very successful. My back and hands already hurt, and my day was just getting started. Thankfully, I had a short break at ten. The guards changed at eleven, with three new me
n watching over me. The new set of guards, dressed in full uniform, also spread out like a triangle around me, standing in the rising sun.

  At twelve thirty I was told to eat. I took my lunch back in the room, out of the sun. Working all morning had made me very hungry, but the portions were no bigger than those of the day before. I had a few noodles, a little egg, and a couple of vegetables. My shirt was nearly soaked in sweat. I think I hurt more sitting still eating than I did working. At least when I was working, everything was moving. Once I sat down my muscles got tight, my back felt as if it were going to seize up, and my entire body felt as though it could just fall over.

  I still had another four hours in the field to go.

  I started back to work at one thirty, scraping away at the ground with my hoe. I noticed another field on the opposite side of a large fence. Out in the field I saw young men working, most stripped down to the waist. I recognized a couple of the men as the guards who had stood watch over me in the morning. Seeing them working on the farm only made sense. Everywhere I had been in North Korea, I had heard people preach their system of self-reliance. Everyone was supposed to find ways to provide for themselves. The other field looked to be the way the guards provided the food they needed in the prison.

  I found the sight a little ironic. In the morning the men stood guard over me, forcing me to do the work that was my punishment for crimes against the state. In the afternoon they had to do the same work as I did, only theirs wasn’t supposed to be punishment. Instead, planting beans in the heat of the afternoon was one of their rewards of juche. I wondered if they saw the irony.

  As the afternoon grew hotter, my hoeing and planting grew slower. I could hardly straighten up after leaning over to dig with the hoe. My legs did not want to pick me back up after I dropped down to put the seeds in the dirt.

  They expect me to do this for the next fifteen years? I thought. I will not survive it. They know that.

  There’s no way they will work me to death out here. They need me alive to do whatever it is they want to do to America.

  I know my country is working to bring me home. Maybe I will get to go home in a month. I started a new thirty-day countdown in my head.

  The guards changed shifts. The new crew spread out in another triangle around me, each one doing his best to look as menacing as possible. The sun was hot, and the air hardly moved. I noticed rivers of sweat running down the guards’ faces.

  These guys are as miserable as I am, I realized.

  I didn’t think I was such a dangerous criminal that three guards needed to watch over me. Maybe they had nothing else to do. As far as I could tell, I was the only prisoner in the entire labor camp.

  To pass the time, I started singing praise songs. Most of the time I sang in English, although I threw in a few Korean songs as well. By late afternoon I didn’t think I was going to survive to the end of the day. I started singing, “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home . . .” I wished a chariot would come for to carry me home. I was ready to go.

  After what felt like the longest day of my life, six o’clock came. I had not achieved all I was supposed to achieve for the day. I had planted only a few rows. Even though I had been warned I was going to have to stay out in the field until I finished that day’s assignment, the deputy warden showed me some mercy. In all the months I worked out in the field, I think I had to work extra time only once or twice.

  I went back to room 3. I just wanted to collapse on my bed. My dinner, which consisted of basically the same thing I’d had every meal so far, was waiting for me.

  As soon as I finished eating, I headed toward my bedroom. The guard stopped me.

  “Where are you going? It is not time for bed. Sit there.” He pointed to the chair next to the desk. “The TV is to be on. You may also read if you like.”

  I was too tired to read, so I tried to focus on the television. The screen was filled with lots of static. The color faded in and out. I tried switching channels, but the central TV station was the only one I found. I let out a long sigh. Instead of the occasional foreign movie or outside program, I was stuck with the usual propaganda programs extolling the wonders of North Korea’s leaders. I was too tired to care. All I wanted was to lie down.

  At long last ten o’clock came, and the guard at my door told me I could go to sleep. I collapsed on my bed and passed out. Not even the light shining down on me bothered me.

  I did not stir until the next morning around six. After a small breakfast I spent an hour reading my Bible, singing, and praying, before I was led back outside to spend another day working in the field. Just walking out there took all of my spiritual energy. My body ached, but my spirit ached even more. If I am going to survive this, I have to put on the full armor of God, I told myself.

  When I reached the field, I took my hoe and started planting where I had left off the day before. While I dug I silently recited Ephesians 6:13–17. I went over each piece of God’s armor and felt myself place it over my spirit. The belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of salvation, and the shield of faith covered me. I looked at my hoe and imagined it to be the sword of the Spirit. As each piece went on, my strength grew. From that day on, I never left my room without first putting on the full armor of God to prepare me for the spiritual battles awaiting me.

  My second day in the field was pretty much like my first, as was the third day and the fourth and on and on and on. The only exception was the day I spent spreading fertilizer instead of planting. I preferred planting. The fertilizer consisted of pig manure mixed with dried leaves and cut with water. I hauled it out into the field on the A-frame, trying to balance two bucketfuls of this smelly mixture. I spilled more than made it into the field. Eventually the guards told me to carry one bucket at a time.

  I cannot describe the smell. It reeked of the most awful stink I’ve ever experienced.

  I started singing more and more as I worked. I found it lifted my spirits and made the time go by much faster. Most days I sang praise songs. One afternoon I got so caught up in worshiping my Lord that a huge smile broke out on my face. I was hot. My back ached. My knees were sore. But in my spirit I was in the presence of God. Finally one of the guards yelled over at me, “Hey, 103, if you are the prisoner, why do you look like you are enjoying this more than we do? Stop it.”

  The Swedish ambassador came to visit me during my first week in the labor camp. “Help is on the way,” he reassured me. “Your government is working to bring you home. Just hang in there. In the meantime, my office is doing everything it can to get you transferred to a hospital and out of this camp. Your mother mailed your medical records to us, and we forwarded them to the prison doctor. We hope to hear something soon.”

  He also brought me letters from home. My sister told me that she, my mother, and my wife had all written apology letters to the government of North Korea on my behalf. My sister and my son had also written letters to the secretary of state, John Kerry, pleading with him to get me home. My son even wrote President Obama asking him to intervene for me.

  That first week a new visitor came to see me. He introduced himself as the camp political officer, the person responsible for ensuring the orthodoxy of the rank and file’s political views. Each Saturday he came to the prison and conducted what is called study hour. In North Korea, study hour is like going to church, only instead of studying the Bible, people study and memorize Kim Jong Un’s latest speech or something pulled from Kim Il Sung’s or Kim Jong Il’s writings.

  Everyone in the prison had a military rank, and the political officer was no different. He was a colonel, which made him the same rank as the warden, although I was sure the political officer wielded more power. Unlike other high-ranking officials, he was thin and looked very sharp. He introduced himself as a Kim Il Sung University graduate, and he was very proud of that. He was soft-spoken
and seemed to have a gentle personality.

  The first time the political officer came to see me, he was on his best behavior. “How are you doing?” he asked. “How is your health? I understand you have some back problems. How is your back holding up? Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  In later visits he kept up the Mr. Nice Guy tone, but his real motives started coming out. In one visit about a month after I had arrived at the camp, he asked me, “Do you want to become famous?”

  I asked him what he meant.

  “I can give you some books about our Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, and about juche. I think that if you read them and carefully consider what they say, you will want to convert to our side. When you do, I will make you very, very famous.”

  I laughed to myself. Here I was, in prison for being a missionary, and the political officer was doing mission work right in front of me. He was every bit the preacher I was, only his religion was juche.

  “You know I am a Christian missionary and pastor,” I replied.

  “Yes. Of course I know that. That’s what will make you so famous,” the political officer said with a smile. “If you read the truth about our system, I believe you will see the light.”

  “I already have my God and my beliefs,” I said.

  “I know all about your beliefs,” he said with a dismissive tone. “Why do you believe in a god who is not there, when you can believe in something real? You can believe in yourself and in the Leader.”

  “I am not interested in changing. Besides, I know all about juche. They gave me some books about it when I was in Pyongyang,” I said.

  “Just let me know if you are interested in learning more. I will bring you some books for you to study,” he said, not wanting to take no for an answer.

  The political officer came to see me at least once a week. We often talked about each other’s version of truth. He said that he had learned about Christianity at the university, and he found it quite amusing to see people falling for such nonsense even in the twenty-first century. I told him that more than three out of four people in the world believe in some sort of higher power or supernatural being, and one out of three people in the world believes in Christianity. North Korea is the only country in the world whose people do not believe in supernatural gods but believe in the Leader as god and juche as their only doctrine. But the political officer was certain that what he believes is the only truth.