Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  “Okay,” I said.

  He spun around on his boots. “How are you supposed to address me, 103? Is that how you are supposed to address me? You say it again correctly this time!”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Did you have permission to speak, 103?” he snapped back.

  “I am sorry. Excuse me, teacher. May I speak, please?” I said, still on the floor.

  “Stand up when you speak to me,” he said.

  I stood up and repeated, “Excuse me, teacher. May I speak, please?” Having to call him teacher and sir felt very strange because I was old enough to be the guard’s father.

  “Yes, you may speak, 103.”

  “Yes, teacher, I will scrub the floor again,” I said.

  “That’s better, 103. Now, get to work.”

  This young guard seemed to enjoy finding fault with everything I did. He had the kind of personality where everything had to be done perfectly, and I never measured up. He was also very much a rule follower.

  In the beginning he made it clear he did not like me. “You are Korean, but you work for the US government. You are a spy, aren’t you? How dare you do that to our country?”

  I never argued or tried to defend myself. I knew my words could never convince him I was something other than what he’d already decided I was. Instead I tried very hard to do my work well and to do it with the right attitude. I believed that if they could see a difference in me, then their hearts might soften.

  Despite the hope I had expressed in the Choson Sinbo interview, my father’s birthday came and went, and I was no closer to going home.

  My clothes kept getting looser. Every day I worked my field while the guards watched from the shade.

  One of the older guards asked me one day, “How can you live in America? It is so violent.”

  “It isn’t violent,” I said. “Most places are perfectly safe.”

  “How can you say it is safe when so many people get shot and the women are raped?” I knew where these questions were coming from. North Korean news programs pull the worst crime footage from the States and show it over and over, telling viewers this is everyday life in America.

  “There are a few places that are dangerous, but most of the country is not that way. When I lived in the city of St. Louis, in the middle of the country, I never even locked my doors,” I replied. I mentioned St. Louis even though I knew he had no idea what I was talking about.

  “What kind of place did you live in?” the guard asked. “Did you have an apartment or a house or what?”

  “I had an apartment in St. Louis, but we owned our own house when we lived in Atlanta. And I owned cars in both places.”

  The other two guards who were listening to the conversation reacted as if I had just lost my mind. “How can you own a house and a car?” one asked in a tone that made it clear he believed this to be impossible.

  “In America we have a thing called credit,” I said. “You buy the car and take it home, and then you pay for it a little every month.”

  “How do people pay for things? No one has jobs over there. Ninety percent of the people live on the streets,” the first guard said.

  “No, that’s not true. Most people own their own cars and homes, at least the ones who want to,” I said.

  “The government supplies us with all we want,” the third guard chimed in. “They build us houses and give them to us to live in.” The other two gave him a little look as if to tell him to shut up. I knew what he was saying was no longer true. Years earlier most people had lived in government-provided housing, but no longer. Now people had to make their own way, with average people unable to afford their own homes. Generations now shared the same small houses and apartments.

  “Anyway, enough talk,” the guard said. “Get back to work, 103. You’re slow enough without wasting time talking.”

  July passed. I had been depressed when I could not be with my father on his birthday, but now my own birthday had arrived. I went out in the field on August 1 just as I did every day. It was really hard to act as if this were just another day. On my last birthday, back in Dandong, my staff threw a surprise party for me, with cake and everything else. Here, no one knew or cared that it was my birthday. I shouldn’t have cared either, but there’s something about birthdays that always makes me sentimental.

  I had been out in the field about two hours when the deputy warden told me to come back inside. I had no idea what was going on. Perhaps Choson Sinbo was back for another interview.

  I walked to my room and found the political officer there waiting for me.

  “Happy birthday,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, because here, you don’t have to work on your birthday. You have the rest of the day off.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I brought you something,” he said. He brought out some instant ramen noodles, a substitute for the noodles that Koreans traditionally eat on their birthdays. He also had bread and soda. “I hope you enjoy your day today. I know your family will be thinking about you and you them, so I wanted to make sure you got a little comfort.”

  The warden had walked in while the political officer made his presentation. “You know,” the warden said, “he bought all this with his own money.”

  I was touched that he did this for me. However, I wasn’t quite sure what his motives might have been. Perhaps the political officer was trying to convert me through his acts of kindness. Whatever his motives, I was very thankful that I did not have to work outside on such a hot summer day. I enjoyed the treats and the day off.

  A few days later the prison doctor came in for his weekly visit. It was the same routine: He asked how I was feeling. I went through my list of ailments. Then he always said, “What do you expect? You are in a labor camp.”

  However, on Saturday, August 3, 2013, the doctor actually seemed to listen to me. The chief prosecutor had come with him, but I don’t think he had any influence on the doctor. After all, it was the chief prosecutor who had me sent to the camp even after I failed my medical exam.

  The prison doctor asked me how I felt. I told him, “I know I’ve lost a lot of weight, and I get dizzy a lot.”

  The chief prosecutor spoke up. “Do you think we should check him into the hospital for a thorough examination?”

  The doctor scrunched up his forehead as he thought. “That may not be a bad idea. There’s only so much I can do here.”

  “All right,” the prosecutor said. “I will make the arrangements.”

  At first I thought this was an honest conversation, but then I thought about something the chief prosecutor had said on an earlier visit. He had made an offhand comment about how most prisoners stay in this labor camp for only three months. My three months were up. Maybe something else was going on.

  I did not want to get my hopes up. I told myself that I was just going to the hospital for a few tests and then I would be right back, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I was about to go home.

  On Monday morning the guard told me to gather all my things together. This could be it, I told myself.

  That afternoon the chief prosecutor came to my room. “Time to go,” he said.

  I looked around my room. Good-bye, room 3. I hope I never see you again.

  The warden, deputy warden, and the guards all came by my room as I left. “Good-bye,” I said to them.

  “Good-bye, 103,” the warden said. The way he said it sounded really final, like a final good-bye.

  I walked out to the waiting minivan with the prosecutor and took one last look at the labor camp. Finally, my nightmare was coming to an end. I never thought I would see that place again.

  SIXTEEN

  GOING HOME?

  “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in Go
d; believe also in me.”

  —JOHN 14:1

  DURING THE DRIVE to the hospital from the labor camp, I once again was placed between guards in the backseat of the curtained minivan and was forced to ride with my head down between my knees. They wanted to keep my destination a secret, but I recognized it the moment I stepped out.

  They took me to Chin-Sun Hospital, also known as Friendship Hospital. Located near the diplomatic compound in the center of Pyongyang, the hospital cares only for foreign patients, mainly Russians and Chinese diplomats. The building reminded me of a small-town hospital. It wasn’t very big at all. There were three floors in the main building, with another couple of smaller buildings attached to it.

  The chief prosecutor led me inside. Two guards from the labor camp walked behind us. We walked down a couple of hallways before making a right turn, which led to a pair of rooms at the end of a dead-end hall.

  “This is where you will stay, 103,” the prosecutor said to me, pointing to the room on the right.

  The moment I walked into my room I felt rejuvenated. The hospital had air-conditioning, which felt like heaven after three months in a hot, insect-filled room. The room itself was a VIP suite and was divided into three sections. It had a separate living area, including a large sofa, with a connecting door to the bedroom. It also had a bathroom with a real bathtub and a regular toilet. (In the camp I had to use a squat-style toilet instead of a Western one.) In addition to the bed, the room also had a refrigerator and a dining table with a couple of chairs. There was also a television. I dreaded seeing it there, but I was also happy to have something that connected me to the outside world. Even though I was in a VIP suite, my privacy was limited. The guards kept an eye on me through a large window in the door.

  A couple of nurses were already in my room. A fresh set of pajama-like clothes were laid out on the bed for me. I was happy to see them. My prison clothes were stained and didn’t smell too good, even though I washed them when I bathed. I went into the bathroom and changed clothes.

  When I came out, my doctor was waiting for me. She was in her fifties and was very thin and petite, with a warm smile. “The actual tests will not start until the morning,” she said. “I don’t want you to eat breakfast or anything else tomorrow until we are finished. Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll bring you some food as soon as we are finished.”

  The next morning, nurses came into my room to draw blood and take a urine sample. They took me to another room, where they did an ultrasound on my gallbladder, and to a third room, where I had X-rays taken of my back. I was also poked and prodded, and I went through a whole gamut of tests. The medical staff was very thorough.

  Later in the day, my doctor gave me the results. “We found a problem with your back. We also found gallstones, and your prostate is enlarged,” she said. I was not surprised, since I had had these conditions before I entered North Korea back in November. “And we determined you are suffering from malnutrition.”

  That diagnosis did not surprise me. I had lost more than fifty pounds since November.

  “What about my diabetes?” I asked. I did not believe the prison doctor’s claim that it was gone.

  “All the tests for diabetes came back negative. It seems you no longer have it,” she said. “We will start treatments for malnutrition right away. We should have you as good as new very soon.”

  The chief prosecutor came to see me right after the doctor gave me the diagnosis. “You’re going to be here for a while,” he said. “Get some rest and get treated, and then that’s it.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. I hoped “that’s it” meant, “That will be the end of your time here, and you’re going to go home.”

  The treatment for malnutrition mainly consisted of nutrient injections into my IV. They also gave me some supplements. However, aside from aspirin for my back pain, they didn’t treat my gallstones or back. I thought they probably wanted to get my weight up so that I might look healthy when I got to go home.

  The chief prosecutor must have meant what he said about rest, because I was allowed to lie down as much as I wanted. Back in the labor camp, I had to sit upright in a chair whenever I was not working out in the field. Not here. Here they treated me like any other patient, not a criminal. I could lie down or sleep however much I needed.

  Unfortunately, I still had to watch propaganda on the television from the moment the channels started broadcasting until they went off the air. There was no escaping that. They also kept my door locked at all times. The guards had to open it with a key for doctors and nurses to come in, and the guards stayed in the room with them until they were finished with me.

  Mr. Lee came to see me not long after I arrived. “From now on I am going to be the one checking on you,” he told me, which made me feel a little better. I decided to call him Mr. Sympathy in my head, because he was the only North Korean official I had met during my time there who actually seemed to care about me. I enjoyed talking with him.

  I adjusted to life in the hospital very quickly. I spent the first two weeks in my room resting, an IV in my arm several hours a day. One thing struck me as a little odd. Sometimes when my door was open, I could hear a dog barking. The first time I heard it I thought, What kind of hospital is this? Do they treat both dogs and people here?

  The Swedish ambassador came to see me about a week after I arrived at the hospital. Once again he assured me the United States was doing everything it could to secure my release. I listened closely to try to detect any extra enthusiasm in his voice, something to indicate the efforts to bring me home were getting close. But he just told me efforts were under way, which was still encouraging to me. At least I had not been forgotten.

  His deputy, John Svensson, came to see me a couple of weeks later to tell me he was going to travel to the United States in early September to discuss my case with the State Department. That got my hopes up even more.

  Choson Sinbo showed up for another interview on the same day the ambassador came to see me. They set up a video camera in my room and asked me a series of questions: “Why did the North Korean government send you to the hospital? Why are you here? How is your health now?”

  I went through the list of my ailments. “Mainly,” I told them, “I am being treated for malnutrition. My hand is also numb, and I have shooting pains in my leg. That’s why they put me in the hospital.”

  Then the reporter asked, “Do you have anything to say to the United States government?”

  I had to say the same thing I said before. “Please, do anything you can,” I pleaded. I knew the entire interview was designed to put more pressure on the United States. It was the DPRK’s way of saying, “We sent one of yours to the labor camp because he deserved it. Now, we are treating him in one of our best hospitals as a humanitarian gesture. However, if you don’t do something, we will send him back to the camp.” They didn’t say that in so many words, but that was the real message they wanted to get across through Choson Sinbo.

  After two weeks of IVs and rest, I was allowed to go out to the hallway and get some exercise. A guard escorted me out for the walk. I recognized him as one of the guards from the labor camp. We walked past the room right next to mine. I glanced through the door and noticed another guard sitting in a chair. Both beds had clothes and books piled on top.

  “Is that where you’re staying?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Three of us rotate shifts to guard your door. Don’t even think about trying to escape.” He tried to sound tough, as usual, but his heart didn’t really seem to be in it. By this point he knew I posed no threat.

  “Don’t worry about me escaping. I am in the safest and the most comfortable place in North Korea. Besides, where could I run to?”

  He nodded and said, “That’s true.”

  The guard and I walked down the hall, which was about twenty yards lo
ng. When we reached the main hallway, I turned around and went back toward our rooms. The prison officials wanted to keep my presence in the hospital a secret from anyone else who happened to be staying there.

  As we walked I noticed a set of windows on the interior side of the hallway that looked out on an inner courtyard. I was looking out the window very closely, trying to figure out exactly what was in there, when all of a sudden, this large, hairy, English shepherd leaped up on the glass and started barking at me. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “Hey, buddy. What are you doing here?” I said to the dog.

  He kept barking. As I walked farther down the hall, the dog dropped down and then jumped up on the next window, and the next and the next, barking the whole time, until we passed the courtyard.

  Over the next several days, I took more and more walks past the courtyard windows. The first few days the dog jumped up and barked at me. “Hey, pal, why are you barking? I see you. I’m paying attention to you,” I told him.

  Before long the dog stopped barking. Instead, he jumped up on the window and let out a little yap to get my attention. When I talked to him, his tail wagged back and forth as if he were really glad to see me. I had made my first friend.

  I never saw anyone inside the courtyard playing with him, although from time to time I saw someone in there feeding him.

  Talking to the dog each day became the high point of my walks. It was as though he were looking for me. Maybe I was his only friend as well.

  About a month after I arrived at the hospital, I woke up and something was different. The first thing I noticed was that all three guards were on duty, not the usual one or two. Not only that, all three wore their full uniforms. Normally, all the guards dressed very casually to keep from standing out in the hospital. Today they wore their full military uniforms, with belts that came down across their chests. They also wore their hats, as if they had to go to some official function.