Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  “Okay,” I said. I looked closely at him to try to tell if he was simply trying to get a reaction from me or if he sincerely believed I was going to serve my entire sentence. Not even the chief prosecutor had ever indicated I would be here for the full fifteen years. During his last visit he had told me the DPRK government would probably let me off for good behavior after seven or eight years.

  “Yes, you and I will celebrate your sixtieth birthday here together,” he said as he got up to leave. “I will see you next week.”

  The next week the new prosecutor told me the exact same thing, and the next week and the next and the next. Some weeks he added things like, “Your family has forgotten you. Your government has forgotten you. No one remembers you are even here.” He never brought good news, always bad.

  I soon started calling the new prosecutor Mr. Disappointment, although I never called him this to his face. To me it seemed his only job was to throw a bucket of cold water on any hopes of release to which I might cling.

  Thankfully, Mr. Disappointment’s visits often brought new mail for me. In addition to the usual letters from my family, I started receiving letters from strangers who wrote to me as a result of the letter-writing campaigns Euna Lee and others had organized. Mr. Disappointment would tell me everyone had forgotten all about me, but then I would open a new letter and read:

  Dear Ken,

  Just wanted to let you know that I am praying for you every day. Praying that the Lord may be providing for your emotional, spiritual, and physical needs—in a way that transcends all earthly understanding. We haven’t forgotten about you, brother.

  Much love,

  Russ

  Hundreds of people like Russ, all telling me how I was not forgotten, wrote to me during my imprisonment. I needed those letters. No matter how strong your faith, and no matter how determined you might be to do God’s will whatever the cost, the voice of a Mr. Disappointment can wear you down. Russ and all the people like him carried me through the tough times.

  The tough times came on a regular basis. November flew by. When December came, I realized I was going to miss another Christmas with my family. Even though I had made peace with the fact that God had called me to be a missionary in chains for the foreseeable future, it wasn’t any easier not to see my wife and children and other family over the holidays.

  On December 29, 2013, I was allowed to call my family again. On this call I spoke with my son, Jonathan, for the first time since my arrest. I felt so guilty being away from him for so long.

  “This all needed to happen like this right now,” I told him, “but don’t give up. Keep fighting for me to come home. We are in this together.”

  Jonathan fought back tears. “I know, Dad. I will not give up. I cannot wait to see you.”

  “Remind the government that it would be really good if they could get me home before the United States and South Korea hold joint military exercises again in March. When that happened this past March, it seemed that North Korea got mad, and nothing happened on my case for a while.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Jonathan said.

  “I know you will,” I said.

  We talked a little about all he had done so far. My son was behind the Change.org petition drive to bring me home. He’d also written the president, the secretary of state, and many other officials, urging them to take action. His efforts, along with the tireless work of my sister and the rest of my family, were beginning to produce results in raising awareness on a grassroots level, although they struggled to gain attention nationally.

  And then Dennis Rodman happened.

  Basketball Hall of Famer Dennis Rodman brought a team of former professional basketball players to North Korea less than a week after I spoke on the phone with my son. Rodman calls Kim Jong Un his friend, which isn’t surprising if you know anything about Dennis Rodman. He has never followed what one might call a traditional path.

  This wasn’t Rodman’s first trip to North Korea while I was imprisoned. He had come alone in early September 2013. When he returned to the United States, reporters asked if he had talked with Kim Jong Un about me. He shouted back, “That’s not my job to ask about Kenneth Bae. Ask Obama about that. Ask Hillary Clinton.”1

  On this trip, in early January 2014, Rodman brought with him ten guys who had all played in the NBA. North Korea ate it up. Rodman even sang “Happy Birthday” to Kim Jong Un. I watched it on television in my hospital room. The whole time I felt as if I were watching a scene from The Twilight Zone.

  During his time in Pyongyang, Rodman and his team did a live interview with Chris Cuomo of CNN. I, obviously, did not get to see the interview, although I did watch the basketball game on television four times that week. I had no choice. It was the only thing on. The North Korean media was very excited about Rodman’s “basketball diplomacy” and how he showed such respect to Kim Jong Un. However, Rodman’s CNN interview was not broadcast in the DPRK.

  In the interview, Cuomo asked Rodman if he planned to speak to Kim about me. Clearly agitated by the question, Rodman replied, “Do you understand what he did in this country? No, no, no, you tell me, you tell me. Why is he held captive here in this country, why?”2 Later Rodman apologized and said he was drunk when he did the interview.3 But to everyone watching the interview live, it was clear that Rodman was saying I deserved to be in prison for what I had done. Clearly, he wasn’t going to try to talk his buddy into letting me go.

  After Rodman’s rant on CNN, I became a very hot topic of discussion on the national news networks. Anderson Cooper had my sister back on for an interview. She said, “[Dennis Rodman] was in a position to do some good and to help advocate for Kenneth. He refused to do so but then instead he has chosen to hurl these outrageous accusations against Kenneth.” She continued, “He clearly doesn’t know anything about Kenneth, about his case, and we were appalled by that.”4

  Apparently, my sister’s outrage at Rodman’s rant fueled a media frenzy like none my family had seen in the fourteen months of my detainment. My case became high drama played out on live television. More people spoke up for me. In an interview, Bill Richardson again called for my release, as did Vice President Biden. During the National Prayer Breakfast on February 6, 2014, President Obama made a very bold statement. He called me a good man who deserved to be set free.5 Rev. Jesse Jackson became even more outspoken about my situation. He wrote eleven letters to the North Korean government on my behalf, met with a North Korean delegation at the United Nations, and even volunteered to come to Pyongyang to bring me home.

  I later learned that in the wake of the media storm created by Dennis Rodman, my son, my mom, and my sister traveled to New York City for media interviews. They also went to Washington, DC, where they visited with congressmen, senators, and even with Secretary of State Kerry to plead for help from the US government. Congressman Charles Rangel of New York and Congressman Rick Larsen of Washington invited my sister and my mom to attend President Obama’s State of the Union address. Thanks to Dennis Rodman’s drunken outburst and my sister’s defense of me, my case had now catapulted to a new level of national consciousness and outrage.

  I didn’t know any of this was going on until Mr. Disappointment came storming into my room one afternoon, very upset.

  “Do you know what the Western media is saying about you?” he asked. He waved a pile of papers at me. “Just look at this. Look!”

  I glanced through the stack of papers. They were printouts of stories about Dennis Rodman’s comments and the backlash against him. All the stories said the same thing: North Korea was holding an innocent man who deserved to be set free.

  “What are you going to do about this?” Mr. Disappointment demanded.

  “What do you mean? What can I possibly do?” I asked.

  “You must tell them you are not an innocent man. You are guilty. You adm
itted it yourself. Maybe we should have you call your family again and set the record straight. Or maybe you can meet with the Swedes and protest this whole thing.”

  I understood why Mr. Disappointment was so angry. In his eyes, and in the eyes of everyone with whom I had contact in North Korea, I was guilty of a serious crime. On top of that, the message of the gospel of Jesus Christ was a dangerous message that could turn the entire country away from their faith in Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. All throughout the country, large photographs of them adorned houses and public squares. One of my nurses even had to spend a night outside guarding these mosaic portraits against possible vandals. Army officers and loyal party members wore photos of the two on their breasts, next to their hearts. For me to suggest that Jesus, not Kim Il Sung, is Lord was anything but an innocent act in their eyes.

  “Why don’t you let me hold a press conference?” I suggested. “I will admit that I am guilty of the crimes with which I have been charged, and I will apologize again to North Korea.”

  “Let me think about that,” Mr. Disappointment replied.

  “This could be an out for everyone,” I said. “I will admit to the world what I have done, and everyone will see that the DPRK is the victim here. Then there will be no reason for you to keep me in custody.”

  I thought he might go for this. Several times over the previous few weeks, he had dropped hints that they were ready to be rid of me.

  The next day Mr. Disappointment returned. “All right, we’re going to do what you suggested. In three days you will hold a press conference and admit your guilt. And we want you to address all the people that say you are being held for no reason. Tell them to stop. The vice president and your sister are saying this. You make them stop.” Then he added, almost as an aside, “But do not say anything about Dennis Rodman. You leave him out of this.”

  Just to make sure I said the right thing, Mr. Disappointment then handed me a piece of paper. “Write down your speech and the possible questions and answers from the reporters. You are to practice this speech, but it has to be in your own words. It cannot sound rehearsed.”

  I felt as though I were back in Rason. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I am a professional. I speak for a living.”

  I started practicing that day. Mr. Disappointment did not like what he heard. “You sound like you are reading a script,” he complained.

  We kept at it all that day and the next. He asked me questions I was supposed to answer. We went over and over my statement. Throughout the rehearsal I understood that if I held this press conference, the North Koreans were going to let me go. That was the deal I thought we had made.

  The news conference was scheduled for three o’clock Monday afternoon. In the morning they shaved my head. Then they wanted me to put on my prison uniform. “I left it at the labor camp,” I said. Someone went over to get it for me.

  Once I looked presentable, they marched me into a conference room on one of the upper floors of the hospital. It was filled with twenty or thirty reporters from news agencies around the world. There were Chinese reporters and Russians, along with reporters from the AP and other major news outlets.

  I made my statement professing my guilt and then added, “I believe that my problem can be solved by close cooperation and agreement between the American government and the government of this country.” I also said that statements from people like Vice President Biden saying I was being held without reason were only making matters worse.

  I knew these statements placed me completely at the mercy of the North Korean government. At the time I believed that anyone watching the news conference would say, “Oh well, he’s guilty. He’s getting what he deserves.” That’s basically what Dennis Rodman had said, a statement for which he later apologized. But I knew my saying this would appease the DPRK officials. Now, when they let me go, they would appear to be the humanitarians they believed themselves to be.

  Once the press conference ended, Mr. Disappointment escorted me back to my hospital room. He said to me, “Pack your things. You are going back to the labor camp now.”

  “What?” I said, shocked. This wasn’t the deal I thought we had. “I made these statements for you. Why are you punishing me? I thought you would reciprocate and do something for me now, like letting me go home.”

  “It’s better this way. For you to be released you must first go back to the prison.”

  I didn’t say anything in response. I couldn’t. I felt like I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I had gone on worldwide television and admitted I deserved what I was getting, and now they were shipping me back to the labor camp to serve out my sentence. I felt as if, instead of letting me go, they were saying to the world, “See, we told you he is guilty. Now we’re going to give him what he deserves, and no one can argue with us.”

  Why would the United States ever send anyone over to negotiate my release now? I am never going to get to go home after this, I thought as I packed my things. I had admitted to antigovernment activities that threatened the whole regime even though all I had done was pray and bring others into the country to pray. For the DPRK, that was a violent act. Anywhere else my actions would be a humanitarian gesture.

  You blew it, Ken, I thought over and over.

  I packed my things and left the hospital. On the way out I waved good-bye to my one and only friend, the dog.

  Mr. Disappointment led me to a waiting minivan in the parking lot, where once again I sat in the middle of the backseat, my head between my knees, while I was driven to an undisclosed location. I wasn’t sure where they would take me now. When the doors opened, I thought I might find myself in a regular prison.

  After a twenty-minute ride the van came to a stop. I was back at the same labor camp where I had served my first three months.

  The guards were all surprised to see me. More than one said things like, “We never thought you would be back here, 103.”

  I gave them a little smile and replied, “Neither did I.”

  Unlike my first trip inside the walls, I did not receive an orientation lecture. Instead, I went back to my old room, room 3.

  The warden came to see me. “It’s a good thing you are here,” he said. “You are going to have to work to pay off your hospital bill.” I had made about $0.25 a month for my hard labor. The hospital had charged me €600 a day for five months. By the time I was sent back to the labor camp, my bill had come to more than €101,000, or about $120,000.

  I would have to work forty thousand years of hard labor just to pay off my bill.

  I didn’t say anything about that. I just smiled and said, “It is nice to be someplace familiar.”

  Finally, Mr. Disappointment, the warden, and the guards left me alone in my cell. I looked around and let out a long sigh. Four months earlier I had told God that I was giving up my right to go home. I had embraced his will and told him that I would stay here as long as he wanted. Yet I had never thought his will would lead me back to the labor camp, back to serving out my sentence with no end in sight.

  I sat on my bed, my mind spinning as I tried to make sense of it all. Finally I prayed, All right, Lord. This is really hard for me, but I want your will, not mine. Use me in this place, Father. Use me.

  TWENTY

  MISSIONARY IN CHAINS

  If you suffer as a Christian, do not be ashamed, but praise God that you bear that name.

  —1 PETER 4:16

  THE WARDEN HAD been as shocked as I was when I climbed out of the minivan and walked in the front gate. He had even told me, “We didn’t know you were coming right away.” He had scrambled around to find some heavy clothing for me to wear and to find something for me to do.

  However, by the next morning he had recovered. At eight o’clock sharp the warden sent me a guard, who then led me outside. My whole body tensed up the moment I walked out th
e door. The temperature hovered around fifteen degrees. I had no idea where he was taking me or what the warden had in store for me to do. I just knew it was cold.

  The last time I was here, I baked in the sun while pulling weeds from my soybean field. Now I thought I might freeze to death if I stayed outside very long.

  The guard led me around a corner, and I saw a huge pile of ash. “This is your new assignment, 103. This pile is the ash left over from the coal we use to keep the prison warm.”

  I nodded. “What do you want me to do with it? Do you want me to haul it away somewhere?”

  “No. In juche we utilize everything we have. This ash fertilizes our fields. However, as you can see, it is all clumped together.” He motioned toward a pickax lying on the ground. “Use that pickax over there to break the clumps into powder.”

  “Do you have a mask I can wear to protect my lungs from the dust?” I asked.

  The guard shook his head. “No, nothing like that. You don’t need a mask. It’s a simple job. Even you can do this without messing it up, 103.”

  I smiled. “Yes, you’re probably right. Even a missionary can figure out how to use this,” I said as I grabbed the pickax.

  I lifted the ax up over my head and let it fall down on a stack of ash clumps. They easily broke up into smaller clumps as dust sprayed up and over me. I then turned the ax on its head and used the flat part to grind the ashes into the consistency of sand.

  I soon found myself enveloped in a dust cloud. The dust was so heavy I could hardly see through my glasses. My nose itched. I had to stop from time to time because I sneezed so hard. But I kept after it, breaking up clumps of coal ash to turn them into fertilizer.