Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  Two guards sat on the ground not far from me, trying to stay out of the dust cloud as best they could. A third guard stayed inside the building, where it was warm. All the guards were very relaxed. One appeared to doze off at one point. By this point I knew most of these guys really well. Some of the guards from the camp were also my guards in the hospital. Over the previous four months I had had many conversations with each of them, talking about everything from their families to the cost of living in Pyongyang to where one of them got the money for his cigarette habit.

  I was hacking away at the ash clumps when one of the guards said, “So you never got any special training?”

  “Like what?” I said.

  “You know, lethal training. That’s what the CIA does, right?” Even after all this time, deep down they still suspected I was part of the CIA.

  “Oh, sure,” I said, kidding.

  Another said, “Are you one of those killing machine guys?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “I can take you down in no time. I just don’t do it because I enjoy breaking up this ash so much.”

  That line got a good laugh.

  “You know,” I said, “if I am CIA, then that means there’s a satellite watching me right now. You never know. My commander might send a team of commandos in to rescue me at any moment.” I grinned after saying this.

  The two guards glanced at each other and then looked up. The first said, “Come on, 103. Really?”

  “No. I’m just a missionary. I tell people about God. The only thing I know about the CIA is what I see in the movies, and I know that’s not accurate.”

  One of the guards got up, looked back up at the sky, and announced, “I’m going to go in to warm up for a few minutes. You got this?” he asked the other guard.

  “Yeah. Go ahead,” the other said.

  I now found myself one-on-one with a guard. He waited a couple of minutes before saying, “You mentioned God. I’ve never really understood the appeal of believing in God. I know people are born knowing they have to lean on something. But to say that that something is God, that doesn’t make a lot of sense. You can’t see God. I mean, I can see the Supreme Leader. That’s who I depend on.”

  “What does he do for you?” I asked.

  “He provides for me. Food, housing, that sort of thing. We have free medical care here. Free education. And jobs. Sometimes I even work for free,” he said with a laugh. Like everyone else, the guards had to do the extra work of clearing the highway of snow that I saw people doing when I traveled from Rason to Pyongyang. No one received any kind of pay for that work. It was everyone’s privilege, a way of working together for the common good. That was supposed to be payment enough.

  “I heard housing is hard to come by now,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s true. The government doesn’t really give that away anymore. An apartment here in Pyongyang is really expensive. Most people can’t afford it. It is so expensive because of the ‘military first’ policy. So much has to go to protect us from America that there’s not a lot left over. However, because I am a military officer, the government provides me a place to live.” For the guard to talk so openly meant he was very comfortable with me.

  “I know a lot about the problem expensive housing can be,” I said. Then I told him the story of how God provided a place for my YWAM team in Dalian, and later in Dandong. “One time, God provided us with about $75,000, which is nearly 615 million North Korean won,” I said.

  The guard’s jaw dropped; his eyes grew wide. “Your God did that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “When God asks someone to do something for him, he provides what that person needs to do it. Money, people, materials—it doesn’t matter. God is bigger than any of it.”

  “It couldn’t be God. It had to be a coincidence,” the guard said.

  “How could it be a coincidence? My team and I prayed for specific amounts of money, and then we received the exact amount we asked God for from someone we had never even met. We didn’t ask people for the money, only God. If it were a coincidence, my life is one big coincidence. God has always provided for me. He protects me. He takes care of me like a loving father cares for his children,” I said.

  “If he cares so much about you, why are you still in prison and not able to go home?” the guard asked. He looked as though he had just played his trump card.

  “He has me in here because he cares for you and for all of North Korea. He wants you to know who he is and how much he loves you,” I said.

  My answer seemed to shake him. “Get back to work,” he said.

  I had conversations like this one throughout my second stay in the labor camp. Some of the guards weren’t with me in the hospital, so I didn’t have the advantage of having already built a relationship with them. That didn’t matter. I started the conversation by asking them questions about themselves, questions like, “If Korea is unified, what city do you want to visit first?” or something as basic as, “Do you like music?” or “What is your favorite Korean dish?”

  Some of the guards refused to talk to me. Most, however, warmed up to me. It made the time pass faster for both of us.

  After my first day of work, I went back to my room, covered with ash from head to toe. My whole body ached. Thankfully, hot water was available. I took a shower using a bucket to dump water over my head.

  After my shower I dropped down in my chair, wishing ten o’clock would come soon so that I could go to bed. My back ached. My hands, which had been numb during my first time in the labor camp, were numb again. Worse yet, I started coughing and could hardly stop. And I kept sneezing. Every time I sneezed or blew my nose, thick black stuff came out.

  Even so, the next morning I was back outside, breaking up clumps of ash and talking with the guards. I joked around with them a lot.

  One asked me once, “Why are you so happy? You’re always joking and singing. This isn’t supposed to be a pleasant experience.”

  “What are you talking about?” I replied. “I’ve got free room and board here. Usually I have to raise support for my missionary work, but not now. I even wanted to be a missionary in North Korea. Now I get to, and I get to be with you guys. I want to be here with you. Why shouldn’t I be happy?”

  That answer made them think I was crazy.

  Another day a guard asked, “How can you believe in God when you can’t see him?”

  “When you turn on a light, you can’t see the electricity, but you know it is there,” I said. “It’s the same with God. Think about the wind. You can’t see the wind, but you know it is there. I can’t see God, but I know he is here.”

  “That’s different,” the guard replied.

  “No, it’s not. I not only know God is here, but he communicates with me through the Bible. He also speaks to me through his Spirit.”

  “What?” the guard said. “What planet are you from?”

  “I’m serious. God spoke to me right after high school and told me he wanted me to be a missionary to China. That’s how I ended up in Dandong. Later he told me he wanted me to be a bridge from North Korea to the world. That’s why I started coming into the DPRK. I brought people here to see the land, meet the people, and pray for you. God has even spoken to me while I have been in prison. In the very beginning he told me that he was going to take care of me and I would not be harmed. He has done exactly that.”

  The guard really took this in. I could tell he was thinking about what I said. Later on, several of the guards asked me at different times if God had said anything to me lately. That told me the guards discussed among themselves my conversations with them. They weren’t mocking me; they seriously wanted to know if God had spoken to me recently.

  I also had a lot of conversations with the guards about their families. I found that most marriage problems are universal. Event
ually the guards started coming to me for advice. In front of their superiors they always called me 103, but when we were alone, just the two of us, they said, “Pastor, can you help me with a problem?”

  They asked a lot of questions about my wife. “How do you know she will still be there when you get out?” more than one asked. That gave me an opportunity to talk about the most important parts of marriage, like trust and love and having God at the center of your relationship. Some days I found I was doing as much marriage counseling as I was breaking up ash clumps.

  It wasn’t just the guards with whom I had in-depth conversations. About once a week the warden came by. Other times the deputy warden came to see me. Both asked if I had heard anything from home and if I had any indication of when I might be released. I also had many conversations with them about politics and the tension between North Korea and America.

  Three weeks after I arrived back in the labor camp, the new Swedish deputy ambassador, Cecilia Anderberg (who replaced John Svensson), came to inform me that special ambassador Robert King was on his way to North Korea to negotiate my release.

  “Rev. Jesse Jackson wanted to come, but the Obama administration sent Ambassador King instead. He will arrive on Monday.” She gave me this news on a Friday.

  I cannot describe the excitement and relief I felt when she told me this. I wanted to jump up and down and celebrate. However, I kept it together and thanked her.

  “This is great news,” I told her. “I wish he were coming today, but I think I can hold on one more weekend.”

  I didn’t say it, but I wasn’t sure I could last much beyond the weekend. Only three weeks had passed since my news conference, but it seemed like more. My food rations were now much smaller than they had been my first time in the labor camp. Back then I had bread occasionally, and vegetables, and even meat and eggs. Not this time. At first I thought that withholding food must be some kind of punishment. After a couple of weeks I realized no one in the camp had much to eat, not me or the guards or any of the staff. As a result, weight fell off of me. My other ailments, including my bad back and numb hands, were also back. That made the news that someone was coming for me even sweeter.

  I woke up excited on Monday morning. The guards and other officials treated the day just like any other. I went back to the ash pile. I had already told the guards that I might not be there much longer. I even sang a good-bye song to them.

  One of the guards said, “Don’t sing such a sad song. You are making me sad. You should stay longer so we can have more conversations.”

  I wanted to minister to these guys, but I was ready to go home. Throughout the day, I kept waiting for the warden to come tell me to drop the ax and go pack my things. But he never came. I watched for Ambassador King to walk through the prison gate, but he never arrived. The day passed like every other day. No one came.

  No one came the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Every day that week I woke up thinking it was going to be my last day in the camp, and every day I went to bed disappointed.

  Finally, on Saturday, Mr. Disappointment arrived for his weekly visit. He didn’t waste any time before crushing my hopes once and for all.

  “Your ambassador’s trip was cancelled. We withdrew his invitation. No one is coming for you. No one cares about you. No one even remembers you are here. You need to stop hoping for an early release and understand you and I will celebrate your sixtieth birthday here together.”

  I did my best not to react to his news, but it was difficult. Honestly, I was not surprised. Since a week had passed since Ambassador King was supposed to arrive, I already knew he wasn’t coming. Mr. Disappointment only confirmed my fears. Twice now Pyongyang had offered to have Ambassador King come to negotiate my release only to pull the invitation at the last minute. I decided that the next time I was told people were on their way to take me home, I would not believe it until I actually saw them with my own eyes and heard them say, “I’m taking you out of here now.”

  The Monday after I thought I was going home, I received a new assignment. The guards led me to the middle of the prison yard. Some pipe lay off to the side.

  “We need to lay a new sewage line. You are going to dig the trench,” I was told.

  Now I had finally arrived. I was a ditch digger.

  I found digging a trench through frozen ground to be the most difficult assignment yet. The pickax bounced off the hard dirt, barely even making a dent. For eight hours I slammed the pointed end of the ax into the ground and then spun it around and tried to move some dirt with the flat end. Even in the bitter cold, sweat poured off me. My hands became numb, and my back was killing me. But I kept on digging. I had no choice.

  The next morning I woke up and discovered it was snowing. I was as happy as a little boy on a snow day. I couldn’t dig the trench in the snow. But that didn’t mean I got off from work; instead the guards had me shovel snow. However, there was far too much for one person to handle. I actually worked side by side with the guards, all of us shoveling away. I had a lot of really good conversations with the guards while shoveling. On other snow days I went back to pounding clumps of coal ash. That beat ditch digging.

  My health got worse quickly. My cough would not go away, and my weight kept dropping. All the weight I had put back on during my time in the hospital was now gone. To make matters worse, I had developed a terrible toothache. The pain had first flared up while I was in the hospital. The dentist there had suggested doing oral surgery to remove it. The thought of having oral surgery in North Korea didn’t exactly thrill me, so I had decided to wait. The dentist had given me an antibiotic, which made the pain go away for a while.

  Unfortunately, the pain had come back even stronger not long after I returned to the labor camp. I went to see my old friend the camp doctor, the same one who had told me that hard work would heal whatever was wrong with me. The fact that I willingly went to see him tells you how much my tooth hurt. The pain was some of the worst I had experienced in my life.

  I told the doctor, “When this happened in the hospital, they gave me an antibiotic, and it cleared it up.”

  “No antibiotics,” he snapped back. “Too many antibiotics are bad for you.”

  “I know,” I said, “but I cannot eat and I cannot sleep and I cannot work. The pain is more than I can take.”

  “I’ll give you some aspirin. That should take care of it,” he said. “Place the aspirin underneath your gum next to the tooth and hold it there, and you will feel much better.”

  I am not a doctor, but I knew this was a terrible plan. “I need an antibiotic plus the aspirin,” I argued.

  That set him off. “I am the doctor, not you! I have been to medical school. Have you? Who are you? You don’t know anything.”

  We had this same conversation for ten straight days. Finally, I wore him down. “Tell you what,” he said. “I will take care of your pain with acupuncture.”

  The fact that I let him do this tells you how much pain I was in. From the outside he inserted a giant needle through my cheek and into my gum. Believe it or not, the pain stopped for a couple of days. That side of my face just went numb. But the pain came back, which started the whole argument over again.

  Later on one of the guards suggested I place vitamin C tablets under the gum next to the tooth. He told me he had done this for a toothache, and it helped. Desperate, I tried it, and it worked.

  When I next went to see the doctor, he said to me, “See, I told you. The aspirin works.”

  Eventually, I quit going to see the doctor. I already knew his answers to all my complaints: “Of course your back hurts. This is a labor camp . . . Work hard and your hands will get better . . . Yes, you’ve lost weight. You look much better now.”

  Mr. Disappointment came to see me again. I continually interrupted his “No one remembers you; no one cares for you” sp
eech with coughing fits.

  “Have you seen the doctor about that?” he asked.

  I laughed. “No. His prescription for everything is more work.”

  “I will check into it,” he said.

  One week later I was transported from the camp to the hospital. An X-ray found a spot on my lung. I had also lost thirty-five pounds in my two and a half months back at the labor camp. I was admitted back into the hospital, where I returned to my familiar room down at the end of the hall. I had no illusions about going home this time. I just hoped they would let me stay there for a while. I dared not dream any bigger.

  TWENTY-ONE

  IS THAT WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME?

  Be strong and take heart,

  all you who hope in the LORD.

  —PSALM 31:24

  AFTER I RETURNED to the hospital on March 27, 2014, the care I received was noticeably different from my first stay, especially when it came to my meals. Before I had been served fruit with many of my meals. I had also enjoyed extras, such as coffee and tea, which I kept in my room and could drink whenever I wanted. I had asked for and gotten treats, such as cookies and even ice cream. Part of the reason, I was certain, was they wanted to get my weight back up to something close to normal in anticipation of sending me home. They didn’t want me to look malnourished when I stepped off the plane in front of the world media for the first time.

  The extras were gone when I returned to the hospital. No fruit. No coffee. No ice cream. No small treats. The meals were plain, small, and predictable. They rotated a handful of meager menu options. On top of that, no one seemed to want to bring my meals to me. As a prisoner in a locked room, I could not get the meals myself. During my first visit, the nurse on duty had brought a tray in to me. Now I saw her outside my door, arguing with the guard and trying to get him to carry it in. Eventually the guard came in with the food, clearly unhappy.

  “This isn’t my job,” he grumbled as he dropped the tray just inside my door. Looking over at me he said, “Come get your food. You’re a prisoner. I’m not going to bring it all the way across the room to you.”