Not Forgotten

by Kenneth Bae

  Forty-five minutes later, three American men walked in. One was Korean American. One of the other men, who was perhaps fifty, stepped over and told me he was a doctor.

  “We are from the United States government,” he said. “We are here to check on your health.” He asked a few questions about my conditions. While the doctor examined me, no one talked. I remained silent except to answer his questions. The guard and Mr. Disappointment sat back and observed what was going on.

  After twenty minutes the doctor said he was finished. “Good luck to you, sir,” the doctor said, and the three men left.

  I sat down and looked over at Mr. Disappointment. He seemed quite relaxed. It was now after nine o’clock. He never mentioned going out to do an interview. Apparently, all we were going to do was sit in this room. One guard looked at his watch.

  “It’s okay,” I said, “I’ve waited two years. I can wait a little while longer.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up too high, or you will be disappointed,” he said with care.

  By noon Mr. Disappointment dismissed himself and left me in the room with just one guard. I knew the guard from the labor camp. A little before one o’clock, room service delivered a meal. The guard and I ate together, which was a first for me. I said to him, “Hey, this is our first and last meal together.”

  “Don’t say that,” he replied. “You are making me sad. Don’t say that.”

  Finally, at three o’clock, Mr. Disappointment returned.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  I didn’t even have time to tell the guard good-bye. We rushed out of the room and down the hall. I expected to go to another room in the hotel, perhaps a conference room. Instead, he led me out of the hotel and to a waiting van. This was not what I expected. I did not know if I was going back to the hospital, back to the labor camp, or somewhere else. The van’s windows were covered, so I could not see where we were going.

  When the van finally stopped, the doors opened, and I saw the Koryo Hotel in front of me. I knew this place well. I had stayed here three times in 2012, when I was still a free man and welcome guest of the DPRK. Mr. Disappointment led me upstairs to a conference room on the second floor. I did not know what was waiting for me inside. My first meeting with the Swedish ambassador had taken place in a hotel conference room. That’s also where I had called my family. I half expected to see the Swedes when the doors opened.

  Instead, waiting in the room for me was the prison warden in his full military uniform. He rarely ever wore the uniform at the prison, although he was officially an army officer. A few other officials were also in the room. All wore uniforms or other official clothes.

  The warden came over and said, “I am pleased to inform you, 103, that the Marshal, Kim Jong Un himself, has decided to show you mercy and grant you a special pardon.”

  The weight of the world lifted off my shoulders. For two years I had waited to hear these words. Tears welled up, but I pushed them back.

  “You are to sit down and write a letter of apology and a letter of thanksgiving to the Marshal,” the warden continued.

  “Yes, sir,” I said with a smile. I sat down and wrote the letters in a hurry. Another official, whom I did not know, picked up the letters, looked them over, and seemed satisfied.

  “Come with us,” a guard said. Another guard came up on the other side of me, and the two took me to the room next door. It was now three thirty. When I walked in I saw Matthew Miller standing with two other guards. I did not yet know his name, but I knew he had to be the other prisoner from the camp. Like me, he wore a prison uniform, but his had 107 on the front.

  A moment later a North Korean delegation entered the room and sat at a large conference table. The man I took to be the leader told the others not to stand when the American delegation entered the room.

  A few minutes later eight Americans walked into the room. Five took seats at the table, while the other two men and the doctor who had come to see me earlier stood behind them. The primary US envoy was James Clapper, the director of national intelligence, a cabinet-level position.

  The eight Americans all had very stern looks on their faces, as if they were upset. Only after I was back in the United States did I learn that the North Koreans had left the delegation hanging for a couple of days. Up until three o’clock the Americans didn’t know whether I was going to be released to them. Looking at their stern expressions, I felt like a little child sitting in the principal’s office, in trouble. The delegation was my parent who had to come to apologize on my behalf. I felt so sorry for the headaches I had caused, but, at the same moment, I had never been more thankful or proud to be a citizen of the United States of America.

  Once the American delegation was in place, a one-star general of the DPRK army walked in and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Everybody stand!”

  A four-star general then entered the room. Later I learned that he was Kim Won Hong, the director of their national security bureau, and the man responsible for the death of Kim Jong Un’s uncle, Jang Song Thaek. The general unfurled a paper that looked like a piece of parchment and proceeded to read a special proclamation from Kim Jong Un himself.

  “By order of the Marshal of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the American criminal Bae Junho is hereby pardoned. Signed by the Marshal himself on the sixth day of November, two thousand fourteen,” he read in a stern voice.

  A translator immediately repeated the proclamation in English. A similar proclamation was read for Matthew Miller.

  As I listened to the proclamation it hit me: Today was November 8. The envoy probably had not arrived until the day before, November 7. Everything had already been decided even before the American delegation arrived.

  After the proclamation was read, the ceremony came to an end. The guards escorted me to another room, where I was allowed to change out of the prison uniform and into my real clothes.

  The warden came in to say good-bye. He grabbed my hand, shook it, and said with tears in his eyes, “I want to see you again sometime.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I would like to come back and see you as well.” I was touched that he became so emotional. The two of us had spent a great deal of time talking about a variety of topics. He was a very educated man. I guess our talks meant a lot to him.

  Mr. Disappointment also came in to say good-bye. I couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you keep telling me that no one remembered me and that I was never going to get to go home?”

  “I did that for you,” he said. “I did not want you to get your hopes up only to have them crushed.”

  I just smiled and shook my head. “Well, good-bye then,” I said to him.

  Once I had changed clothes, I was officially handed over to the American delegation. All of us were whisked out of the hotel. Matthew Miller, the doctor, and I were ushered into a waiting bus. The rest of the delegation climbed into waiting limos. I was so excited that I do not remember if we even talked on the ride to the airport. At least, I hoped we were headed toward the airport. I did not take anything for granted. I wasn’t going to believe I was actually going home until the wheels of the plane lifted off the ground.

  The bus arrived at the airport a little after four o’clock. We did not stop but kept right on driving across the tarmac and down one of the runways. I looked to see where we were going, but I couldn’t quite tell. It was nice to be able to actually look out the window of a moving vehicle.

  About ten minutes later the bus finally came to a stop. There, sitting on the runway, door open with a stairway waiting for me, was an airplane with the words United States of America emblazoned on the side. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen in my life.

  Now I could finally believe it. I was on my way home.

  Once we had taken off, a woman asked how I was doing. “I am Alison Hooker. I
work as a director of the Korea desk at the National Security Council in the White House,” she said with a smile. She said that she was a Christian who had followed my story closely.

  “I cannot tell you how thankful I am to be on this plane,” I said. “It has been such a long wait. I nearly gave up hope. But on Monday, November 3, the two-year anniversary of my arrest, the Lord spoke to me through Zephaniah 3:20 and told me he was going to bring me home.”

  She looked at me, her mouth wide open in shock. “We left Washington, DC, on Monday,” she said. “But we had some mechanical problems and had to make a stop in Hawaii. It took them two days to fix the plane.”

  I also asked her, “Have they asked for the medical bill? How much did it come out to?” I was worried about the bill. According to my calculation, it could be close to $300,000.

  She said, “They never mentioned a bill. We did not have to pay anything.”

  I smiled. The last burden I carried out of North Korea was lifted.

  I sat back in my seat and reflected on the past week. Monday had been one of the lowest days of my life. Yet the Lord already had his rescue on the way. I just needed to trust him.

  That was the lesson I had learned across the entire two-year experience. Rather than panic or become afraid or angry, all I needed to do was trust the Lord. There were days when I had felt so alone, so forgotten. But God had not forgotten me. He was still in control of all things. He had a plan, and he worked it out beautifully in his time.

  And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

  —ROMANS 8:28

  EPILOGUE

  ON NOVEMBER 8, 2014, I finally left North Korea after 735 days of detainment. I now hold the distinction of being the longest-held American detainee since the Korean War.

  On the flight home the first meal I ate was a grilled cheese sandwich and some French onion soup. To me, they tasted like America.

  After stops in Guam and Hawaii, we landed at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, near Seattle, Washington, nearly twenty-one hours after we took off from Pyongyang.

  As I deplaned, I saw my mom walking toward me. I walked as fast as I could and gave her a big hug.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  My sister, Terri, came running up behind her, followed by her husband, Andy, and two of my nieces, Ella and Caitlin. I tried to wrap my arms around all of them. Tears flowed. For two years I had dreamed of this moment, and now I was finally back with my family and friends. After seeing them and embracing them, I finally realized that I was really free.

  After a brief reunion, Terri told me a lot of reporters were waiting for me to make a statement in the press conference room. I told her that I would make a very brief statement. I wanted to thank everyone who was involved in getting me released as well as those who signed petitions and interceded for me daily.

  At the press conference, I said that it had been “an amazing two years.” But I did not explain why. What I wanted to say was that God had been amazingly faithful, and his grace was sufficient, and his compassion for the lost is everlasting.

  As I look back a year later, I realize that in North Korea I learned God’s faithfulness, experienced his grace, and witnessed his compassion in ways I never had imagined before. I learned to trust God and to hold on to his promises. When I was weak, he was strong. He kept his word, and his word was absolutely binding. As he promised, he never left me nor forsook me. Although I had moments when I was depressed and had lost hope, and I sometimes felt abandoned and forgotten by the world, God was there. Even when I doubted God’s promises, he was faithful. When I needed it most, he reminded me he was there. He spoke through scriptures and supernatural encounters and even by giving me something as simple as a bowl of cold noodle soup. He truly is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

  Before my arrest in North Korea, I had thought I understood these things, and I had thought I knew God intimately. But through enduring hardships with him, God took our relationship to a whole new level. I discovered that when you hold on to God’s promises, they truly do give you hope—and hope gives life. As Psalm 119:50 says, “My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life.” Yes, Jesus was my hope, and he is the hope I’ve built my life upon.

  During my captivity I also learned I must give up my rights if I really trust God. My life must be about his will and plan, not mine. He is sovereign God, and his plan is always better than mine. I learned to stand at his feet during the time of trial and hardship. I learned that Jesus is worth living for. He is even worth going to prison for. I would not have learned that otherwise. I finally realized what it means to rejoice in suffering, especially suffering for the sake of his Name. I received the rare honor of suffering disgrace for his Name. I experienced the power of Acts 5:41, which says, “The apostles left the Sanhedrin, rejoicing because they had been counted worthy of suffering disgrace for the Name.”

  My two years in North Korea also taught me what it means to have compassion for those who live in darkness. People in North Korea have no access to information from the outside world, no freedom to travel, no freedom to speak their own minds, and no way to choose their own religions. More than one person told me that they have to trade their freedom in order to sustain their way of life. They prefer the safety in the dark, under the protection of a totalitarian regime, to the dangers freedom brings. That’s why someone like me, who raises questions about the structure of their society, is a potential threat to the nation.

  Since they are cut off from the rest of the world, the people in the DPRK are often forgotten by the world, yet they are remembered by God, just as he remembered me during my captivity. He has compassion for North Korea, just as he poured out his compassion on me. In my conversations with the interrogators, the prosecutors, the guards, and even Mr. Disappointment, I felt the heart of God. He loves them. He cares for them. He remembers them. He sees their tears, and he hears their cries. During my two years of detainment in North Korea, I felt the heart of God longing to restore his people once again.

  I am eternally grateful to the hundreds of thousands of people who prayed for me every day. During my press conference, I said, “I am standing strong because of you.” Because of the prayers of people around the world, I was able to endure my trials and continue to have hope to be released. Those prayers not only brought me home but also enabled me to stand strong. My victory was our victory. I not only came home but I came home stronger than ever. I felt as if I had been on a personal retreat with the Lord for two years.

  But now these prayers need to continue. The Lord also reminded me that people of God should not forget the people trapped in darkness, such as those in North Korea. We must always remember the forgotten people through prayer and through acts of compassion. I organized tours to bring three hundred Christians to North Korea to pray, believing that someday the spiritual wall that surrounds the country will fall. I ask the hundreds of thousands of people who prayed for me to now pray for North Korea as well. Their prayers carried me through the darkest time of my life. Now we must pray for the release of all those living in darkness.

  In North Korea, more than twenty-four million people live with no knowledge of the one true God. I can still hear the question of the guard in Rason ringing in my ears: “Where does this Jesus live, in China or in Korea?” He is not alone in the darkness. More than a billion people worldwide still have not heard the gospel. They do not have a Bible in their own language. We must remember them, pray for them, and build a bridge to them through which we can share God’s love and compassion.

  I pray that I can still become a bridge to connect North Korea to the rest of the world. I pray that someday the DPRK will welcome a missionary who can openly share God’s heart for their nation. As I write this book, I dream that missionary might be me. I am thankful for the compas
sion and care that was shown to me by the staff at the hospital and at the labor camp. Someday I hope to return there and thank them in person. But I don’t want to be the only bridge. I hope and pray that Christians around the world will remember and embrace the people of North Korea and, through prayer, become a bridge of blessings that only come from God. May God be their God, and may they be his people.

  “This is the covenant I will make with the people of Israel

  after that time,” declares the LORD.

  “I will put my law in their minds

  and write it on their hearts.

  I will be their God,

  and they will be my people.

  No longer will they teach their neighbor,

  or say to one another, ‘Know the LORD,’

  because they will all know me,

  from the least of them to the greatest,”

  declares the LORD.

  “For I will forgive their wickedness

  and will remember their sins no more.”

  —JEREMIAH 31:33–34

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I CANNOT FIND the words to describe how much I am thankful to the thousands upon thousands of people who worked to secure my freedom, beginning with those who prayed continually for my release. I may not be able to list everyone’s names, but I want you to know how deeply grateful I am for all of you. Through the power of your prayers I was able to stand strong, and your prayers brought me home. Thank you.

  I am deeply thankful to President Obama and secretary of state John Kerry for securing my release. Thank you also to director of intelligence James Clapper, Alison Hooker, and everyone who came to North Korea and brought me home. They spent an entire week on a plane just trying to get to me. I will never forget the moment when they entered the conference room in Pyongyang. I was never so proud and happy to be an American.