Dear Leader

by Jang Jin-Sung

  The story was already wretched beyond belief, but when Myung-chul finished by saying that everyone still called the old man Grandfather Apple-Tree Cottage, although there was no more apple tree, I could no longer keep my composure and tears welled from my eyes. I pretended to wipe some dirt off with the back of my hand. I felt deeply sorry that I was hiding my own tears from them, but I was too ashamed of myself to show them my tears. How could I, with my privileged existence, express my misery in front of those who had nothing left, who had been deprived even of the means to express their misery?

  With these thoughts, I was overcome by an impulse to hide my hands and sat down. The lives of my townsfolk were threatened by their not having enough to eat, and it was mortifying that my hands had been employed for literature when the nation was in such a state. Or rather, I needed desperately to hide my hands from my old neighbours. My very hands seemed to me to embody my arrogance and selfishness, and their soft skin to expose how I had used them to secure my own existence at the expense of countless other lives.

  That night, at the dinner prepared by Young-nam’s mother, I had to choke back my tears again. She proudly explained how she was able to offer me, her guest, a half-full bowl of rice – she had stashed away ten grains of rice at every meal. In addition to the rice, there was a small dish of salted cabbage and pickled anchovies, which were presented to me as if they were an expensive delicacy. When I asked how long it had taken to save up the rice, she replied, ‘Three months.’ I could not believe that they were eating rice by the grain, instead of in servings. I muttered an excuse, saying that I had indigestion after eating lunch on the train.

  Almost as soon as I left the table, Young-nam’s father scolded his wife severely, saying that she had put me off my food. He brought me my spoon, forcing me to grip it and pleading with me to join them at the table again. From my rucksack, I took out my imported liquor and tinned meats, the ones I had brought with me from Pyongyang as parting gifts.

  ‘Look, don’t worry about me. I’m not refusing because there’s not enough food,’ I blurted.

  Although I had brought these food items as gifts, I was at my wits’ end when it came to explaining my possession of such extravagant luxuries to a family who ate rice by the grain. When Young-nam’s father lifted the bottle of cognac and marvelled in wonder, I felt even more overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding.

  ‘Ah, I haven’t seen Western liquor for years,’ he sighed. ‘You know, when we first arrived in North Korea from Japan, I had so many of the bottles that I gave them out as gifts whenever I could.’

  The mother, suddenly embarrassed by her own meagre offering in comparison to the gifts I had brought with me, sheepishly nudged the bowl of rice towards her husband. ‘You have the rice,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should have saved it for another time.’

  The bowl of rice was passed to the son by the father, then by the son back to the mother. Young-nam’s mother eventually took it back into the kitchen to keep it for her daughter, who had gone out to work a nightshift at the fabric factory. My chest felt tight, but I was also moved by the love that led this family with so little rice of their own to offer the last of it to an outsider.

  Young-nam’s father continued to gaze in wonder at the bottle of imported liquor I had brought. When I told him that it was given to me by Dear Leader, his mouth dropped. Kim Jong-il gave special gifts to his senior cadres three times a year: on New Year’s Day, Kim Il-sung’s birthday, and his own birthday. These might include suit fabric from Italy, rare medicinal herbs or shoes, all especially imported. But while other items might change, the liquor was always a key feature.

  The custom of imported liquor gifts was instituted because many cadres, previously unfamiliar with these drinks, had been mesmerised by them, drinking excessively at state banquets or during foreign postings, and committing social gaffes. Generally speaking, the alcoholic gift pack consisted of two bottles each of three types of cognac – six bottles in all. For a North Korean cadre, the gift of imported liquor was effectively the gift of foreign currency, as each bottle sold easily for around US$100 on the black market. But anything sold on to traders on the black market eventually wound its way back into cadres’ hands as bribes, so the gift of cognac was worth much more than its face value. This was also the reason why prices of imported liquor in North Korea plummet around the time of the three state holidays mentioned.

  Young-nam’s father seemed interested in more than merely drinking the contents of the bottle; he was transfixed by the foreign label, and perhaps wanted the bottle as a keepsake. He asked outright if I would give it to him as a present. When I said yes, he rushed to find himself an empty glass and filled it with the cognac, as if to get rid of the drink as quickly as he could. Young-nam’s Osakan father savoured his cognac, explaining that it reminded him of his past. But after draining two glasses, he lost control.

  ‘You know that Yamaha piano you had at home? I gave that to your family. You know that? Right? And our house, you know your father gave me this. You know that too, right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ I could do nothing but respond monosyllabically, and I could feel the blood surging to my head.

  ‘I’m forever designated a Jappo, so I’ve never been allowed to have a real job. You know, around this time last year, your father came to sleep over at our place. We hadn’t eaten for days. I was hungry. I was so hungry that I contacted your father. You know, I realised that a friend is better than the homeland. It’s thanks to your father’s support that we were able to survive for one more year. I made him promise not to tell you.’

  Young-nam’s mother tried to calm him down. ‘You’re drunk. Stop talking about the homeland in that way in front of the kids. Besides, we decided to move to North Korea at your bidding. What good is it to regret the decision now?’

  Behind her words, there lay many other words that could not be said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ her husband replied. ‘I’m sorry for bringing us to this country. But tonight, I’m a happy man. With you here, it feels like we’ve had ourselves a proper meal. Do you have any idea what we’ve been doing for food? You know, this wife of mine, she puts rice water on the table and calls it rice. She boils wild shoots and serves the liquid broth as if it’s a proper stew. There’s never any real food on the table, but she still demands we sit at the table for our meal. And why not? We can pretend we’ve eaten proper food and feel better about our lives.’

  Young-nam sat with his head in his hands, glaring at his father from between his fingers, as if thinking that his father was ruining the last remaining shreds of dignity in their lives. When I noticed the signs of starvation on the crown of his head, it rent my heart. Young-nam, I didn’t know. Forgive me for my ignorance.

  The next morning I packed my bags to leave. I had planned to stay for two more days but made up an excuse, saying I was needed urgently at work. When I saw the tattered shoes that Young-nam put on as he hurriedly followed me out of the house, I was glad I had made the decision to leave. Wanting to buy him a new pair of shoes before I went back to Pyongyang, I said we should go by the market. As we walked, I stole a glance at his dangling earlobe. It had dry white patches of flaky skin, which spread down to his neck. I felt bitterly sorry for all the times I had pinched him as a child.

  ‘So, how does it feel to be back home? Is it much different from Pyongyang?’ His voice was feeble and sounded as if it was coming from afar.

  ‘People live the same anywhere you go. I even get told off at work all the time.’

  ‘I want to move to Pyongyang. At least you can get a job there. Even meet the General like you did.’

  I faltered, searching for words that might comfort him. Just walking alongside him was mortifying, and I felt guilty that my visit had thrown his life into disarray. But he started to pour his heart out. ‘You don’t get it, do you? There’s no future for me. At least you’re in Pyongyang, where you can get on in life by working hard. You even got to choose your own career. Here, scrambl
ing for the next meal is the best I can do. Even if I make it today, there’s the next meal to worry about. And the next. All my waking hours are spent fearing whether I will be able to eat again. We live no better than animals. You saw with your own eyes at the station. You know how the standard greeting used to be, “Have you eaten?” But now, you can’t say that, because what can you say in response? “No, I haven’t and what the fuck can you do about it?” Can’t you see? It’s different outside Pyongyang. And you don’t have those in the capital city either, do you?’

  I looked to where he was pointing. The walls on either side of the marketplace entrance were plastered with black-lettered slogans instead of the usual prices of goods. ‘Death by firing squad to those who disobey traffic rules!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who hoard food!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who waste electricity!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who cut military communications lines!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who hoard state resources!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who spread foreign culture!’, ‘Death by firing squad to those who gossip!’ I hadn’t realised that there had been so many new regulations introduced in our nation. The slogans implied that any and every mistake would lead to death by firing squad.

  In Pyongyang, to avoid the eyes and ears of foreigners and tourists, new regulations were announced internally, through workplace and residential unit meetings that all North Koreans are required to attend. I realised I had never before seen a regulation posted in a publicly visible place. It took me a while to remember why we had come to the market in the first place. Once I’d regained my composure, I wanted to buy the shoes as quickly as possible and get out of this place; and so I took the lead, holding Young-nam by the hand.

  There were more people hanging around than were actually buying or selling. As we made our way through the crowds, the stench was suffocating. ‘Take care with your wallet!’ Young-nam warned me. I walked even faster, and finally found a shoe stall. I asked Young-nam to pick a pair of shoes he liked. He resisted, saying he was sorry enough not to be able to treat me well as a guest and he couldn’t possibly receive a gift on top of that. As he reluctantly picked out a cheap pair, I asked the vendor for the most expensive pair he had. Even that turned out to be of mediocre quality, a pair made in China.

  Young-nam recalled a Korean saying: ‘They say that if you buy shoes as a parting gift, you’ll never see each other again.’

  ‘You think I’m your lover or something? What do you mean, “never see each other again?”’ I said.

  Seeing the grin spread ear to ear on Young-nam’s face, I felt a little better. After the purchase was made, I forced the change and the rest of the money in my wallet into Young-nam’s pocket. But before we were able to leave, a siren started somewhere.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  The reaction of the people around us was even stranger than the sound of the siren. Everyone looked annoyed and some swore loudly.

  Young-nam’s eyes were closed. He too looked exasperated. Then he hissed, ‘Fucking hell.’

  When I asked again what was happening, he said it was an execution.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  The shoe vendor looked up from polishing a shoe with a tattered rag, and replied in Young-nam’s place, ‘You’re not from here, are you? Bad timing, that’s all. There’s going to be a People’s Trial. No one can leave the market till it’s over.’

  In North Korea, a public execution is not regarded as a punishment. It is categorised as a method of moral education, and also as a tool of public propaganda used in power struggles. But an execution in the market? As I looked confusedly at Young-nam, he reassured me that these executions took place almost on a weekly basis. They always happened in the market square so that a large audience could watch the proceedings.

  Sure enough, soldiers rushed in from all directions to surround the square, herding us into the centre with the butts of their rifles. There was chaos everywhere. It made me flinch that the prisoner, led in by two soldiers, was dressed not in prison uniform but in everyday clothes. It felt like a deliberate message to the townsfolk that any of them could be in his position; that it didn’t take a special criminal mind to suffer this fate. The man’s eyes were full of terror as he scanned the scene around him from beneath his sagging eyelids and bony sockets. There was blood around his lips. For him, this truly was hell on earth, and his fellow men must have seemed as frightening as demons.

  The People’s Trial was over in less than five minutes. It was not really a trial. A military officer merely read out his judgement. The prisoner’s crime was declared to be the theft of one sack of rice. As the country was ruled according to the Songun policy of Military-First politics, all the rice in the nation belonged to the military, and even petty crimes were dealt with according to martial law.

  ‘Death by firing squad!’

  As soon as the judge pronounced his sentence, one of the two soldiers who was restraining the prisoner shoved something into his mouth in a swift, practised motion. It was a V-shaped spring that expanded once it was put inside the mouth, preventing the prisoner from speaking intelligibly. The prisoner made sounds but there was no human noise, only whimpering. This device had been officially sanctioned for use at public executions so that a prisoner could not utter rebellious sentiments in the final moments of his life before it was taken from him.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I had never been so close to a gun being fired. The blood froze in my veins. Not daring to look at the prisoner at the moment of his death, I flicked my gaze upward. There was not a cloud in the sky, which was exceedingly clear and bright blue. But the faces of the townsfolk made to witness the execution were grave.

  When the soldiers blew their whistles and yelled for the crowd to disperse, the people didn’t react, and began murmuring among themselves. As the whispers spread, I could catch what was being said. The prisoner’s identity had been established by those who knew him, and the shock I felt after learning the story is hard to describe. My hair stood on end, and a tingling chill reached from there to the ends of my toes.

  THE PRISONER

  Wherever people are gathered

  there are gunshots to follow.

  Today, as the crowd looks on

  another man is condemned.

  ‘We must not feel any sympathy!

  Even when he’s dead, we must kill him again!’

  The slogan is interrupted: Bang! Bang!

  as the rest of the message is delivered.

  Why is it that today

  the crowd is silent?

  The prisoner’s crime: theft of one sack of rice.

  His sentence: ninety bullets to the heart.

  His occupation:

  Farmer.

  The man riddled with bullets for stealing rice had been a starving farmer. Even someone who worked the land could not find enough to eat.

  4

  THE CRIME OF PEERING

  OVER THE BORDER

  AS SOON AS I returned home to Pyongyang, far away from the People’s Trial in Sariwon, I got into the shower. It felt like bits of the prisoner’s skin and blood had been sprayed onto my skin, and I scrubbed myself again and again. For over a week, whenever I sat at the table to eat, I was overcome with nausea and could not bear the thought of food. On any other Sunday, I would have slept in, but that day, I left when it was still dark, before dawn, to get some fresh air.

  There was no one about except for a few old men sitting on the bank of the Daedong River with their fishing rods. I found an empty bench facing the water and sat down. An early summer breeze flowed with the river. I inhaled it deeply then blew out forcefully, expelling the ill feeling from my lungs. After I had done this a few times, I felt I could breathe more easily.

  A stagnant stench rippled over the river’s surface, and a crumpled frying pan floated past. I wouldn’t have taken much notice of such small ugly things before. Instead, I would have let my thoughts drift with the water out towar
ds the deep blue sea, whose depths would inspire me with poetry glittering like the sun rays on the waves. But that Sunday was different. As I watched the frying pan being carried away by the river’s current before me, its fate seemed to represent that of my friends and townsfolk. The water itself was like the passing of time, a passage no less pointless than the river water that flowed towards me only to flow onwards and away. On the other side of the riverbank, a slogan hanging from the rooftop of a building read: ‘After your thousand miles of suffering, there are ten thousand miles of joy!’ The words seemed strange and vacuous.

  The Party referred to this era as the Arduous March, but wasn’t the reality much worse than merely ‘arduous’? Moreover, this wasn’t a march that all of us participated in. While ordinary North Koreans had to march in suffering for a thousand miles, cadres were strolling along the journey in privileged comfort. My townsfolk were concerned about their Leader’s eating and health, yet Kim Jong-il had the luxury of eating cold ice cream adorned with flames. I was filled with grave doubts, but I knew they were dangerous and would achieve nothing. I lived in Pyongyang. I was one of the Admitted, and I had come such a long way while only in my twenties. For my parents’ sake, I must not harbour any such deviant thoughts. If I continued on this path a little longer, I would end up in the most enviable of positions as the paragon of loyalty to Dear Leader. I had to carry on.

  I resolved to work hard on the task set for me, the epic poem for which I had the full support of the United Front Department behind me. On my first day back at work, I arrived in the office earlier than others, at six-thirty in the morning. In my quiet corner, I wrote the title of my poem in big letters on a sheet of lined paper with my fountain pen: ‘An Ode to the Smiling Sun’. But I had produced nothing by the end of the day. My task was to describe how our Supreme Leader smiled, yet all I could think of was the misery of my townsfolk.

  Why were we a poor nation? If our Supreme Leader was great, why were his people starving to death? Reforms had led the Chinese to prosperity, so why was our Party not considering any change in policies? I hated the way that these questions kept bubbling up in my mind like water from a mountain spring. When I thought I had dismissed one, another question arose in its place. Never before in my life had I so many questions to ask of myself, the Party and Dear Leader.