Dear Leader

by Jang Jin-Sung

  Only then did I become curious about the contents of the small bag that the old man at Longjing had given me when we said goodbye. Inside were six wheat rolls. Reasoning that an empty stomach would only exacerbate my anxiety, I put a piece of bread in my mouth, and decided not to use any of the money that remained after purchasing my bus ticket. How long could I survive on the remaining five wheat rolls? One week, perhaps. I would have to make it to South Korea in that time in order to stay alive. And, to do that, I needed to get some sleep.

  When I opened my eyes at the sound of a loud Chinese voice ringing from the bus speakers, I was shocked to find myself on another planet altogether. Outside the window was a sea of city lights. This world, brightly lit up by electricity, made me reflect on the boldness of mankind in defying nature’s darkness. In the blackness of North Korea, the only places that had electricity twenty-four hours a day were the areas around statues of Kim Il-sung.

  In North Korea, light was power, and this display of power was most evident at night. Changwang-dong of Joong-gu Area in Pyongyang, where I worked, along with the military buildings and residences at Seokchong-dong of Seoseong Area, were literally the beacons of the city: if they remained unlit for more than three hours, then the other areas of Pyongyang could not expect to have any electricity the following night. I could not comprehend how Chinese reforms could lead to a daily increase in the country’s prosperity when they were even wasting electricity in such an obvious way. The overwhelming world of lights made me feel that I had the whole expanse of China’s wealth before my eyes.

  Speeding towards the centre of all this made me excited, as if I were entering into a bold new world. Yet I also wished I had waited a little longer for Young-min, so that he might see these lights with me. This regret pulsed through me.

  When the bus stopped in the city, I became very aware of the police who would be on patrol. I dreaded the thought of getting out of the vehicle again, and peered through the dirty bus window to reassure myself that they weren’t out there waiting for me.

  The large clock in the bus terminal showed that it was just after midnight, so the journey had taken some six hours. I stretched my cramped arms as I climbed down from the bus. In the village I’d set out from, both sky and earth were pitch dark, but in this city where even night was like day, I felt I could seek shelter anywhere.

  Yet the police were here too, a group of them, dressed in their military-green uniforms. I lowered my outstretched arms and walked quickly away. The first brightly lit shop I entered was a large room full of computers. To my relief, the people in this room were intent on their screens and didn’t notice me at all. There were empty seats, and I sat down in one near the corner. Facing the computer’s blank screen, I vacantly watched the others in the room and then fell asleep.

  It didn’t seem as if I’d been asleep long when someone shook me hard. I woke up in surprise to see a woman with shocking pink hair yelling as she stepped away from me. It was because she’d seen the five rolls fall from my lap when I’d stirred in my sleep. Those rolls were my lifeline, but she looked at them with disgust as if they were lumps of shit. As I bent down to pick them up, she cursed at my back in Chinese. I didn’t dare respond, but snapped back at her under my breath in turn: ‘In North Korea, girls like you would be dragged off to a prison camp just for the colour of your hair!’

  I stumbled outside in a daze. It seemed as though I had only been in the shop for a brief moment, but it was already daylight outside. When I turned to look at the sign of that strange shop, it read in large English letters: ‘PC’. If I needed to find another place to spend the night, I would find another ‘PC’ shop, I thought to myself – but one without the danger of pink-haired women.

  As I walked the streets, my footsteps felt much lighter than when I was in Yanji. It was fairly crowded, and I felt I would not attract attention walking alone. Coming face to face with huge advertising hoardings that covered the whole sides of buildings, I could not but stop and stare. It was the most exotic scene I’d ever witnessed. In North Korea, it’s inconceivable for there to exist a display more impressive than the iconography of the Kim cult. Every available space is taken by Kim murals or slogans of loyalty, and there is nowhere else for the eye to rest.

  This was the first major city in China I had come to, and the scale and extravagance of it was breathtaking. One billboard depicted a couple kissing, each with a drink in their hands. In another, a woman was wearing nothing but her underwear. But as I wandered into a part of town where the billboards grew smaller, anxiety set in. Near the bus station, there had been Korean signs dotted here and there, but the further I walked, the less Korean there was. By the time that all the signs I saw were in Chinese, I came to a halt. I was astonished to learn from an ethnic Korean-Chinese passer-by that I had arrived not in Shenyang, but in Changchun. I had not realised that there was a stopover at Changchun, where I should have taken another bus on to Shenyang.

  Thanking the man who had kindly given me instructions on how to make my way back to the bus terminal, I began to retrace my steps. I could now vaguely remember that Mr Shin had said something about changing buses in Changchun to get to Shenyang. But my head had been full of worry for Young-min, and nothing else had mattered.

  I called Mr Shin again from a phone booth. ‘Hello! I’m in Changchun. Is there any news about Young-min or Chang-yong?’

  He replied, ‘Well, congratulations on making it there on your own! Don’t worry about Uncle Chang-yong. He’s safely home. You know that Chinese woman you met right after you crossed the river? He was being investigated because of her report – nothing more. From what he says, it seems as if Young-min hasn’t been caught yet. Anyway, Changchun is still quite close to here so it’s better for you to go further, and Shenyang is safer. If your friend calls, I’ll send him to Shenyang.’

  I had thought of 400 yuan as a large sum, but after the bus fare from Yanji to Changchun, and then from there to Shenyang, I found I had only 3 yuan left. At least I had been able to afford the bus ticket to Shenyang, I thought, and tried to comfort myself with this. There was nothing I wanted more than for Young-min to make it to Shenyang. Perhaps he would appear at my side tomorrow.

  I decided to test fate with a toss of a coin. If the face with the number showed, he would be here by tomorrow. After I’d tossed it up and before lifting my palm from it, the coin felt solid, containing our future. Please let it show the number, I prayed while holding the coin up to my forehead. But when I looked at the coin, it was the other side. I tried tossing it several more times, but the coin refused to comfort me.

  I put the coin back into my pocket and thought of how a lot of things had not turned out as I’d thought they might, only for them to turn out better. Perhaps the flip side of this coin was plotting such a fate for me. I didn’t toss the coin again, fearing that touching it might destroy that power.

  As I got on a bus for Shenyang, I could not contain my excitement at the thought that Young-min might be safe. Even a man in beige clothes sitting in front of me on the bus seemed to look like Young-min from behind. In my optimism, I decided that I could afford to eat two more bread rolls. I looked at the remaining three and convinced myself that there were now fewer days to wait before I would see Young-min again.

  As I idly played the piano on the back of the empty seat in front me, my fingers paused. In the netted pocket of the seat before me, there was a tourist leaflet printed in Korean. I flipped through it, and almost shouted out loud when I noticed the phone number of the South Korean consulate in Shenyang. I looked at it again, focusing carefully. Yes, it really was the number for the South Korean consulate. Had it been this easy to reach South Korea?

  I had the sensation that my chest would explode with excitement, and squeezed my hands together as hard as I could to get rid of the excess energy. Why had Mr Shin not given us a phone number that was available so publicly? Granted, he was a country boy, but why had we sophisticated Pyongyang city boys not thought of this
ourselves? I grew impatient to get off the bus. Unlike the trip to Changchun, this journey to Shenyang seemed excruciatingly slow.

  Finding the consulate in Shenyang would not be difficult, and now there seemed no reason to leave the buns uneaten. I finished them off. As I crumpled the plastic bag in my hand, I was happy. All the suffering that I carried with me had become trivial. The bus’s four wheels turned slowly on solid earth while my thoughts raced ahead.

  Only after dark did the bus eventually crawl into the Shenyang bus terminal. Thankfully, the driver opened the door as soon as the bus came to a halt. I was the first to get off, having made my way to the front as we slowed to a stop. I ran about in search of a phone box. It seemed as if I had been rushing about like this ever since crossing the river, but only now did I feel that I was directing my own steps.

  When I found a phone box and shut the door behind me, the sound of my breathing filled the booth. As I pressed a coin into the slot and dialled the number, my hands shook wildly. After I pressed the last number, it began to ring. I felt that someone would be waiting for my call on the end of this line.

  ‘Hello.’ A man answered in Korean. I held my breath.

  ‘Hello. This is the South Korean consulate, is that right?’

  ‘Yes it is, who’s speaking?’

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’ I bowed my head towards the phone in a dream-like state, in amazement that the South Korean consulate had answered my call.

  ‘Who’s speaking?’ the man asked again.

  I took a deep breath and then spoke as courteously as if I had been stood in front of their national flag. ‘I’ve come from North Korea. A friend has come with me. I wish to request asylum in South Korea.’ There was no response, and I realised that the line had gone dead.

  I banged the receiver several times. The stupid phone had decided to break at the most crucial moment, and I hurriedly went in search of another phone box. At the same time, tears streamed down my cheeks. South Korea had just heard my request for asylum. I had made it to the end of my journey. As I wiped my face with my fists, I could see three phone booths on a main road outside the station area. The first one looked beaten up, so I went into the newer-looking booth of the other two.

  ‘Hello!’ This time I spoke first.

  ‘Yes, who am I speaking to?’

  ‘I was the one who called earlier. I would like to request asylum in South Korea. I have my identification documents with me. The authorities have framed us for murder and are looking for us. But we are not murderers.’

  ‘Hello, listen now. This phone is not very safe, do you understand?’

  I glanced all around me.

  ‘It’s difficult to get to South Korea from here,’ the voice continued. ‘At the South Korean consulate in Shenyang, China does not allow visas to be issued to North Korean refugees. If you would like to go to South Korea, you have to get to the South Korean Embassy in Beijing. We can’t help you here.’

  We can’t help you here.

  But we were both Koreans, he and I!

  ‘How do I find the Embassy in Beijing? Please help me, I don’t know where to go from here, and I have a friend in Yanji on the run with me too,’ I pleaded.

  ‘All the other refugees make it on their own. How can you expect us to help with such basic details? I can’t stay on the phone for long, I’ll have to hang up now.’

  With those words, the line went dead. The flat dial tone felt like the whoosh of a bullet about to enter my skull. For a while, I stood there holding the receiver, unable to put it back in its cradle. Surely, the man I had just spoken to was a South Korean consulate employee, speaking in our language. Was there a chance that he had not understood my words? Perhaps I had rushed my explanation. Had I messed it all up after getting this far?

  I fumbled in my pocket for another coin. I panicked that there might be nothing left, but I found a single yuan. It was not only my last coin, but also my last chance at life.

  I dialled again. This time, I would explain my situation in detail. I would speak slowly, so the man at the other end would understand exactly what I was saying. The phone rang over ten times, but no one picked up. When the line went dead, I tried to get my coin back, but even the phone was indifferent and refused to return it.

  I slid to the ground. I put my arms round my knees and leant forward, hiding my face in my hands. I could feel with my fingers the blood pumping hard through my temples. When I put my hands on the ground to lever myself up, my vision blurred. Although I strained my eyes and opened them as wide as I could, I saw nothing but darkness.

  I knelt, breathing deeply in and out. As my sight gradually returned through thick fog, infinite spots of light swirled in front me. The painful and nauseating swirling gradually slowed and my sight began to clear. I stood up carefully.

  Leaving the phone booth, I resigned myself to a miserable end, in anticipation of being pushed off the edge of the world. There were no more tears, and I realised that tears are only shed when we know there is another’s hand to wipe them.

  Dazed before the blackness of night, I was a mere speck of dust tumbling beneath foreign skies. Impoverished North Korea, surviving on Chinese aid, could afford to send its agents on the rampage with the cooperation of the Chinese authorities. But South Korea, an economic ally of China that invested in Chinese reform, seemed to have no will or authority to rescue one of its own. Did I have a homeland at all?

  I looked back at the phone booth, because if I didn’t at least fix my fruitless gaze on it, both my body and my hopes might collapse into nothing. I had said I was requesting asylum but the employee had told me the phone wasn’t safe. Yes, he would have been cold to me on purpose, aware that we were being listened to.

  He said that I had to go to the Embassy in Beijing. I had come all the way to Shenyang on my own, and of course I could make it to Beijing. When I was reunited with Young-min, we’d go straight to the Embassy in Beijing. I also told myself that although I might be penniless, I was in a city and not some remote village in the countryside. As for food, it would be more plentiful in the urban areas than in the countryside. Surely I could also manage to borrow a phone to check in with Mr Shin when I could. I looked for a ‘PC’ sign like the one I remembered from Changchun, and I spent my first night in Shenyang in an Internet café.

  The next morning, armed with renewed determination, I went in search of somewhere where they might let me use their phone without paying. I needed to look polite, and I wasn’t so near the border with North Korea any more, so I felt I could do without my sunglasses. Mr Shin was probably right, wearing them might make me look strange. But finding a phone I could use for free was not as easy as I thought. In the reformed economy of China, everything required money. I noticed several people who were charging people to use their landlines out on the street, and I had no courage to approach any of them. I decided that, as in Yanji and Longjing, the most helpful thing would be to find someone who spoke Korean. Where could I start looking? It was not as if I could easily tell apart ethnic Koreans from Chinese.

  I walked to a street that was relatively busy. It was an entrance to a market alley. To my right there were clothes stalls, and to the left, there was a row of small restaurants. As it was too crowded, it was awkward to stand there, so I walked to a part of the street that seemed less congested.

  I then called out in a low voice to each passer-by. When a man walked by, I called out, ‘Sir!’ in Korean; when a woman passed me, I called out ‘Madam!’ If they were Chinese, they would ignore me; but surely Korean speakers would turn their heads to see who had called out to them?

  For the rest of the morning, I stood on that street calling out to each passer-by. I held my ground, calling out courteously, although my body wanted to collapse to the ground with hunger. By four in the afternoon, a sense of urgency came over me. If the sun were to set again with no result, I might become weaker in the dark.

  2

  A FATEFUL MEETING

  WITH WANG CHO-RINr />
  I RAISED MY eyes. About twenty metres away, a young woman was coming towards me. Her haircut was what we would call ‘bucket-style’ back home, because it looked as if the barber had put a bucket on a woman’s head and cut around it. In North Korea, women were not permitted to grow their hair or let it down, as long hair symbolised the corruption of a Capitalist society. Only female dancers were allowed to have long hair, because it was part of the traditional look. But even they had to keep their hair tied back in their everyday lives. A lot of North Korean women permed their hair because it made short hair look better. Otherwise they just wore it plain.

  The woman coming towards me with the bucket-style haircut was of medium height, and wearing leather boots. Her jacket was yellow with a black stripe across the shoulders. Her handbag was in brown chequered cloth. In terms of her clothing, even her handbag, she looked no different from the hundreds of other young Chinese women who had passed me by without so much as turning their heads.

  As I had done with every previous greeting, I promised myself that this would be the last one. I waited for her. If I called out when a pedestrian was facing me, even if they didn’t understand what I was saying, they would usually respond if only to check what they had just heard. So I spoke as soon as she was within distance.

  ‘Madam!’

  The young woman stopped and turned to look at me, blinking her large eyes, as if to ask whether I had spoken to her. ‘Do you need help with something?’ the young woman asked, in what was unmistakeably Korean. Although it was the language I had desperately longed to hear, I didn’t at first know how to respond.

  ‘Do you need help with something?’ she asked again.