by Nate Granzow
"Not nearly long enough," I said.
Years ago, before I knew not to trust him, Rothko and I had worked together on an assignment covering the violence in the Darfur region of the Sudan. His laziness was so pronounced, and his contributions so minimal, I struck out on my own. After days of inquiry, I finally made a connection with a clandestine source that provided me with indisputable evidence that the government forces responsible for the civilian massacres in the region could be linked to the Islamic jihad and al-Qaeda. This was information even the U.S. government hadn't openly acknowledged yet. I could almost taste the Pulitzer.
With a few hours to kill before our flight out of Khartoum, and with my story written and in-hand, Rothko and I sat down for a few celebratory drinks. I awoke a day later in a drugged haze, my notes, passport, and wallet gone.
Stumbling into the street, the unrelenting African sun instantly drawing sweat from my forehead and neck, I found that my rented Land Rover had been stolen, too. So I walked, or rather staggered, for five miles along the road leading to the embassy, alone in a country where human-rights activists, students, and journalists are all just as likely to be abducted and killed as any soldier.
When I got back to the States, I discovered that Rothko had predictably taken full credit for the story and had been offered a job at the New York Times.
My job.
"Oh don't be sore."
Rothko slipped an arm around my shoulder, but I tipped it off with two fingers.
"I'm not sore, Perry. I just don't like you. I am curious, though, how you've managed to keep the folks at the Times from learning about your conspicuously small vocabulary, morally dubious investigative techniques, and consistently prosaic reporting."
He chuckled, unshaken in his clearly misguided resolve to be friendly.
"You're a real joker. My job's been great. They've given me some of their most critical assignments, and the pay is outstanding."
"I don't doubt it. I mean, after all, they've got you covering this conference, right?"
It sounded more sincere than I would have liked. He only smiled and looked over my shoulder. An Australian voice said softly, "Mr. Cogar, you forgot your recorder."
Clamping my jaw in embarrassment, I tried to keep from blushing, which of course only made it worse. Turning around slowly, I thanked Jessica curtly and reached for the device.
"Cogar, where are your manners? You should introduce me to this lovely young lady." Forgetting about the woman at his side, he pushed past me and extended his hand to Jessica.
"It's a real pleasure to meet you. Say, you wouldn't happen to have a quarter by chance?"
Oh for the love of God. You deserve whatever you get for a pickup line like that.
Clearly confused, Jessica apologized, "I'm afraid I don't have any money on me."
And here comes the delivery.
"Hmm, well you see, my mother told me to give her a call when I met the woman of my dreams," Rothko laughed and once again flashed his impeccable smile. To my great mortification, Jessica giggled in reply.
Probably looking dumbfounded, I shook my head and cleared my throat.
"Look, Perry, I've got to run, but you and I should have a drink sometime," I said, mustering my most sinister grin.
I turned to his female companion, but spoke loudly enough for Jessica to hear.
"You know, I’m glad to see Perry going out again after his bout with syphilis. You could just tell the rashes were distracting him from his work. It’s a painful lesson, but as they say, there are two things you should never partake of in Africa: the water and the women."
With that, I headed for the sidewalk.
9
Sarah
Seated beneath a dim floor lamp in the corner of my small hotel room, a young Korean girl, only 17- or 18-years-old, cradled her sleeping infant. She held the child with only one arm. The other ended in a bony knot just below the elbow. This was my source: someone who had seen what the North Korean regime was like from the inside. It had taken a night of persistent digging and nagging phone calls to find her, beginning with the ambassador's connections and trickling down to less-reliable sources, but I could tell the minute I met her that she was worth talking to.
I learned early in my career that every person one meets in life has a story to tell. More importantly, their stories offer insight into bigger issues that a standard news story cannot. People don't care that there's a war happening in the far reaches of the globe, for instance, but if you tell them a refugee's story of loss and hardship, they suddenly begin to understand why it matters. If I do my job correctly as a reporter, my readers should feel the subject's pain and helplessness and be driven to care. The poet William Blake wrote about all this. Something to do with seeing the world in a grain of sand.
"Chun Hei, can I ask you a few questions?" I whispered, trying not to wake her child.
"You can call me Sarah. Chun Hei is my old name."
Wetting the ball of my pen against the tip of my tongue, I flipped to a fresh page in my notebook, set my audio recorder between us, and turned it on.
"Okay, Sarah. Let's get started. I'm going to ask you a few questions that you may find difficult to answer. If, at any point, we need to stop or take a break, just say so. We're just trying to tell your story."
Shifting in her chair, she took a deep breath. Though I recognized a hint of anxiety in her body language, she also radiated an aura of defiant pride.
"How did you end up here?" I asked gently.
"Years ago, when I lived in North Korea with my family, there was a terrible famine throughout the country. My father became very ill, and my mother, trying to save us from starvation, did the only thing she could—she begged on the streets. It was terrible, the shame she endured, the desperation to save her family. One day she didn't return home. I still don't know what happened to her.
"In Pyongyang, the sick and disabled are considered monstrosities, blemishes on the face of The Dear Leader's faultless city. We were forced to move my father to a neighboring village where the famine was even worse. Without my mother, my older sister and I were the only ones left to support him. We'd spend hours scrounging for food, but for many months we had nothing to eat but toranguk."
"Sorry to interrupt, but what is toranguk?"
"A soup made from toran root. That's how I lost my arm. One day when we were digging for roots, I found a landmine instead. After the amputation, I became very sick. There wasn't enough food or medicine for both my father and me, so my sister heeded his final wishes, giving me his rations. Father died shortly after. Without food, work, or family, we knew we had to leave. Escape to South Korea. We heard things were better there."
She stared angrily at the recorder between us, unconsciously rocking her baby with increasing fervor.
"When I became healthy enough, we crossed the Tumen River into China. But within weeks the police caught us and turned us in to the North Korean authorities. They called us defectors, traitors. I was forced to watch as my sister was made an example of, hanged in the village square. Because of my age, they sentenced me to five years in a prison labor camp. These are common in the DPRK. The General favors them because they sound humane to the outside world, but inside they are places of death and terrible violence."
I nodded slowly. One of the longest-standing human rights violations still in existence, the North Korean prison camps about which she spoke were well known, even outside the country. But with the DPRK already under severe UN sanctions, the global community could do almost nothing to eradicate them.
"Every week for three years I was beaten or raped by the guards. One day I discovered I was pregnant, and I worried that I would be killed. I was lucky, though. When the other prisoners learned of my pregnancy, they did everything they could to protect the baby and me. Word found its way to Christian missionaries, and they smuggled me out in the night, taking me to China—where I had my child—and last year brought me here."
Sitting for a
silent moment, my pen tapping on my lip, I realized I had stopped taking notes.
"That's extraordinary, Sarah."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Cogar, but no, it's not. It's survival. There are thousands of others who have tried to do what I did, have worse stories to tell, but were not lucky enough to make it here. Worse, there are thousands more who wouldn't leave if you promised them all the freedom and riches in the world. They will weep in the streets the day Comrade Kim Jong-il passes."
"But why do they stay? Why the loyalty to such a murderous, repressive dictator? If things are as bad as they sound, why isn't there a mass exodus out of the country?"
"North Korea is a military state, Mr. Cogar. The army and police are everywhere, all the time. They are in homes, schools, in the streets and at every door. Its people wake each morning to propaganda speakers in their bedrooms. Many of them give up hope of escape or a better life. Others simply know of nothing else. It is a nation of slavery; we are taught to worship our master as though he is God. He lives in luxury while we starve, puts a gun to our head and tells us to love him for it."
10
A Day at the DMZ
Parting the curtains beside my bed, I interlaced my fingers and palmed the back of my head as I stared at the darkening sky. Sarah's story had been a remarkable one, and would make for an excellent human-interest feature, but it wasn't groundbreaking. Accounts of exploitation and mistreatment by those living in North Korea had been widely published, and despite their disturbing and poignant truth, readers had proven less and less interested the more they heard about it.
Throughout my career, I've had to remind myself that, though an issue like this one may be glaring and real and of the utmost significance to me, on the other side of the world, hundreds of readers would skip over my article, using it, instead, to line the bottom of a birdcage.
Nevertheless, I wrote up an outline and emailed it to Kailas. Within minutes, he had replied in no uncertain terms that he had sent me here to find a fresh, informative take on the political state of affairs between North and South. He, like many others, had viewed the shelling of Yeonpyeong Island as the first wave in an impending full-scale military struggle. That was what he was interested in, not the lamentable struggle of a young woman. But war looked doubtful. Kailas had been only partially correct when he first gave me the assignment: The violence had clearly been a result of the ham-fisted training for succession by the baby-faced son of North Korea's "Dear Leader", Kim Jong-un. It was just that the outcome of the training had turned out to be less violent than he had prophesied.
I would never wish for conflict, but the sudden wave of inaction that had struck the Korean peninsula as soon as I arrived was not going to get me a winning story.
Frustrated, I pulled the curtains shut, reached for my phone, and dialed the ambassador. If I couldn't get him to sit down for a formal interview, maybe he'd let me follow him around long enough to find another lead.
"Chamberlain speaking."
"Hey Richard, it's Grant."
"My boy, what can I do for you?"
"I was hoping I could follow you around for the day. No formal questions, I promise. This would be for research only."
An empty pause had me wondering if the ambassador was contemplating my suggestion or if the call had been dropped.
"Why don't you come down to the embassy? You and I can take a drive up to the DMZ. It'll give us something to talk about."
Upon my arrival, and despite protest from much of the embassy staff and security, Chamberlain gave his bodyguard the afternoon off and ushered me toward his convertible.
"Help me get the top down."
Opening the passenger's-side door, I thumbed open one of the snaps holding the vehicle's top in place and said, "Richard, I'm not looking to make waves with your staff. If they think you should have a bodyguard with you—"
"I've got you, don't I?" the ambassador laughed. "You've got more fighting experience than anyone here. It'll be fine. Besides, we're going to be surrounded by hundreds of friendly soldiers. Hell, it's probably safer there than it is here."
As we pulled out of the parking lot, Richard flicked open a pair of sunglasses, jammed the clutch in, and shifted to second gear. The little car leapt forward, the breeze drawing tears from the corners of my eyes and pulling the wisps of hair on the ambassador's head back like a strand of cobwebs in the wind. I smiled as I looked at the old man. This was his escape from the gravity and stress of his work. He was an excellent diplomat, but the events of the previous months had worn on him, I could tell.
"Welcome to Korea, Cogar!" he yelled over the rushing air.
After a few hours on the freeway, the cold wind making me wish I’d worn a heavier jacket, the Fiat slowed to a stop before an army watchtower just outside the Korean Demilitarized Zone. Flashing his credentials, the ambassador led the way up a concrete stairway, past several heavily armed soldiers. As we reached the tower’s topmost platform, we were greeted by a sweeping view of the lush landscape. The DMZ itself was little more than a tree-covered strip of land that made up the physical border between North and South. A fine mist hung on the horizon, the rolling hills disappearing into a distant fog.
"It's beautiful in a way, isn't it?" The ambassador said quietly. "It's one of the most lovely, most ironic places in the world."
The sun shined warmly, breaking through the overcast sky in scattered beams. Only the occasional cry of a wild bird interrupted the quiet.
"What do you mean, ironic?"
"This place was born of violence and death, Cogar. It's the line where two colliding forces reached a stalemate. Now, because no one dares set foot on it for fear of having a leg blown off by a landmine or being cut down by gunfire, it's become one of the most pristine wildlife refuges in the world—a place of life and beauty, born of violence. That's ironic."
I shoved my hands into my pockets and said, "Makes sense. It's like the Chernobyl disaster. The Exclusion Zone has thousands of thriving species, but only because radiation levels are still deadly for humans."
"Makes you wonder whether humankind was really meant to prosper, doesn't it? I mean, we're a cancer to this planet."
Richard spoke as though he were alone, quietly reflecting on his place in the world. Uncomfortable and unsure how to respond, I only grunted, "hmm."
Suddenly assuming an air of false cheerfulness, he pointed to a distant point on the horizon.
"You see that flagpole, Cogar? At one time that was the tallest one in the world."
"Kim Jong showing off, I'd imagine."
He laughed, "You'd be amazed at how much posturing goes on between these two countries, my boy. South Korea built a flagpole, so the DPRK had to build the biggest one the world has ever seen: a laughable waste of resources when you consider how many people have starved to death over there. In fact, that little town where the flagpole sits? It's just a shell."
"A shell?"
"It's completely vacant. No one actually lives in Kijŏng-dong. Those lovely white houses, fully equipped with electrical power and lights, have never once held inhabitants. Ever. Worse, they were built at a time when most civilians didn't have power in their own homes."
"Seems like an awful misuse of resources. Was it supposed to get people to desert to the North?"
"Years ago that might have been the plan. Now they've just switched to blaring anti-western propaganda over loudspeakers on most days," Richard said, scratching the underside of his nose.
"The whole thing seems so…immature."
"Funny you should say that. I've always thought of North Korea as a spoiled child. They get in fights on the playground, and then run crying to their older brother, China, to protect them. When the world tells them they can't have something, like a nuclear warhead, they lie, cheat, and steal to get it. When they get caught red-handed, I'm talking hand-in-the-cookie-jar, indisputable evidence against them, they'll lie with such enthusiasm—"
"Like the sinking of the Cheonan?" I asked carefully.
I'd been looking for an opportunity to steer the conversation back to current events and something I could use for a story. Sources will often defend the secrecy of some knowledge fiercely when asked about it formally, but quickly turn around and offer it up in a casual conversation, most times without realizing it.
"Sure, the Cheonan was an example of that. And again, the UN team that was called down here to look over the wreck found the North Korean torpedo that did it. It practically had 'made in North Korea' stamped on the damn thing. Caught the bastards in the act again. That sort of shit has been happening for years. Did you know that we've found almost 20 incursion tunnels the North Koreans have tried to dig under the DMZ? Tunnels obviously intended for a military invasion. We catch them digging, know what they're for, but still they claim they're just mining for coal and paint the tunnel walls black hoping we'll buy it." He chuckled. "They paint the fucking walls, Cogar. I'd respect them a whole lot more if they'd just admit what they were up to and acknowledge that we caught them doing it. Doesn't change anything, anyway."
The ambassador scuffed his foot against the concrete, obviously irritated, then reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a pair of cigars from a gold-plated tin.
"Cuban?"
"I forget those are legal outside the States," I said, reaching for one.
"Not only legal, plentiful. It's hard to find anything but Cubans here—the locals know the tourists love 'em. But the price…well don't get me started," the ambassador said, pulling a lighter from his pocket and flicking the lid open with his thumbnail.
After lighting both our cigars, Richard inhaled deeply and breathed out audibly—the blue-gray smoke disappearing against the sky.
"You should be thankful you're still young, Cogar. No responsibilities, no worries…life is still fresh and exciting. You get to be my age and it becomes harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning. You wake up and find yourself so jaded that most things you once found redeeming about the world turn to shit."