by Alana Terry
I never before met anyone like the Old Woman. While Father’s faith was bold and reckless, the Old Woman’s love for her Savior was peaceful and pure, as soft as the gentle spring breeze that caressed my face so many years ago. I still didn’t understand why the guards allowed the Old Women to engage in such overt displays of faith. Nor could I fathom why they gave the Old Woman extra rations, why they spoke to her in hushed, almost reverent whispers, why they treated her with the deference and respect due a member of the Dear Leader’s family and not a prisoner in confinement. While a guest in the Old Woman’s cell, I was never hit, berated, or intimidated by a single guard. I longed to ask about the mysterious history of my hostess, but for the past two weeks, she listened only to facts about my life without offering any information about her own.
And now the Old Woman had her arm wrapped around me and was running her fingers through my hair as she did so many times. I had suffered so much at the hands of others that the Old Woman’s touch was at times actually painful for me to endure. And yet I couldn’t pull myself away but felt somehow cleansed and renewed, as if healing flowed from the Old Woman’s very fingertips. “I think today is a good day for you to tell me about your father,” the Old Woman said. There was a certainty in her voice that I couldn’t argue with.
I sighed. Until the day she died, my mother and I kept our agreement to never speak of Father. I didn’t even know how to talk about him anymore. Where should I start the tale? And once I started, how could I find the words to describe the end of his history?
But the Old Woman was waiting, drawing the words out of my mouth with her intense gaze.
“Father was always strong,” I began, and for what must have been nearly an hour, I told the Old Woman about Father and his unwavering faith, which at one time had seemed more steadfast than the very mountains that surrounded my Hasambong hometown.
“He sounds like he was a very courageous man,” the Old Woman commented after I described my father’s refusal to conceal his faith when we still lived in our small cabin in North Hamyong Province.
“Yes. He was my hero,” I replied. “When I was a child, I wanted to grow up to be just like him.” I looked over at my cellmate to see how she would respond.
“And are you like him, righteous daughter?” probed the Old Woman. I still wasn’t used to the way the Old Woman could discern my every thought.
“No,” I answered, shaking my head. “When I first came to Camp 22, I was mad at Father.” I told the Old Woman about my experience as a twelve-year-old in the detainment center under Agent Lee’s cruel custody. “As a child I was so proud of Father’s courage and faith. But each time Agent Lee came in to beat me, I grew more and more furious at Father for not signing the statement like they demanded. And angrier at God, too,” I confessed, though my doubts seemed foolish in light of the faith that radiated from the Old Woman. I looked at her to see her reaction to my words.
“The Lord remains faithful even if we are faithless,” the Old Woman observed. “Little daughter, did not the apostle Peter also turn away in fear and deny his Lord?”
I nodded, remembering the story that Father taught me as a child. “Never be like Peter,” Father had exhorted me. If only Father knew the future that awaited him, I thought in the Old Woman’s cell, he wouldn’t have made such a bold admonition.
“After ten days in underground detainment,” I continued, “the National Security agent came and told me that I could start school in the main camp.”
The Old Woman furrowed her eyebrows. “Why did they release you? And so suddenly?”
I couldn’t stop the hot tears of shame that flowed down my cheeks. I hoped that the Old Woman would say something to fill the silence, but she was quiet.
“They let me go,” I admitted and tried to take in a deep breath, “because my father signed the confession after all.”
I hung my head and longed for some cleansing ointment to wash away the disgrace I felt at Father’s defeat. While I was in detainment, my father’s stubborn faith infuriated me. After he signed the confession, however, I had no choice but to believe that God failed him. And that thought terrified me more than all of Agent Lee’s torture devices combined.
“And did they release your father then, too?” the Old Woman inquired.
“No,” I whispered, desperately trying to fight away the grief that threatened to consume me. I wanted to end Father’s history there, but the Old Woman continued to stare at me, and I continued to speak.
“After he signed the confession,” I went on and lowered my eyes, unable to meet the Old Woman’s penetrating look, “my father hanged himself in his cell.”
I cried quietly into the Old Woman’s shoulder until a moan of agony welled up from deep within my soul. I was powerless to control its volume. Trembling, I let the Old Woman hold me, certain that if it weren’t for her strength and unshakeable faith, I would lose myself in a torrent of grief and hopelessness from which I would never recover.
The Old Woman rocked me in her firm embrace as we sat on the floor. A cautious guard approached our cell but was sent scurrying away with a flick of the Old Woman’s wrist.
“He was always so strong,” I lamented, unable to forget Agent Lee’s horrid descriptions of my father’s torture, the punishment that was so cruel and so inhumane that even my faithful father crumbled under its weight. For the next seven years, I lived in a hopeless, godless stupor. Father’s suicide stripped me of any remaining faith in God’s mercy or power. I was alone in a world where God was not omnipotent, where his justice and goodness did not prevail.
Yet here in the Old Woman’s cell, light was able to penetrate the veil of obscurity that hung over me for so long. Miraculous healing saved me from certain death the day I was brought to the Old Woman. I still didn’t know how I ended up as her cellmate, but I was convinced that if it weren’t for the Old Woman’s prayers on my behalf, I would have died from my illness.
Even after my health was restored, I felt God’s presence again and again: in the peace and tranquility that washed over me like a soothing balm when I listened to the Old Woman’s prayers, in the longing and desire that stirred in my soul when she sang her dulcet hymns, even in the incredible way we were protected from any harsh treatment from the guards. It was as if an entire legion of angels was posted at the entrance of our cell, overcoming every threat of evil in this underground chamber of torture and suffering. Heavenly mercy beckoned to me, inviting me to cleanse myself from the guilt and defilement of my hopeless, godless years as a prisoner at Camp 22.
I longed to respond to this divine love and peace that called out to my soul, to hold on to it and never let it go. But whenever I closed my eyes to pray, Agent Lee’s taunting voice echoed in my mind: “Your father signed the confession this morning. He renounced his faith in God and pledged his allegiance to the Party.” When I asked if I could see my father, Agent Lee’s lips turned upward. “Song Hyun-Ki hanged himself less than an hour ago, a coward in death just like he was in life.”
The Old Woman held me close, whispering prayers over my shaking body, as I mourned my father’s defeat. Eventually, my sobbing subsided and my breathing became less spasmodic. I lay with my head against the Old Woman’s shoulder, exhausted and heavy hearted. The Old Woman stroked my face, wet from tears.
“Little daughter,” she declared after a long period of silence, “there is a God who works all things together for good. He takes horror and turns it into beauty. I do not know how he will redeem your pain and suffering, but I do know this: The tragedy of your father’s life has some greater heavenly purpose, and the story you have just told me is far from finished.”
Family
“Brother will betray brother to death, and a father his child; children will rebel against their parents and have them put to death.” Matthew 10:21
“Little Chung-Cha,” said the Old Woman one day. The weather was getting warmer and we no longer needed the extra blankets the guards gave us at the Old Woman’s re
quest. I was regaining my strength after years of starvation and suffering. Now more than anything, I longed to breathe the fresh spring air.
The Old Woman sat with her back leaning against the cement wall of our cell. When she called my name, I stopped my anxious pacing and sat down by her side. “Have I ever told you about my family?” the Old Woman asked. It was difficult for me to hide my surprise. In the several months I had spent in the Old Woman’s cell, she remained silent about her family. I didn’t know what made her finally decide to talk about her past that spring day, but I was eager to listen.
“Only two of my grandparents were Korean,” the Old Woman began. “When foreign missionaries first traveled to the Korean Empire, my maternal grandfather as well as my paternal grandmother both sailed over from Britain. But unlike many other missionaries, they did not just live in Korea for a few years, do good works, and then return to their lives back home. They both learned the Korean language, took Korean spouses, and died on Korean soil.
“My father was born in what is now South Korea. My mother, like you, little daughter, grew up in the mountains of North Hamyong Province. Until they found one another, Mother and Father were quite alone. It was not easy for them to be the children of Westerners, half-breeds that were never accepted by their Korean peers. They both moved to Pyongyang as young adults, my father to attend seminary and my mother to help oversee a small Christian orphanage. During the Pyongyang revival of 1906, my parents met at church and fell in love.
“At that time, marriages were still arranged by parents with the help of a matchmaker. My father and mother wanted to marry each other, so they both wrote to their parents, asking them to come to Pyongyang for a season to help them arrange the match.
“Mother and Father loved each other deeply, but for many years after marrying they had difficulty bearing children. When I was born, Father was already in his late fifties, and Mother was not much younger. By that time, the entire Korean Peninsula was annexed by Japan. Korean children were offered very limited opportunities to receive an education, so it was Mother who taught me to read and write.
“We were all still living in Pyongyang when Japan lost the Great War and the Korean Empire was divided. My parents and I tried on three separate occasions to flee to the south, but finally my parents agreed that it must be God’s will for us to remain in North Korea. At that time there was still a significant Christian community in Pyongyang.”
The Old Woman paused and looked at the cement ceiling above her. “Little daughter,” she questioned, “do you know how many Christians live in our nation’s capital today?”
At first I was sure the Old Woman was joking. Christians in Pyongyang? The thought was absurd. “None.”
The Old Woman smiled. “Dear child, you are too quick to believe what your school instructors taught you. There are Christians in Pyongyang just as surely as there are birds outside this detainment center. These believers may be few and scattered, with very little strength or courage, but I have seen them.” Perplexed, I watched the Old Woman as she continued staring up toward the ceiling. Her blue eyes sparkled, as if she were catching a glimpse of something beautiful and glorious taking place where I saw only cracked cement and spider webs.
“I have seen them.” The Old Woman sighed. “My parents and I suffered much during the Peninsula War of the 1950s. We witnessed many crimes. I was twenty years old when the armistice was finally signed between North and South, and by then I was in love with an officer of the North Korea People’s Army.”
The Old Woman smiled, lifting her masses of wrinkles when she saw my surprise. “Like your friend Mee-Kyong,” the Old Woman confessed, her craggy voice lifting with an air of youthful gaiety, “I also was once blinded by love and imagined it was enough to overcome any of our religious or ideological differences.
“My parents were heart-broken. My beloved officer was as whole heartedly atheist as they were devoutly God-fearers. They begged me not to marry him, but at this point the matchmakers were obsolete; it was the children who chose their spouses. This decorated, atheistic officer and I were married in Pyongyang, and by the time I was twenty-two, I had borne my husband two healthy boys.”
I pictured my cellmate as a young mother. Traces of maternal beauty still radiated from the Old Woman’s wrinkled face. I imagined her voice as it must have been decades ago, light and airy as she sang lullabies to her children at night, or doting and rich as she soothed away their scrapes and bruises with sweet words of comfort.
The Old Woman tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and went on, “My eldest son was named Chul-Moo, a weapon of iron. My husband desired for him achieve a high rank in the People’s Army, and from Chul-Moo’s birth my husband worked in Pyongyang toward that end. When Chul-Moo’s baby brother was born eleven months later, I named him Chung-Ho, as I secretly hoped that in spite of his atheistic upbringing, my son would grow up to be righteous and godly. I never lost my faith in Christ, you see; I just followed my heart when it came to romantic notions. Because of my parents’ religious background, my husband demanded that I break all ties with them. Then, in order to protect his own military career, he bribed a comrade to change my birth certificate. If you search Pyongyang’s records, you will discover that I was born to a politically auspicious family, and I have no Western blood in me.”
“But your eyes!” I exclaimed, wondering how anyone could overlook those striking blue irises.
“Little daughter,” the Old Woman chuckled, “if Pyongyang calls a tiger a kitten, then every single Party member will line up to pat its back and scratch that tiger’s ears. In my case, Pyongyang called a half-breed, blue-eyed granddaughter of Christian missionaries a respectable Party girl. And that’s exactly what I became. In spite of my husband’s atheism and devotion to the Party, you see,” the Old Woman continued, “I loved him, and he loved me. It was a strange three decades. I adored my husband and raised our children to be model citizens, but my secret faith made us political enemies.
“I was happier than I deserved to be. I did not have any contact with my parents, I did not know any other Christians, and I did not have a Bible. Still, my husband cherished me, my sons honored me, and I felt blessed. My only sorrow was that I could not explain the good news of Jesus to my children. And so I prayed for hours at night after my boys were asleep, pleading with the Almighty for my children’s salvation. Then during the day, I played the role of an upstanding officer’s wife, loving my husband and our boys zealously but never breathing a single word to anyone about my faith.”
The Old Woman sighed. I was afraid she might be too tired to continue. I was glad when, after giving way to a large and noisy yawn, the Old Woman went on with her story.
“Our eldest son, Chul-Moo, entered the People’s Army like my husband. He quickly advanced and even grew to outrank his father. Chung-Ho, my second-born, became a successful businessman, his work taking him into China and even the Soviet Union at times.” The Old Woman smiled. “It was on a business trip to China that my youngest son Chung-Ho first heard the gospel. He immediately accepted Christ. He was afraid to tell his father, but he could not keep his secret from me. ‘Mother!’ he exclaimed to me the first day back from his travels. ‘Let me tell you what happened to me on my trip. I learned something wonderful in China. There is a man, a perfectly righteous man named Jesus Christ. He is the Son of God. He was killed, but then he was brought back to life. He’s the true and living God, Mother. And I’ve met him!’
“I cannot explain to you, little daughter, how my heart rejoiced at my son’s confession of faith.” The Old Woman beamed with the memory. “It was then, nearly three decades after his birth, that I was able to tell Chung-Ho about his true family lineage. We knew we must keep Chung-Ho’s conversion from my husband, and so in many respects our lives went on as before. Nevertheless, Chung-Ho was a changed man, full of joy and the power of the Holy Spirit. When we were alone, Chung-Ho would beg me to teach him about the Bible.
“Although I prais
ed God for Chung-Ho’s salvation, I nevertheless fretted over my eldest son, Chul-Moo. He was prone to depression; he did not care for anything or anyone other than the Party and the People’s Army. I suspected he was drinking heavily, although I had no proof. Rumors of an illegitimate child were threatening his career advancement. Emboldened by Chung-Ho’s conversion, I finally decided that the time had come to share the gospel with my eldest son Chul-Moo as well.
“I fasted and prayed for several days and begged my youngest son, the only other Christian I knew, to do the same. One Sunday afternoon, I went over to Chul-Moo’s house as usual. ‘Chul-Moo,’ I told him, ‘I am your mother and I love you deeply, and now you are going to sit down and listen to what I have to tell you.’ And so I explained to Chul-Moo the gospel of salvation. Since I did not know how he would react to my words, I did not tell Chul-Moo that his grandparents were born of Western missionaries or that his younger brother was also a Christian.
“But Chul-Moo did not accept what I had to say. He told me that I was a Christian pig, and that even though I was his mother he was duty-bound to report me to the National Security Agency.”
“Your own son turned you in?” I gasped.
The Old Woman nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “Of course, Chul-Moo knew that he himself would also be arrested if he was found to be the son of a Christian. So before he betrayed me, he spoke to a superior officer, who at that time was preparing my son for a position in the Great Leader’s inner circle. Before my arrest, Chul-Moo was transferred to a detainment center along the Tumen River with new papers, a new job, and a new identity. It was a demotion, but he had done his duty to his nation while keeping himself out of prison camp.”