by Laura Ling
I looked down at the ground, trying to seem meek and respectful. It was as if I had entered a parallel universe. Would I ever see or hear from my family again? I wondered. Could this be my last day alive? The combination of fear and sadness engulfed me and made me tremble.
After a ten-minute wait, we were led out of the post. The same two border guards who had apprehended us held our wrists tightly as another soldier led the way. We followed a narrow trail through dry grassland. Along the path, we saw a couple of men who looked like poor farmers or peasants. They were at least a full head shorter than me and emaciated. Their skin was dark and weathered. I could tell they were curious about us, but they averted their eyes as we passed. My heart sank with each step as we headed farther and farther inland, away from China and the outside world.
LISA
AT TEN O’CLOCK THE NIGHT before Laura was to leave, she phoned me to see if she could borrow my light Patagonia shell jacket.
“Do you realize how cold it is where you’re going?” I pressed. “There’s no way that jacket is going to keep you warm enough.”
Having grown up in California, we always underestimate how severe temperatures can be elsewhere and inevitably underpack or bring inappropriate attire.
“Well, I can’t find my black coat, so I don’t have anything else,” Laura replied.
“Baby, you can’t be dealing with this at the last minute,” I said. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“The cab’s picking me up at ten in the morning,” she answered.
“Shit. Okay. I’ll bring you my big brown parka,” I said.
I woke up extra early the next morning to fight the stop-and-rarely-go 405 freeway traffic and make it from Santa Monica to Laura’s house in the valley in time.
When I got there, my sister was scurrying around the house that she and Iain had been living in for less than four months. They had gotten married nearly five years ago, but they’d been together for twelve. They had been saving to buy their first home for a long time. Our parents have always been thrifty, so frugality was ingrained in us. Laura was stressed about having just ordered some custom-designed pillows that cost more than she knew she should spend. But Iain encouraged her to go for it; he wanted her to have whatever made her happy. In the midst of her frenzied packing, Laura sat down on the couch and looked at me with serious eyes.
“Li, Iain and I have just started trying to have a baby,” she confided.
I was so happy for her. She went on to say that she had recently stopped taking her ulcer medication so that she could try to conceive. Iain had wanted to start a family for a while. No one was better with kids than my brother-in-law; they just flocked to him. He would allow friends’ children to chase him around the pool over and over again to the point of dizziness. We’d all get tired just watching them, but Iain had endless energy. Though he loved playing with friends’ kids, he wanted children of his own. But being ten years younger than him, Laura just hadn’t been ready.
When I had first heard how much older Iain was than Laura, I immediately opposed their relationship.
“Are you crazy? Thirty-one?” I exclaimed. “That’s way too old. You’re only twenty-one.”
“He looks so young, Li, you wouldn’t believe it,” Laura said, trying to convince me, “and plus, I really like him.”
“Baby,” I urged, “you have to be careful of guys like that. They just want to mess around.”
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
That was the fall of 1997, and Laura was a student at UCLA. While she dated here and there, she had never had a serious boyfriend before. I used to worry that she might not ever find someone, because she had never really expressed an interest in anyone. Or maybe it was just because she had never told me about it. Laura and I never kept secrets from each other, but I was always very protective of her—perhaps overly so. In hindsight, I probably wasn’t ready for my little sister to start dating. As a girl, I had more crushes than I can recall. Much to my embarrassment, I was named “biggest flirt” in my middle school yearbook. I had already had a lot of experiences, and I didn’t want Laura to get distracted by the boy craziness that had struck me long ago. She never would.
Iain is boyishly handsome, and many say he looks like the actor Michael Vartan with a touch of Hugh Grant. He is a rare combination of brainiac financial quant and British surfer dude. I always tease him about his recreational reading, which ranges from esoteric books about calculable formulations to ones about mathematical models. Although he could be categorized as a bona fide nerd, Iain has never lacked admirers of different ages and genders. But the most striking of his characteristics is his gentle demeanor. In more than a decade of knowing him, I have never seen Iain get angry—not once, ever.
He has a soft-spoken, kind way about him, but he’s stoic and never particularly emotional—except when it comes to Laura. Their love is that of storybooks—it’s the only way I can describe it. After many years, a lot of relationships grow stagnant and stale—but not my sister and Iain’s. On many occasions I’ve caught Iain stroking her hair or rubbing her back during periods of stress. His obvious adoration of my sister and hers for him has never waned, even in the slightest.
Laura and Iain married in June 2004, seven years after they met. I had to share my best friend, but there was no one I’d rather share her with. During my maid-of-honor champagne toast at their wedding, I closed by saying, “Baby Girl, I may have been the flirt, but you got the boy.”
LAURA
AFTER ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES of walking along a dirt trail with the North Korean soldiers, we arrived at a second army post. It must have been no later than 7:00 A.M. It was hard to believe that the day was just beginning. This facility was slightly larger than the previous location but rudimentary all the same. While Euna was taken into a room to talk to the officer in charge, I was led through the dim sleeping quarters, which contained half a dozen metal bunk beds with thin, stained mattresses, to a small washroom. There was no sink, just a large bucket of water. On a ledge sat a couple of used, brown-stained toothbrushes. A soldier handed me a dirty rag and motioned for me to clean my face.
I hadn’t thought about my injury or appearance since that moment on the ice. I touched the side of my face; my jaw was tender. It hurt to open my mouth. Dried blood from the gash on my head had caused a large chunk of hair to stick together and harden against my skin. It was difficult to peel away the hair to inspect the actual injury. I winced in pain as my fingers touched the bloody lesion for the first time. Not wanting to infect the wound with the grimy towel, I lightly wiped my face, steering clear of the injury.
I was then led into the room with Euna and the officer. There were no signs of technology, no electronic equipment, not even electricity for that matter. Euna spoke Korean to the officer in charge, telling him we were university students working on a documentary about the border region. She told him we had made an innocent mistake. I asked Euna to convey to the man that we were very sorry and ask if he could please take us to the official bridge over the river between North Korea and China so we could walk back to China. I didn’t think they would, but hoped there might be a slight chance they would send us back over the bridge so the Chinese authorities could deal with us.
“Tell him we’re sorry and that we could pay a fine if necessary for any inconvenience we’ve caused,” I added.
We were made to wait outside. Euna was shivering. Her pants were soaking wet. This was the first time I noticed that she didn’t have her jacket. She quietly told me she had purposely tossed her coat while we were attempting to flee on the Chinese side. She had her cell phone inside the pocket and didn’t want the North Koreans to get any of the numbers that were on it. I wrapped my coat around her and tried to warm her legs by rubbing them and gently massaging them. I had a small package of trail mix in my pocket and encouraged Euna to eat some to keep up her strength. I nibbled on a few cashews and tried to remain calm.
Moments later the officer ret
urned and in Korean explained that they would take us to the bridge. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Were they really letting us go? He looked me over and ordered a soldier to bring me a rag to wash the blood off my parka. I took this as a good sign, thinking they didn’t want the Chinese authorities to see that I’d been beaten on Chinese soil. He looked at my head and inspected my face. Fearing I hadn’t cleaned myself up well enough, I had Euna tell him that there was a hat in my bag, which I could put on to look more presentable. He allowed me to retrieve the white wool cap, which I put on to his satisfaction. The officer seemed trustworthy; there was a kindness in his eyes. But I was still skeptical of his intentions.
A soldier on an old military motorcycle with a sidecar approached, and we were told to get in. We were given our belongings. Wanting to hold the officer to his word, I asked Euna to see if the man could accompany us. He said it wasn’t possible, that he needed to stay at the post.
“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I replied in Korean.
Another soldier hopped on the back of the rickety motorcycle, and the driver tried to start the engine. I looked around the dusty base. There were no other vehicles in sight. This dilapidated motorcycle appeared to be the only transportation available. Three or four attempts later and the cycle finally began to roar. We were off. Euna was sitting in the front of the sidecar. I curled up behind her, bracing myself against the brisk morning air.
For the next fifteen minutes, we continued down a bumpy dirt road, rarely seeing any other vehicles. We passed a small village consisting of simple adobe buildings. There were a few people riding bicycles, but most were walking. Despite the frigid weather, the villagers were not wearing heavy overcoats. They had on simple dark, drab garments, which matched their gloomy expressions.
I wasn’t sure of our location, but it seemed we were headed in the opposite direction of the Tumen Bridge that links North Korea and China. Still, my instincts told me we were traveling parallel to the river, which gave me some relief. I figured they must be taking us to a different, closer border crossing. A military truck approached us, and someone inside motioned for our driver to stop. Their conversation was inaudible, but thankfully, we were soon on the road again.
Suddenly we made a left turn, heading away from the river. This is when I knew immediately we were not going back to China. I grabbed Euna’s shoulders, rubbing them as if to warm her, but hoping she would take this as a signal that something was very wrong. We ascended a path and pulled into a larger military base.
We were ushered into an empty room where three officials were waiting. We all sat on the linoleum floor, which was slightly heated by an underground wood-or coal-fired furnace. This was the first time we’d experienced any kind of warmth, and I pressed my hands to the floor to restore the feeling in my fingers.
The officers proceeded to look through all our belongings, showing particular interest in our equipment and money. I handed over the microphone I’d been keeping in my pocket. We had roughly three thousand dollars in our possession, consisting of South Korean, Chinese, and U.S. currency. At each place where we were held, the officers had counted our money and noted how much of each type of currency we had. Here, they meticulously counted the cash again. I suspected they wanted to make sure no money was missing or had changed hands from location to location. They leafed through our passports, pausing to look at each of the dozens of visas in my booklet.
“Why do you have so many visas?” asked one of the officers.
“My family really likes to travel,” I replied nervously with Euna translating. He didn’t seem convinced.
Another officer picked up the receiver from a telephone that was on the floor in a corner and tried to place a call. This was the first bit of technology I had seen in the three different locations in which we’d been held. To his frustration, there was no connection. He tapped on the receiver button repeatedly but was unsuccessful. I wondered if he was trying to contact higher authorities or officials in the capital, Pyongyang. The out-of-date-looking telephone and lack of connection seemed to be signs that we probably didn’t need to worry about the room being bugged or electronically monitored. I wanted to be with Euna alone so we could speak more freely and figure out a plan.
So far, Euna had informed the officers that we were students working on a documentary project about the border and trade between China and North Korea. We knew the issue we were really covering, North Korean defectors escaping from their country’s poverty and brutal government, was particularly sensitive and that the missionary groups that had been aiding us were not liked by the North Korean regime. I began to think about what evidence we had that might compromise our sources and interview subjects, or reveal what our true purpose was in the region.
An officer pulled out the digital still camera that was in my bag. He handed it to me and asked me to show him the photos. I remembered the pictures of North Korean women defectors I had taken. One was of a girl who had fled from North Korea and was lured into the online sex industry in China before being smuggled into South Korea by missionaries. The other was of a woman who had been forced to marry a poor farmer in China. While that photo only showed the back of the woman’s head, I didn’t want to take any chances. I nervously deleted these pictures before showing the officer some of the benign ones, such as me enjoying a traditional Korean meal in Seoul.
We were then taken to another building. But before we left the first facility, we were blindfolded with two bandanas I had in my bag. I’d become accustomed to carrying bandanas on my trips because of their versatility—they can be used as handkerchiefs, hair wraps, or protective cloths. Now my own bandanas were being used to keep me prisoner.
Two female soldiers led us across a courtyard. As we stumbled from one building to the next, I could hear military drills being conducted nearby. The sounds of boots marching to a beat and the cadence of the soldiers’ voices sent my heart thumping with trepidation.
Our blindfolds were removed after we entered a room much like the previous one. We were told that someone was coming to take us to another base. Now that it was clear we were leaving these officers’ jurisdiction, the air seemed to become a little more relaxed, and for a brief period we were left alone with our belongings. With soldiers right outside our door, we scrambled nervously to destroy whatever evidence we thought might get our sources, interview subjects, and us in trouble.
I told Euna I had deleted some pictures from my camera.
“What should I do with my videotapes?” Euna asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied, trying to recall what was on the tapes.
Two of them contained an interview I had conducted with a recent North Korean defector. He, unlike the women we’d spoken with, had fled because he was upset with North Korea’s political system. While Euna’s tapes did not reveal the man’s identity because she had only filmed the lower part of his body, the types of questions I had asked him could be quite damaging to our situation. Euna proceeded to rip the ribbons on the tapes so they would not be viewable.
I had a small notebook, and several of the pages inside contained interview questions for Pastor Chun Ki-Won and a professor in Seoul, two men whose work is considered subversive by the North Korean government. I carefully ripped the pages out of the notebook. Euna told me to give her a page. She crumpled up the paper and put it in her mouth, chewing and swallowing. I followed her lead. Fearing I might exacerbate my recurring ulcer, I ripped the other page up into small pieces and put it in my pocket. Later on, I asked a guard if I could use the toilet, which was an outhouse on a raised platform. I wrapped the small bits of notes in a sheet of toilet paper and dropped it into the trough below.
In the time remaining, Euna and I discussed how we would continue on with our tale about being students. We decided we would tell the authorities we were graduate students at the University of California, Los Angeles, film department, and that Mitch Koss was
our professor. So far, we hadn’t met a single person who spoke English. We were far from the capital, and I hoped it would be difficult to get a translator and that they would allow us to remain together. That way, we could keep our stories straight.
The day was far from over, but already it seemed like the longest one of my life. My head was pulsating. I was so fatigued that my worries and nervousness subsided. All I wanted was sleep. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, before forcing myself awake. I became concerned that because of my injury, if I dozed off, I might fall into a state of unconsciousness. I pinched myself to stay alert. I tried to comfort Euna by telling her we would be okay, that North Korea had more to gain by keeping us alive than dead. I told her I didn’t think we’d be sent to jail, but would probably be placed under some sort of house arrest. A few hours later these words would come back to haunt me.
So far, the people we’d encountered had seemed suspicious of us but relatively compassionate. I feared being moved to another location where the people might not be as kind. As dusk approached, new authorities arrived to transport us to another facility. By this time, we were supposed to have been on an airplane heading to another Chinese city. Instead we were prisoners inside North Korea. We were blindfolded again, handcuffed, and crammed in the backseat of an SUV between two officials. We were told to look down and not speak. Silence ensued.
We traveled over bumpy terrain for what seemed like thirty minutes before arriving at the place where we would end up being interrogated and held for the next three nights. Euna was taken out of the car first. We’d been together all day, able to console and confide in each other. Now we were separated, and a sense of anxiety rushed over me. A soldier removed my handcuffs, pushed my head down, and led me into the building.