Somewhere Inside

by Laura Ling

  Ambassador Foyer was our only hope of getting information to Laura and Euna. After we e-mailed our letter to Linda, she forwarded it to the ambassador. We had to wait to see if it would actually get to Laura.

  The other way the United States and North Korea can communicate is through the latter’s Permanent Mission to the United Nations based in New York City. The U.S. State Department occasionally sends messages through a North Korean diplomat based in New York named Minister Kim Myong-Gil. In diplomatic circles, Minister Kim is known as the “New York channel.” Right after we learned of Laura’s capture, my mother found Minister Kim’s information online and sent a letter, fax, and e-mail to him every day thereafter. She also left daily phone messages. Mom would call his voice mail and make lengthy sobbing declarations of the extensive pain the North Korean government was inflicting on her by holding her child prisoner. From another room I would hear the anguish in my mother’s voice when she’d call. There were a few times when she wouldn’t even be able to speak, she would just cry into the receiver and then hang up.

  LAURA

  ONE EVENING, TWO WEEKS into my detainment, Mr. Yee brought me a box wrapped in decorative paper from one of Pyongyang’s hotels. “These are toiletries that are being provided to you by the DPRK and by me because I am in charge of you,” he said. “They are not being sent to you by your government. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Thank you so much.”

  The box contained a facial lotion set with three different types of creams and a toner made from ginseng root. I could sense that the interrogator’s comment was intended to let me know that his government was benevolently caring for me and that I should be grateful for this treatment.

  “It looks very nice,” I said appreciatively. “Thank you for being so kind.”

  He then pulled out a manila envelope. The top left corner had some sort of official seal with English letters. My heart began to thump wildly, and I strained to make out the words on the seal. I hoped this would be a message from the U.S. government or my family.

  “This is an envelope from the Swedish embassy,” Mr. Yee said. “Because the United States and North Korea are still at war, you have no official representation here. So the Swedish government acts as an intermediary body for the two countries. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, growing increasingly anxious to see what was in the envelope.

  “Here are some letters from your family and colleagues,” he said, handing over the thin packet.

  I rushed into my room, sat down on the bed, and tore open the envelope. The letter was an e-mail dated Saturday, March 21, which was the day I was being transferred to Pyongyang. Only a week had passed, but it felt like an eternity. I burst into tears just looking at the typed words on the paper.

  Our Dearest Laura,

  We miss you so much. Please be strong and know that everyone is doing all they can for you and Euna. We are holding you in our hearts every second of the day and night. Friends and family from every corner of the world are sending positive thoughts. We have been moved by how many people have expressed their love for you; your Facebook page is over-flowing with messages of support…We know that those in whose care you are, are not harming you and that you are safe. Please be respectful to them. Stay strong, Baby Girl. We know we’ll see you very soon. We love you so much.

  Love, your family, Dad, Mom, Iain, Li, and Paul

  I knew my sister had written this letter on behalf of my family. “Baby Girl” was what she often called me. I also noticed that Lisa had not used her full name but had signed the letter “Li,” probably because she hoped it wouldn’t catch the attention of the North Korean authorities. I read the words “We know we’ll see you very soon” over and over. By the next morning I had memorized the letter completely. Its optimistic tone gave me some hope that things might work out. At the same time, the message was vague and said nothing specific about what was being done to bring us home. Were these just veiled words to keep my spirits up? How could my family be so reassuring that we would be reunited soon when the letter was sent just days after I was captured? Already a week had gone by, and Mr. Yee was giving me the vibe that going home “soon” was far from likely.

  The next day, he came into my room and told me to wash my face and make myself presentable because I would be meeting with someone. Astonished, I moved to the edge of my seat, wanting to hear more. I was going to be taken to see Mats Foyer, the Swedish ambassador to North Korea. Mr. Yee explained that my time with the ambassador would be extremely limited, so I should use the time wisely.

  “He will want to know how you’ve been treated,” Mr. Yee said. “We have not harmed you, have we?”

  “No, no,” I replied. “I’ve been treated fairly.”

  He nodded in approval. “Because of your crimes, your situation is very serious. This is the time to tell him that your government must do something.”

  My body was trembling. Was there news? Would he be bringing additional messages from my family or my government? I was filled with excitement but cautious about letting it overtake me. I had so much I wanted to convey, but how could I do it with North Korean officials in the room? I particularly wanted him to know about the violence, but given my conversation with Mr. Yee about how I’d been treated, I knew I couldn’t just tell the ambassador outright about my condition. My hands were shaking. When my guards were not paying attention, I carefully slid the bandana on my head up just enough to reveal a small strip of the bandage that was covering the large gash. I had to find a way for the ambassador to notice the gauze strip so he would tell my government that action was needed urgently.

  A driver arrived at the compound and I was directed into the backseat of the car, accompanied by Mr. Yee and Mr. Baek. They told me we were going to the Yanggakdo Hotel, where I would meet the ambassador. I’d been conditioned to hold my head down while I was being transported between locations, but this time I asked Mr. Yee if I could look out the window.

  “Yes, go ahead,” he answered.

  I peered out the window as we made our way to the hotel. Pyongyang is the country’s pride, and living there is a huge privilege, one that’s reserved for the most elite, loyal citizens. Mr. Yee explained to me that after the city was demolished during the Korean War and riddled with land mines by the enemy forces, the area was deemed too dangerous to build on. He took great satisfaction in telling me that despite these setbacks and being isolated by sanctions, North Korea had erected an impressive city of skyscrapers, parks, stadiums, and monuments out of the rubble. I did find Pyongyang to be an attractive city, but it’s clear that they’ve not been able to invest much in upkeep and maintenance. There don’t seem to be many buildings that have gone up in the last decade, and up close, the existing ones look to be in disrepair. Many of the sidewalks are in ruins and unusable.

  I noticed that there were more cars on the road than during my previous visit to Pyongyang in 2002, when the streets were empty of vehicles. Now, at an intersection, I’d see two or three other cars lined up, which in North Korea constitutes a traffic jam. At the center of each intersection was a pretty woman dressed in a blue uniform made up of a skirt, a coat, and a large military-style cap. Each held a flashlight-type wand, which she used to direct the cars. These human traffic guides were necessary because the lights are unreliable due to the frequent power outages. Not only are cars too expensive for the average citizen to own, but it is difficult to be granted a vehicle permit. Most people walk or take public transportation. We passed the local train station, where groups of men and women in army uniforms were squatting here and there waiting for the train. I noticed that there were more shops and restaurants than before, and small beverage kiosks had been set up on the sidewalks. Unlike most capital cities across the globe, Pyongyang is devoid of commercial advertisements. Any signage is devoted to Communist propaganda sayings or giant portraits of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. Everything was extremely orderly. People weren’t lingering o
r conversing with one another on the streets. They just seemed to be going about their business.

  The towering Yanggakdo Hotel, one of Pyongyang’s finest, sits on a small island within the city. We came into the vast lobby, which was empty of any tourists or businesspeople, and I was brought to a small conference room for the meeting. The ambassador was tall and lanky, with a kind and gentle demeanor. When he embraced me, I was overwhelmed with emotion. For the past two weeks, I’d felt like I was living in a parallel universe, with no way of connecting to the life I once knew. But through Ambassador Foyer’s eyes, my family would in turn be seeing me. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I struggled to compose myself. I had been told I would have only ten minutes with the ambassador, and I wanted to make every second count.

  The ambassador explained that his questions had to be of a consular nature, such as how was my health and how was I being treated. I subtly directed my eyes upward to signal the bandaged wound I received from the butt of the rifle during the time of my arrest. But with several North Korean officers there, monitoring every word, I found myself saying, “I’m being treated fine.”

  I told the ambassador I had apologized for my crime of trespassing into North Korean territory, but that my situation was very grave because of the documentary report we were working on and because my sister had worked on a film in North Korea. He and a colleague from the Swedish Embassy jotted down notes as I explained my situation.

  I knew that if I said anything that angered the officials in the room, it would be bad for me. But there was one thing I wanted to communicate. “We did cross the border very briefly,” I explained. “I’m very sorry for that. I’ve expressed deep remorse for my actions. It all just happened so fast. We were running back to the China side when we were arrested on Chinese soil.”

  I knew it was risky telling him we were in Chinese territory when we were taken. I didn’t know how the authorities monitoring me would react. But this could be my only chance with the ambassador, and I thought this bit of information might give the U.S. government some leverage in dealing with North Korea. Or perhaps it could help the Chinese government lend a hand to the United States and put some pressure on the North Koreans to release us.

  The ambassador looked at me tenderly and told me to be strong. He asked about my health and my ulcer. I assumed my family had made him aware of my condition. I mentioned some stomach pains that I had been experiencing, and he said he had a package of medication along with books, snacks, and toiletries that had been sent via the U.S. Embassy in Beijing. He inquired if there were any items I needed.

  “It would be great to get some more letters,” I replied.

  He explained that by international agreement I had a right to send and receive letters, and said that he would ask to see me regularly.

  He assured me that my employers, including Vice President Gore, were working on the case. I asked if Secretary of State Clinton was aware of the situation. He affirmed that she was not only concerned but also involved.

  One of the North Korean monitors signaled that our time was up. I thanked the ambassador and rose to give him a hug. I didn’t want to let go of his thin bony frame. He was my lifeline, my only link to the outside world.

  LISA

  LINDA MCFADYEN, OUR FAMILY’S State Department contact, told us that the very moment Ambassador Foyer learned of Laura and Euna’s detainment, he’d begun trying to see them. He even delayed a number of overseas trips he was supposed to make so he would be available if given the chance to see the girls. The ambassador knew he was my sister and Euna’s only connection to their government and their families, and he took this role very seriously. Linda said he had been calling the North Korean Foreign Ministry every day and often showed up at their offices demanding to see the girls.

  On March 30, Linda told us that Ambassador Foyer had been granted a visit with Laura and Euna and that he’d been allowed ten minutes with each of them. This was a huge development because this was the first time we’d heard anything about their condition since the arrest. We’d already endured two torturous weeks of nothing but silence from North Korea, during which we ran through every worst-case possibility of how they might have been treated. Ambassador Foyer was the first and only non–North Korean to lay eyes on my sister.

  He told the State Department, and Linda told us, that Laura was physically okay but very, very scared. He went on to say that she had been extremely talkative, as though she was trying to utilize productively every second she had with him. She told the ambassador that, yes, they had “touched” North Korean soil but were back across the border and in China when they were taken by the North Korean guards, who then took her back across the frozen river. Laura had confirmed what we already knew from Mitch. Though I was still hopeful that Laura and Euna’s apprehension on Chinese soil might give us some leverage if China would agree to pressure North Korea, I remembered what Governor Richardson had advised—that getting China involved would only infuriate the North Koreans. Not only that, we had no idea whether China would cooperate. Our family decided it would be best to keep this information under wraps, at least for now.

  Lastly, Linda said something that made my heart sink—she said the North Koreans were displeased with the documentary I made for National Geographic.

  This was all so much to process. Were they holding what I did against her? They had figured out that Laura and I were sisters, and I could only imagine what they were hypothesizing about us. I felt like I was having a breakdown, but I knew I had to hold things together. Whatever I was going through paled in comparison with what Laura was enduring. I needed to use every ounce of energy within me to concentrate on getting her home.

  LAURA

  THE NEXT DAY, MR. YEE asked me to recall what I had said during my meeting with the ambassador. I tried to go over the conversation, emphasizing that I had told the ambassador I was sorry for my actions and was very remorseful. But Mr. Yee just scowled.

  “Why did you tell him you were apprehended in China?” he scolded. “What did you think you would accomplish by telling him that? My bosses are very upset with you!”

  “I am so sorry,” I said, my voice shaking in fear. “I didn’t mean to anger anyone. I was just telling the ambassador what had happened, and that is what happened.”

  Exasperated, he shouted, “You violated DPRK law by coming into our country. We can chase you anywhere to arrest you. That is our right!”

  “Please,” I begged, “would you please let me see the ambassador again? I will apologize and say anything you want me to say. I don’t want to upset your bosses. I only want to be cooperative.”

  “Do you think you can just see the ambassador anytime you wish?” he continued. “We gave you a courtesy visit. We don’t need to let you see him again.”

  I felt like I’d just been punched in the face. I was afraid I had squandered any future chance of seeing Ambassador Foyer. Nearly two long months would pass before I was allowed to see him again.

  GETTING THROUGH EVERY MINUTE of each day was a psychological battle. Power and water outages were frequent, and sleep became a challenge, with frequent nightmares. Some nights I would dream I was back at home but had only twenty-four hours to get the U.S. government to sign a peace treaty with North Korea and remove our troops from the border or I would be sent back to Pyongyang to face my execution. I also had recurring nightmares of Euna being tortured by cruel soldiers. Often I’d wake up in a panicky sweat.

  To calm my nerves, I hummed the words to the song “Edelweiss” from The Sound of Music, which my mom used to sing to Lisa and me as kids to put us to sleep. Just stay healthy and hopeful, I would tell myself, given my ulcer. But as optimistic as I tried to be, I was frustrated by how helpless I felt.

  One day, not too long after the meeting with Ambassador Foyer, Mr. Yee brought two blue satchels. He put them on the desk in front of me and said the ambassador had sent me some items. In the bags were a toothbrush, toothpaste, feminine products, and snacks such a
s potato chips, bread, peanut butter, chocolates, and a six-pack of Coca-Cola. Mr. Yee then brought out some medication that had been sent by the U.S. Embassy from the Beijing Hospital, including medicine for my ulcer. I’d already experienced several ulcer flare-ups. The area just above my abdomen would burn in pain. I was grateful to have something to alleviate these throbbing episodes. But what I wanted most were the books. The interrogator pulled out a collection of classic novels including Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, Hemingway’s The Snows of Kilimanjaro, the entire works of Jane Austen, and Ian McEwan’s Atonement. There was a letter from Ambassador Foyer along with the books, explaining that the U.S. Embassy in Beijing had selected the novels. The constant, day-after-day interrogations and isolation had left me desperate for some sort of escape. But to my dismay, Mr. Yee returned the books to the bag and pushed it aside.

  “Can I please have a book, just one?” I pleaded.

  “You are under investigation,” he retorted. “You need to be thinking about your crime, not reading. Also, we cannot guarantee the safety of all of these items, especially the food. While I’m sure the ambassador has good intentions, these things have changed hands many times. There are people in your government who may want you dead so the U.S. can start a war with us. We cannot trust that these items are safe.” He put the food back in the bag, leaving me with the basic toiletries and medication.

  LISA

  AT THE END of the first letter we wrote to Laura, all my family members signed their full names. I just wrote “Li.” While this is what Laura always called me, I didn’t want to use my full name because I feared that direct association with me might be dangerous for her. Even in the weekly packages Iain would later send to her, he never included any photographs of me. We didn’t want to give my sister’s captors any kind of reminder of what I had done there.