Somewhere Inside

by Laura Ling

  Instantly I would be deluged with messages from random people saying things like “My prayers are with you.” Or “Stay strong, Lisa!”

  The anonymity of these notes was strangely comforting. I didn’t have to face people and all the unanswerable questions. Just knowing that so many people were sending positive energy in our direction uplifted my spirits during frequent periods of despair.

  LAURA

  SOME DAYS, MR. YEE would show up without his recorder and notebook. This was a sign that we were going for a stroll outside. The first time he suggested we go for a walk, my suspicions were aroused. Breathing fresh air, feeling the cool breeze against my skin, hearing the rustling of leaves in the wind—these sensations had become rare and special to me. But the walks became more than just a time for exercise; they became an opportunity for Mr. Yee, Mr. Baek, and me to speak more freely with one another, with little chance of anyone overhearing us. I came to view these walks, our conversations, and the information gleaned as the most crucial part of my existence. I knew that if I was to ever get out, I needed to figure out how to play this complicated game with enormous international implications. I began to look at each day as a strategic puzzle, one I had to solve in order to win back my freedom.

  As we strolled the length of the walled compound, I could see that Mr. Yee was trying to better understand my character, and I too had my own agenda. I wanted him to know me and sympathize with me. I tried to play the part of the naive young girl. I wanted him to see himself as my protector. At the same time, I was trying to extract as much information from him as he was from me.

  “Do you consider yourself Chinese or American?” he asked during one of our walks. I knew which answer would please him, but I wanted to be honest and have an open conversation in this more relaxed setting.

  “I feel a very strong connection to my Chinese culture and my heritage,” I said. “But I was born in the United States, I was raised under its system, it’s what I identify with.”

  He criticized the United States for its bullying nature and for thinking it can police the world.

  “I agree with you,” I said. “My country can definitely act like a bully. But our new president, Barack Obama, was elected in large part because he vowed to restore America’s image in the world and to act as a partner, not as a superior, around the world.”

  He then started talking about sanctions and threatened that North Korea would retaliate if the United States continued to antagonize it. I wondered if this had anything to do with the recent satellite launch and America’s reaction to it.

  “Did something happen recently? Were more sanctions issued?” I asked.

  Without answering the question directly, he went into a tirade about North Korea’s right as a sovereign state to launch a satellite into space for peaceful, scientific purposes.

  “Criticizing something that is our natural right is an insult and will only make us more determined,” he said. “If the U.S. puts more sanctions on us, it only makes us more defiant.”

  He then told me that there were people within the regime that actually welcomed sanctions because they provided the government with a reason to rally the North Korean people against the United States.

  While Mr. Yee became more candid and relaxed during the walks outside, when he was indoors he was all business. He approached the interrogation process as if it were some sort of duel, and he was always ready to pounce.

  I began to tell from the questions being asked of me that the North Koreans were more focused on my work as a journalist than on the crossing of the border. This is a country where all news is censored and disseminated by the government through a strictly controlled propaganda machine; there’s no tolerance for anything that deviates from the idealistic image the regime has created for itself. Mr. Yee explained to me that the North Korean government believes that the foreign media perpetuate lies about the DPRK’s treatment of its citizens in order to crush the regime.

  Perhaps the most damaging piece of evidence they had against me was the interview I did with a North Korean defector the night before we were arrested. Euna had tried to destroy the tape that contained this interview by ripping the ribbons when we were in the detention facility near the border. But apparently the authorities in Pyongyang had been able to piece together some sections of the tape and had seen at least part of the interview.

  Unlike the women we’d interviewed, whose primary reasons for leaving North Korea were to find food and to make money to feed their families back home, this man had left for political reasons, less than two months earlier. He was disappointed with the regime and with the growing disparity between the ruling elites in Pyongyang and the rest of the impoverished country. I was curious to know if there were any underground movements in North Korea directed against the government, and whether others shared his frustration with the regime. He rarely answered me directly but indicated that he would explain more if he could escape to Seoul. He was plotting to make his way out of China to South Korea and was therefore trying to be extra cautious until he was in a safe place where he could speak more openly.

  Euna was careful to film the man only from his waist down so that he would be unidentifiable. But the investigator didn’t seem concerned about the man, his beliefs, or his identity. It was my questioning that most enraged him. He wanted to know why I had posed such political questions, including ones about Kim Jong Il’s health and whether the average person was aware of the leader’s condition.

  “When we were introduced to the man, we were told that he left North Korea because he was unsatisfied with the government,” I explained. “I asked him those questions only because I knew this. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked him such political questions.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he responded angrily. “It’s obvious you had another agenda.”

  It was soon clear that I was being cornered. The evidence they had on tape had convinced them I had hostile intentions. While I had apologized profusely for both crossing the North Korean border and for working on a documentary about defectors, my expression of regret was not sufficient for Mr. Yee. He wanted me to admit that my main objective was to bring down the North Korean regime.

  That night, to my surprise, Mr. Yee, who as always was accompanied by Mr. Baek, visited me carrying a large bottle of beer. It was April 15, the birthday of North Korea’s founder, Kim Il Sung. Throughout the week, different celebrations and films paying tribute to the Great Leader were featured on television. Mr. Yee ordered one of the guards to bring some glasses and filled three of them with the warm brew. Just then the room went dark, and the guard had to fumble around for a flashlight, which she placed at the center of the desk.

  “Today is the great Kim Il Sung’s birthday. It is a very special day for our country,” Mr. Yee said excitedly.

  Even though there was only a dim glow in the room, I could see that his cheeks were flushed, his speech slightly slurred. It seemed he’d already been celebrating. He raised his glass, and Mr. Baek and I followed along, clinking with each other in a toast.

  I couldn’t figure out what this visit was all about. He began by making casual conversation, asking me how my parents met and why they got divorced. I told him that it was a kind of arranged marriage, and because of that, it was hard for them to love each other.

  “Divorce was probably the best thing that happened to me and my sister, because our parents fought a lot,” I said. “I don’t believe people should be together if they aren’t in love.”

  “We do not approve of divorce here in the DPRK,” he said. “It is something that is looked down upon.” He then brought up Iain. “Your husband,” he began, “he’s quite handsome. He seems like he has good character, like he’d make a good Communist.”

  I was startled. How did he know what Iain looked like? What made him think Iain would be a good Communist? And what did that even mean? I wondered if perhaps another batch of letters had arrived from my family.

  I saw that his glass wa
s nearly empty. Trying to be deferential, I stood up and grasped the bottle with both hands, filling his glass first, then Mr. Baek’s, and finally mine. He nodded in approval.

  “How do you know what my husband looks like?” I asked.

  “We have the best intelligence here,” he answered proudly. “It’s not hard to find out these things.” He paused a moment, then said, “Miss Ling, do you think you have done enough in this investigation? Do you think you have confessed fully and frankly?”

  “Well,” I began, “I know I have tried my best to recall everything that I did leading up to my arrest. I know I am deeply sorry and regretful for my actions.”

  “I am not a powerful person,” he said. “Do you know why I never get promoted? Over the years, I have investigated many kinds of cases of people we’ve caught from Japan, China, and elsewhere. Every case I’ve had, I’ve managed to send these people back home.”

  I became cautiously excited at the mention of his sending foreign prisoners back home. I stared at him wide-eyed, and concentrated hard on whatever message he was trying to send.

  “My bosses never promote me, because they want me to send criminals to prison. But instead, I end up seeing these people off at the airport.”

  I took a big gulp of beer and tried to process what he was telling me. I was almost giddy, thinking that he might be escorting me to an airport sometime soon.

  Then his tone turned cold. “It disappoints me to hear that you think you have done enough. I think you have a long way to go,” he said sharply. His words cut into me.

  He called for the guard to bring over another bottle of beer. “I went to the Foreign Ministry earlier and read some of the reports coming out of your country,” he said. “Even your own media is saying that according to their interpretation of DPRK law, you should receive at least fifteen years in prison. And that is your media! They know what a serious crime it is to be creating an anti-DPRK report about defectors.”

  The combination of his words and the alcohol was making me numb. I stared at him blankly, not knowing how to feel.

  “But what is the use in keeping you here?” he said. “What is the use in you being here for much of your adult life? I don’t think there’s much use. So let’s make a pact,” he said, raising his glass once more. “You do your part, and I’ll do my part.”

  I touched my glass to his, and he looked me in the eye.

  “You need to use every ounce of your energy to think about your crime,” he began. “What you are telling me is not going to be enough to get you home.”

  “Sir,” I replied nervously, “I promise I will do better in the investigation, and I will do my part. I will make sure you do not get a promotion out of me.”

  He gave a loud chuckle, downed the rest of his beer, and got up and left.

  I knew what he was getting at, and I knew that what he wanted from me was a confession. That night, I lay awake trying to weigh the implications of admitting to the colossal charge of trying to overthrow the North Korean regime. Would saying such a thing seal my fate and send me to a labor camp for the rest of my life, or might it pave the way toward forgiveness for what they believed was my true crime? Could I trust that Mr. Yee was being genuine and that he would do his part to get me home?

  The next morning, Mr. Yee and Mr. Baek entered the room and Mr. Yee took his normal place at the desk in front of me. He lit up a cigarette, opened his red notebook, and pressed the RECORD button on his tape recorder.

  “Well?” he said, taking a few puffs. “What do you have to tell me today?”

  I sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating what I was about to say. Finally, I forced the words out, ever so slowly. I explained to him that I had thought long and hard about my crimes and that because of the perpetuation of stereotypes about North Korea’s being a brutal country with no human rights, I decided I wanted to do my part to bring down its government. I admitted to having hostile intentions and to trying to topple the North Korean regime.

  I didn’t know if I was making the dumbest mistake of my life. I had confessed to the gravest possible crime and handed him everything he needed to send me to the firing squad. Had I just walked into a trap from which I might never escape? But there was no turning back. As Mr. Yee took down notes and the tape recorder captured my every utterance, I could only hope that I’d made the right decision.

  Once I had confessed, Mr. Yee’s attitude toward me changed dramatically. He seemed satisfied with my answers. The air became less tense, and Mr. Yee appeared to be more relaxed. I think the most important part of his work—getting me to admit to having hostile motives—had been achieved. It had been more than a month since we’d been captured, and it was still unclear what was going to happen to us.

  LISA

  BECAUSE I WAS the older one, I suffered the punishments and groundings from our dad first. Of course, looking back, I suppose I deserved to be disciplined for stealing the car at age fifteen and hiding Dad’s beers in my dresser drawers. Growing up in a community with few Asians and being the older sibling, I always needed to feel that I fit in. At school, I was more concerned with popularity than geometry, and that was clear in my grades. I just didn’t care much; I wanted to have fun. My sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Smith, called my father in to a meeting specifically to discuss my behavior. He told my dad that I was too much of a “social butterfly” and that my gregariousness was affecting my performance in school. My father had to take time off from work to attend this meeting, and he promptly grounded me for a month. But that didn’t change my ways. My efforts at becoming popular were fairly successful. I was determined to transcend the fact that I had slanted eyes and that our house always smelled like Chinese food.

  I was such a rabble-rouser that by the time Laura reached her teen years, Dad had mellowed a bit. By this time, our grandmother was in a convalescent home and our dad was the only adult in the house. Assuming responsibility for two teenage girls was not an easy task for a man, especially one who had to work such long hours. I think I wore him out with my mischievous behavior. Compared with me, Laura was his little angel. She was quiet and sweet and excelled in school. She was the smarty while I was the chatty Cathy. I was lucky if I figured out how to get more than one A on my report card, while Laura never got anything but As. With our mom in L.A. and our dad working at night, I was the one who went to a number of Laura’s open-house events. The test scores were posted on the wall of her classroom, and hers were either the highest or the second highest in the whole class. This made me really proud.

  Once, Laura complained to me about a teacher who was being unfair to her. The next day I marched into the principal’s office and demanded that she be transferred to another class. The following week, it was done. Some siblings are competitive with one another, but in some ways I felt more maternal toward my sister; she was like my kid.

  During my junior year of high school, I was asked to the prom by Ren Bates, a boy I had liked for a long time. I was so excited. My dad had given me some money, and I had gone to the mall and bought the coolest purple sequined dress. It was so different from the froufrou, lacy gowns most girls picked. It was the most beautiful thing I owned. On the night of the prom, couples typically went to each other’s homes and the eager parents took zillions of photographs.

  I spent hours curling my hair and putting on my makeup. I bought a new magenta lipstick for the occasion. Then I put on the dress. I loved it. I hoped my dad might surprise me by coming home from work early. I stood anxiously at the window, watching for any signs of his car. It never came. Instead, Ren’s Chevrolet pulled into our driveway. When he knocked on the door, I could hear Laura’s little feet run down the stairs; she was holding a camera. I opened the door and Ren came inside. My twelve-year-old sister motioned us to the living room and positioned us in front of the sofa.

  “Stand up straight,” she proclaimed with her braces-laden teeth. “Say ‘cheese’!”

  Laura knew this was one of the most important days of my lif
e, and she did not want me to be let down. As Ren walked me out the door, I turned around to see this little person furiously snapping more photos of us as we approached the car. I will never forget that day: my baby girl came through for me.

  LAURA

  WHILE I STRUGGLED HARD to keep my spirits up and to avoid falling into a depression, there were dark, lonesome days when I faltered. Some days, I’d retreat to the bathroom, look at myself in the mirror, and fall into a delirium. I would talk into the mirror as if I were speaking to another person, not myself. “Who are you, and what did you do with Laura?” I would say out loud, though quietly enough that the guards could not hear. I scolded the person looking back at me for letting her life slip out of control. Unable to contain my anger, I would flush the toilet hoping to create a noise that was loud enough to hide the sound of me slapping myself continuously until I was red in the face. I wanted to punish myself for hurting my family. At the same time, the stinging pain made me feel more alive.

  A couple of weeks after I was given the first letter from my family, Mr. Yee showed up with another manila envelope. I wanted to grab it out of his hands and rip it open at that very moment. Inside were letters from Lisa, Iain, my parents, relatives, friends, and colleagues. Some people had written to me several times. The dates on them indicated they were sent at least two weeks earlier. Apparently they were sent via e-mail to the U.S. State Department, which then screened them and sent them on to Ambassador Foyer, who delivered them to North Korea’s Foreign Ministry, which I’m sure looked them over as well.