by Laura Ling
The morning of our Today show appearance, Meredith’s flight got delayed from where she was reporting, so Matt Lauer ended up interviewing us. I had known Matt for a long time, and before the interview started, I let him know about the sensitivities involved. We were dealing with such an unpredictable regime that we could not afford to deviate at all from our meticulously crafted message of apology.
The show went off without a hitch. My parents were terribly nervous and insecure about speaking publicly, and Matt was understanding of that. He directed the political questions to Iain and me, and together we were able to make our plea for compassion to the North Korean government. He asked my parents about how much they missed their youngest daughter and talked to Michael about how hard it was for Hana to be without her mother.
Larry King was next. We all jumped back on a plane to Los Angeles to tape the CNN show live. The hour-long program was to break down with me in the first block of the show, Iain and Euna’s husband joining me in the second block, and my parents and me in the last. In my haste, I had forgotten to ask the producers to please tell Larry not to ask about my experience in North Korea.
During my one-on-one with Larry, he recalled that some years ago I had been in North Korea.
“You’ve been there before,” he remarked. “What was it like?”
My heart started pulsating rapidly. “Uh, yes, I was there years ago and…uh, the people were very kind.”
“What was it like?” Larry pressed.
“Well, it was interesting and the people were kind,” I repeated. “It’s not really germane to what’s going on.”
All of a sudden, Larry looked distracted. I could tell the control room was speaking to him through his earpiece; someone was telling him to stop asking about this. He stuttered a bit before quickly changing the topic.
Aside from that moment, the show went swimmingly. Michael didn’t want Hana to be on the set with us, because hearing about her mom’s detainment earlier that day on the Today show had upset her. So we had a producer stay with her in the greenroom with toys. From time to time throughout the broadcast, the show cut to the greenroom to take shots of Hana playing with her toys. We stayed on message and made our emotional, nonpolitical pleas. We had officially gone public.
After our interview with Larry King, I went into the greenroom to remove my makeup. I saw that there was a message on my BlackBerry. It was from Kurt Tong from the State Department.
“Nice job,” the e-mail read. “The tone was perfect.”
I didn’t hear from Al Gore at all the next day, so I decided I would phone him to get his thoughts. He picked up right away.
“Was it okay?” I asked nervously.
“Lisa,” he said, “you all did a magnificent job.”
LAURA
DURING ONE OF OUR next walks, I asked Mr. Yee if he’d heard any news from the United States.
“There’s some news,” he replied as we continued to stroll the walled compound.
I was caught off guard. Weeks had gone by without there being any encouraging information. I asked nervously, “What kind of news, good news?”
He said my family had appeared on various news programs in the United States, including Larry King Live and the Today show. My sister had come through with her promise to go public with our story.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” I asked.
“We shall see,” he answered. “Your family is working hard, but it’s your government that needs to act.
“Your sister,” he added, “she’s really brilliant.”
His demeanor had changed, and I saw this as an opportunity. I desperately hoped the North Koreans would see what could be gained by letting me speak with Lisa again. I was determined to figure out what it would take to get us released and how I could convey this to her in a future call.
“Was there a nuclear test conducted recently?” I asked.
With one eyebrow raised and a smirk, Mr. Yee responded, “How did you know about that?”
“My sister mentioned it on our call. At first I thought she was referring to the satellite launch, but after thinking about it, I specifically remember her saying ‘nuclear test.’”
“Yes, we conducted a nuclear test. Would you like us to do another one just for you?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I responded dejectedly. My optimism was starting to fade away. Did the North Korean authorities seriously think the United States would make any concessions for us after this defiant act?
Mr. Yee noticed that I had become sullen. “What is the matter?” he asked.
“It just keeps getting worse,” I replied. “First a satellite launch, now a nuclear test. We’re caught in the middle of this political game. I wish our situation could be separated from the politics, but I know that’s not possible.”
“You’re right,” he responded. “Our countries are still at war, so we can’t just release you. But your government will do something eventually. There’s no use in keeping you here forever.”
“What about Roxana Saberi?” I said, referring to the Iranian-American journalist who had received an eight-year sentence. “She got eight years in prison. And for what, allegedly drinking some wine? Our case is much more serious than that.”
“Roxana was released from prison,” he said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Her release had not been reported on the North Korean news. Was it really true?
“What?” I asked eagerly. “What happened?”
He explained that President Obama had made an overture to the Iranian government and that Roxana was released on appeal after about two weeks. “She’s home now,” he said.
I struggled to contain the smile forming on my lips, but it was no use. I was grinning from cheek to cheek.
“Really?” I said. “That’s amazing. That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while.”
I could see a slight smile on Mr. Yee’s face, but then he went right back to his resigned expression.
“Time to go inside now,” he said.
After that, days went by with no information.
The phrases “Stay strong,” “We’ll see you soon,” and “Everyone is doing all they can” seemed like standard signatures on every letter. Just days before the trial, I received a letter from Lisa dated May 19, 2009, in which she described various candlelight vigils that would take place in different cities across the United States on the day of the trial.
Hi Baby Girl,
I believe I wrote to you about this guy Brendan Creamer on Facebook who has taken up your cause and has organized vigils all over the country to show support for you and Euna…It’s pretty amazing…It has been inspiring to see how much support you have around the country and the world.
From the letters, I had already read about some vigils that had taken place in different cities, including one at my high school in Sacramento and one organized by a college friend in Los Angeles. It was strange to think that so many people were lending their support. While I’d never been more isolated in my life, thinking about all of the prayers for Euna and me made me feel a little less scared.
IN THE DAYS LEADING UP to the trial, Mr. Yee asked if I wanted to have a defense attorney appointed to my case. I accepted, mainly because I was curious to see what the attorney could do at such a late date, after I’d already been interrogated for two months and had issued a sixty-five-page written confession.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that the attorney was really just an extension of the prosecution. His main questions had to do with my treatment in captivity. “Have any of your human rights been violated here?” he asked. “Have you been tortured?” He never asked anything about the actual case. I could tell from his questions that I shouldn’t open up to him. Instead, I just let the process take its course.
After I met with the attorney, Mr. Yee asked me what I thought of the man.
“He’s fine,” I said dispassionately. “Although it seemed odd that he spen
t only fifteen minutes talking with me and never once mentioned the actual case or my charges.”
Two days later the attorney returned and spent an hour asking me questions about the investigation. He wrote down notes and feigned interest in what I was telling him. His visit this second time was a reaction to my comment to Mr. Yee. It was clearly important to the North Koreans that their legal process appear as legitimate and genuine as possible.
As the trial date neared, Mr. Baek reminded me, in an excited, upbeat tone, “You are the first U.S. citizen to be tried in a North Korean court. You are making history!”
“Thanks,” I responded. “But I’d rather not be making history this way.”
I asked Mr. Baek if he would be translating for me at the trial. He said he hadn’t been told that he would, and he believed his assignment was supposed to end before the trial. This sent me into a panic. I hadn’t imagined anyone other than Mr. Baek at the proceedings. I desperately wanted him there, not only because I trusted that he would interpret everything accurately and efficiently, but also because his presence put me at ease. With him by my side, I wouldn’t feel so alone.
I asked Mr. Yee about this and told him it was absolutely necessary that I be comfortable with whoever was translating, that the slightest misinterpretation might skew the case and make the trial seem flawed.
“I understand,” Mr. Yee responded immediately. “I will explain your situation to the appropriate people.”
Finally I was told that my request had been granted. Relieved, I said to Mr. Baek, “Looks like you’ll be making history with me.”
Although I dreaded the trial, I was happy that I would finally get to see Euna after being separated for two and a half months. But I was also told that Ambassador Foyer would not be allowed to witness the proceedings, nor would Mr. Yee.
LISA
BRENDAN CREAMER, WHO SET UP the Facebook page Free Laura and Euna, arranged ten vigils in different cities across the United States to coincide with the June 4 start of Laura and Euna’s trial. In addition to our many friends, throngs of people whom we’d never met organized in their respective communities to offer their support. Across the country were Meghan in Portland, Lisa in Montgomery, Rose in Chicago, Paula in Phoenix, Danielle in New York, and Clothilde in Paris, among so many others. There would be a fair amount of press in attendance, so we asked Brendan to tell the organizers that the tone of the vigils had to be respectful; this was imperative. Iain, my parents, and I decided to attend the gathering in Los Angeles, along with Michael Saldate. We wanted to be wherever people were out supporting the girls.
I had started my journalism career with Anderson Cooper in the early 1990s at Channel One News. Now Anderson had a CNN prime-time show called 360 that was simulcast live around the world. It even aired, coincidentally, at the top of the morning in Pyongyang, and although the average North Korean citizen is not able to access CNN, we hoped the officials there would see it. I asked Anderson’s producers if the show would broadcast from the vigil in Los Angeles, where our families would be in attendance.
It was 7:00 P.M. Pacific standard time in L.A. on the night of June 3 and 12:00 P.M. in Pyongyang on June 4. With hundreds of people standing behind us solemnly holding candles, Iain, Michael, and I made our respectful plea for leniency. From his anchor desk in New York, Anderson stated that “as we speak,” the trial of Laura and Euna had likely begun.
“We believe that CNN is seen in North Korea,” Anderson reported. “Lisa, is there anything you’d like to say to the North Korean government if they are watching?”
My insides were trembling. This was my chance to appeal to the humanity of my sister’s captors. I took a deep breath and recited the scrupulously crafted script once again. “We can say with absolute certainty that when Laura and Euna left U.S. soil they never intended to cross the border into North Korea. If at any point they committed a transgression, then we profusely apologize on their behalf. We know they are terribly sorry. We beg the government of North Korea to show mercy and allow the girls to return home to their families that miss them desperately.” I concluded by saying, “And perhaps this can be an opportunity for our two countries to engage in more direct diplomacy.”
We couldn’t know if the North Korean leadership would hear our plea, but if they did, we had to make sure we hit the right tone. I didn’t want them to see these vigils as protests, or rallies—we didn’t want to make angry demands. Our greatest hope was for Laura and Euna’s trial to conclude with their captors deciding to let them go.
LAURA
ON THE DAY OF THE TRIAL, I nervously paced back and forth in my room, my palms soaked with sweat. I filled my pockets with tissues that had been sent to me by my family, and I even packed extra for Euna. I changed into a new short-sleeved, button-down blouse that had been given to me for the proceedings. It was pink with thin white stripes. I also wore brown slacks and sneakers that had been provided. My eyes were bloodshot because I had been up all night anticipating every question they could ask me and rehearsing conciliatory statements I could give in return. I knew there wasn’t going to be any presumption of innocence. In the eyes of the North Korean government, I was already deemed guilty of trying to bring down the regime. My strategy therefore was to agree with them and be as respectful and apologetic as possible. By telling them what they wanted to hear, I was hoping they might show leniency.
The dog let out a series of loud barks as a vehicle pulled up into the compound. I watched as two female soldiers dressed in green fitted army uniforms entered the room and sternly instructed me in Korean to look down to the ground. My heart began to palpitate when one of them pulled out a pair of handcuffs. As she wrapped the cold metal cuffs around my wrists, I thought back to the day of our capture along the frozen river when Euna and I were handcuffed and transported to jail. Now I was again being enveloped by that same feeling of entering the dark unknown. I felt I was edging closer to a deep abyss. As they led me out of the room, I shifted my gaze to my guards.
Over the past two months, we had developed a mutual respect for one another and even a sort of kinship. Confined in a room together for twenty-four hours every day, we became used to one another’s habits and personalities. One of them always sang at the top of her lungs anytime she was in the bathroom, and the other had a tendency to burp loudly. I came to care about them, and I believe they felt the same way about me. As I left the room in handcuffs, Kyung-Hee looked at me sympathetically, while Min-Jin turned away and closed her eyes. It sounded as if she might have been crying.
I was transported a few miles away in a small van. One soldier sat beside me on the middle seat, and one was in the back. Once again I was ordered to close my eyes and hold my head down. I meditated for the duration of the ride. We arrived at an office building, and I was taken up to the second floor into a large room. The area contained long rows of chairs situated before a stage. Three men sat at a table on the stage. On the floor below were two tables, one for the prosecutor and one for the defense attorney. Along with these key figures there were two videographers, a photographer, my interpreter, the soldiers, and a couple of authorities milling about in the back of the room. The room wasn’t like a traditional courtroom; it looked more like a performance space that had been set up for the purpose of putting us on trial.
As I was led to the front of the room, I caught sight of Euna’s small frame. It was incredible to see her, and to know she was alive. Her head was hanging low in a defeated posture. Her hair had grown out and was now long enough to be tied back. We were wearing identical outfits. I was instructed to sit next to her and to continue looking downward. I couldn’t tell if Euna even realized it was me sitting beside her. I scooted close enough so that my thigh touched hers. I wanted to grab her hand and hold it, to look her in the eyes, but I was too nervous to do anything but sit there in silence.
Euna was instructed to approach the podium in front of us, where she was asked some basic questions in Korean. Then it was my turn. Aided by
Mr. Baek, the judge confirmed my name, profession, and the charges against me—illegally entering the country and committing “hostile acts” against the Korean nation. After acknowledging and accepting his statements, I was led out of the room. Euna was to be tried first, and I would follow.
After a couple of hours, I was escorted back inside. I was disheartened when I saw that Euna was no longer there, but at least I had gotten a quick look at her.
I approached the podium, and the prosecutor, a towering figure with wavy hair and a perpetual snarl, began grilling me.
“Do you know who Agnes Smedley is?” he began.
“No, sir,” I replied, wondering where his questioning was headed.
“You don’t know who Agnes Smedley is?” he asked again with a smirk. “She’s an American.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know who she is.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that you are unfamiliar with Agnes Smedley, because Agnes Smedley was a highly respected journalist. She wrote about the Chinese civil war in the 1930s. She exposed the truth, and the Chinese even built a statue to honor her. I’m not surprised that you don’t know who Agnes Smedley is, because she represents what a good journalist should be like.” He went on about the heroic deeds of Smedley and her positive portrayal of the Chinese Communist revolution. “You call yourself a journalist, but you do not know how to do your job like Agnes Smedley.”
I could see that the prosecutor was relishing this opportunity to humiliate me, and I suppose he wanted to throw me off guard. But it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t prepared to put up a fight. Throughout my interrogation, I had refined the art of obsequiousness. I knew that showing respect to those in authority was of the utmost importance.