Somewhere Inside

by Laura Ling

  “You’re right, sir,” I responded courteously. “I am not a good journalist, and I am very sorry for my actions.”

  The prosecutor continued to ask questions that had already been posed to me during the investigation, including the purpose of my story and what motivated me to work on the documentary. As rehearsed with Mr. Yee, I took a deep breath and told them I wanted to help the people of North Korea, even if it meant bringing down the North Korean regime, which I believed was oppressing its people. It was hard to believe that my work on a documentary about human rights abuses had taken me to North Korea’s highest court, where I was confessing to having tried to topple the government.

  During the investigation, Mr. Yee had gone to great lengths to denounce defectors as criminals with bad intentions. He had explained that these “scum of the earth,” as he called them, were creating lies about the DPRK in order to make money and hurt the regime. To prepare me for the trial, Mr. Yee wanted to make sure I understood and believed that the defectors were unscrupulous.

  “I understand,” I replied dishonestly, “the defectors we interviewed were lying. They were criminals in the first place in North Korea, which is why they might be put in prison if they are caught.”

  “Precisely!” he shouted.

  I felt I was being indoctrinated into the North Korean belief system, being fed the propaganda that the government disseminates across the nation in an attempt to maintain a unified society. I told him what he wanted to hear—and kept telling him until he was satisfied.

  During the trial, I repeated these denouncements of North Korean defectors. Every time I did, I thought about Ji-Yong, the twenty-something girl who had escaped from her country only to be lured into the Internet sex industry. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes as she told me about fleeing a life of horror and devastation. These defectors were people I had hoped to shine a light on for their bravery and courage, and now I had to malign them verbally. Each time I said something bad about them, I felt sick.

  When they asked how I felt about Pastor Chun Ki-Won, the missionary who had aided us on our project, I castigated him by saying he was using the defectors to raise money for his own gain. As painful as it was, I knew I had to condemn Chun and the entire defector network in order to prove to the court that I understood my wrongdoings and the implications of my actions.

  Even though Mr. Yee had prepped me for the prosecutor’s questioning, it was torturous to be in the room with the stern-faced judge peering down at me, knowing that my fate would be decided in a matter of days. All of this put me on edge. From my dealings and interactions with North Koreans for the past few months, I had personally seen how regimented they are. They seem to conduct themselves publicly in a very formal, almost robotic way. I wanted to maintain my composure in the courtroom, so as not to interrupt the disciplined mood, but I couldn’t help breaking down. I tried to hold back my tears, but it was no use. When I lifted my hands to wipe my cheeks, my fingers knocked into the microphone in front of me, causing the speakers to screech. I shifted from one foot to the other in agitation and was ordered by one of the soldiers to stand still. I could barely speak. The bellicose prosecutor seemed to derive great pleasure out of making me squirm. Meanwhile, my defense attorney sat silent.

  Mr. Baek was normally calm and confident, but today he was noticeably nervous. This was, as he had explained on so many occasions, a historic moment, and he didn’t want to make any mistakes in his interpretation. He scribbled down notes feverishly. His voice cracked at times, and large beads of sweat dripped from his face onto his notebook. I looked at him with deep appreciation. He’d never done anything like this before, and I wondered what the consequences might be for him if he made a blunder.

  After two hours, the prosecutor, smug and haughty, concluded his first day of questioning. I exhaled in relief, grateful to be released from his verbal blows. I never thought I would look forward to going back to the compound, but the growls of the guard dog, which usually gave me shivers, now sounded comforting because the trial was over—at least until the next day.

  The proceedings would last two more days for a total of about eight hours. On the final day, a large screen was set up to show the video evidence they had obtained from our belongings. The first part shown was footage from Euna’s video camera on the brisk morning of March 17 when we were filming on the frozen river. It was eerie to look at the images, which showed life before we were apprehended. I looked like a timid cat as I walked along the ice following our guide to a place and a moment that would change our lives.

  For a brief instant, I found myself looking at the images as a reporter, and I was able to admire the scenes Euna had captured. This could have been a really eye-opening documentary, I thought. As I watched the footage, I imagined the risks so many thousands of people are taking to escape the desperate conditions in their homeland. I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to bring that story to light.

  “Did you cross the river onto DPRK soil?” the prosecutor asked forcefully.

  “Yes, sir. It was only a few steps, but I did trespass, and I am very regretful for my actions.”

  Then it was the defense attorney’s turn to question me. He began with an odd inquiry: “What did your parents say to you before your trip?” I answered that my mom and dad told me to be careful, as they did before I left on any assignment. His questioning perplexed me. I didn’t see how the conversation with my parents had anything to do with my case. He followed up with other irrelevant questions. I looked at him in disbelief. I had to keep myself from bursting out laughing at his absurd line of inquiry—this was my attorney, the man who was supposed to be standing up for me! Finally, as if to fulfill his role as my defense lawyer, he asked if I was sorry for my crimes.

  As the trial drew to a close, the prosecutor and defense attorney each had an opportunity to give their closing statements. Rather than talking about my specific situation, the prosecutor began by speaking about U.S. imperialism and the U.S. government’s constant meddling in North Korean affairs. My actions, he explained, were an extension of the U.S. government’s policies toward the DPRK, which should be viewed as a threat to the North Korean regime. He argued for the strictest sentencing of fifteen years.

  Though I had been expecting the worst, I held on to a sliver of hope that the trial might result in a full release. The words “fifteen years” echoed inside my head. All of the mental exercises I had done to help prepare me for this moment didn’t do me any good. I was petrified. I remembered my shock at hearing about Roxana Saberi’s eight-year sentence in Iran. My legs wobbled, and I grasped the podium for support.

  The defense attorney began his closing statement by chastising me for crossing the Tumen River. He said that if I had applied for a visa, I would have been allowed into his country legally. The only thing of value he did was acknowledge that I seemed genuinely sorry for my actions and argue that I should be given a more lenient sentence.

  I was then told to be seated while the judge and his associates left the room to discuss the sentencing. I tried to remain calm as I waited for the judge to return with his verdict. I closed my eyes and visualized the candlelight from the vigils taking place back home. I conjured Ambassador Foyer’s words, “A number isn’t always what it seems.” He had also said that the trial was part of a process toward our eventual release.

  After a mere five minutes of deliberation, the judge returned and took his seat on the stage. I was told to stand up and walk to the center of the room, where he could face me head-on. My heart was thumping fiercely. The judge began reading from some sheets of paper. In a thunderous voice, he explained that I was being given a combined sentence of fifteen years in a labor camp. He then went on to say that the sentence was being reduced to twelve years, which included two for trespassing and ten for “hostile acts.” He never mentioned when we’d be transferred to the camp.

  I felt my world closing in on me fast and furiously. Everything around me started spinning.

&n
bsp; “There will be no forgiveness and no appeal!” the judge exclaimed.

  I fought hard to hold back a flood of tears. It wasn’t the sentence’s harshness that shocked me. I had predicted all along that they might give me a long prison term to send a message to the outside world. It was the phrases “no forgiveness” and “no appeal” that tore into me. Did this mean they were closing the case, even if the U.S. government offered some sort of gesture?

  I was led out of the room while Euna completed her last portion of the trial. After about an hour, I was brought back in front of the judge with Euna. The judge went through various formalities such as restating our crimes and the twelve-year sentence. We were instructed to sign and fingerprint documents verifying our acceptance of the outcome. I knew that the end of the procedure was upon us, and it wouldn’t be long before Euna and I would be separated. Fearing I might not get a chance to see her again, I embraced her tightly. We were both sobbing hysterically. I envisioned Euna’s little daughter, Hana, who would be without a mother. I thought of my own parents who would soon find out the news about their own daughter. The soldiers split us up and escorted us out of the room separately.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  the window is closing

  LISA

  LAURA AND EUNA’S TRIAL DATE, Thursday, June 4, came and went with no news out of North Korea. We didn’t even know if the proceedings had begun or not. For more than two and a half months we had been anticipating the trial date, and now it felt almost anticlimactic because we had no information. Still, I was a complete wreck with worry and could hardly get my mind on anything else. On Sunday, I was scheduled to deliver a commencement address at National University in San Diego that had been scheduled for more than a year. In some ways, it was good to have something to do. I didn’t say anything about my sister’s situation while onstage, even though I knew people wanted to know the latest. A couple of news crews showed up to see if they could get a comment, but I simply told them I had nothing to say.

  That night, some friends insisted that Paul and I go with them to a movie as a way of getting my mind off what was happening. They chose The Hangover, thinking it would provide the highest level of distraction. Only twenty minutes into the filmic drunkfest, the red light on my BlackBerry started flashing. Someone I know at ABC News was sending me an urgent e-mail.

  The subject: American journalists sentenced to twelve years hard labor in North Korea. I immediately forwarded the e-mail to Iain before I was overtaken by a sense of panic.

  I suppose I was naive, but somehow I believed that our apologies and passionate appeals for mercy would convince Laura’s captors to pardon her and Euna and release them after the trial. But a labor prison? I showed the message to Paul, and we got up immediately and left the theater.

  I called Al Gore right away and told him the news; he was at his home in Tennessee.

  “Damn them,” he said. He seemed to be as shocked as I was.

  The phone call with Gore was brief; there was an eerie silence as we tried to figure out what to do next. We agreed to call each other as soon as either of us got any more information, and then we hung up.

  I called Kurt Tong on his cell phone, and he was just hearing the news. In an hour it was everywhere.

  Iain, Paul, and I headed to my mom’s house. By the time we all arrived, it was nearly 11:00 P.M. Kurt set up a midnight conference call with our family, Michael Saldate, Linda McFadyen, and a number of other State Department people. It was 3:00 A.M. in Washington, D.C.

  My mom was in hysterics and crying loudly into the phone. With his always carefully worded State-Department-speak, Kurt led the call.

  “Look, we are all surprised by the severity of the sentence,” he said, “but we don’t want anyone to panic. We believe that this will give us an opening to communicate in real terms—which is a good thing. The North Koreans are trying to show that they have a legitimate legal process and have reached completion in the trial of the women.”

  “How do you know?” my mom pressed. “What if they send her to a labor camp, what will we do?”

  “We hope that does not happen,” Kurt replied. “Hopefully dialogue will now begin.”

  Kurt’s urging us not to overreact didn’t work. We were all devastated, especially my mom. We hoped Kurt was right, that the verdict was a sign that talks could happen soon between the United States and North Korea.

  In the days after the sentence was announced, the news was filled with stories of what my sister might be forced to endure in one of North Korea’s brutal gulag-style prisons; no American had ever been sent to one. I went online and found a disturbing report about North Korea’s labor prisons entitled “The Hidden Gulag: Exposing North Korea’s Prison Camps,” compiled by David Hawk for the U.S. Committee for Human Rights in North Korea. It provided details of life inside labor camps across North Korea, where an estimated two hundred thousand people are alleged to be living:

  The most salient feature of day-to-day prison-labor camp life is the combination of below-subsistence food rations and extremely hard labor. Prisoners are provided only enough food to be kept perpetually on the verge of starvation. And prisoners are compelled by their hunger to eat, if they can get away with it, the food of the labor-camp farm animals, plants, grasses, bark, rats, snakes—anything remotely edible.

  Now my sister, who just a couple of months before had told me that she and Iain were working on starting a family, had been sentenced to serve twelve years in one of these camps. I wondered what her captors had told her. I was gravely concerned about her mental state; I could feel my baby sister’s fear and anguish from a world away.

  LAURA

  I SPIRALED INTO A DEEP depression. I refused my meals and rarely moved from a chair in a dark corner of the room. I envisioned spending twelve long years in a North Korean labor camp. I worried about Iain not having a partner in his life. I tried to imagine women I knew who might make a suitable match for him. It crushed me to think of him being with someone else, but I didn’t want him to be alone. I wanted the best for him. I thought of my father’s weak heart and feared I might not ever see my parents again. At least I’ll have Lisa when I get out, I thought. I imagined myself, weathered and gray by the time I was released, moving into Lisa’s house and helping her take care of her children. That would make me happy, I smiled to myself. While I tried to sketch out my life of imprisonment, thinking of how I might endure the long dark days of isolation, I also contemplated suicide. I will try to get through at least two years, I thought.

  Min-Jin approached me with a tray of food. “You need to eat,” she said.

  “I can’t,” I responded, tears falling from my cheeks. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Just try a little something,” she persisted.

  “Do you know what happened? Do you know what sentence I was given?” I asked.

  She placed the tray down and sat on the seat beside me. “No, I don’t know,” she said curiously.

  “Twelve years.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Twelve years?” she said softly.

  “Yes, and they said, ‘no forgiveness and no appeal.’ I can’t survive twelve years in prison. I need to see my family.”

  She was speechless. I could tell she was genuinely shocked by the news and saddened for me.

  “I thought you would be forgiven,” she said compassionately. “I thought you would get to go home.”

  I sensed that she was starting to feel uncomfortable sitting beside me, consoling me. It wasn’t her place. After all, she was supposed to be guarding me. But I could tell she felt disappointed. I think Min-Jin really believed her government would act compassionately toward me. I could see she felt awkward just leaving me there alone.

  “Thanks for listening to me. I really appreciate it. I’ll be okay,” I told her.

  After sitting with me for a few more minutes, she got up and went back into the guards’ area, where she began whispering to Kyung-Hee about my sentencing. I could hear Kyung-Hee�
�s surprised reaction, followed by a somber silence that washed over the room.

  Later that day, Mr. Yee came to take me for a walk outside. As he waited outside while I gathered my coat, Min-Jin called out to me.

  “Laura,” she said softly, “have hope.”

  I was incredibly touched that these words were coming from the woman who was supposed to keep me prisoner.

  Outside, as we began walking along one side of the compound, Mr. Yee asked me about the proceedings.

  “It was terrible,” I said. “Twelve years.”

  “Did that surprise you?” he replied. “I told you that even your own media has been reporting that you would get a very long sentence.”

  “I suppose I knew it might happen, but I was secretly hoping for forgiveness.”

  He chuckled softly. “And how did you find your defense attorney?”

  “What defense attorney!” I said cynically. “He might as well have been working for the prosecutor! But it’s as I expected. I know he was just doing his job.”

  “That’s right, he was. We don’t have attorneys like you do in the United States, where they get paid a lot of money. This man did his best, and he got your sentence reduced to twelve years from fifteen. I saw him afterward, and he said he was sorry he couldn’t do more.”

  I felt bad about insulting the attorney who I knew was powerless in a system that was using Euna and me as pawns for larger political purposes.

  I asked Mr. Yee about the conditions at the camp. “You will be fine,” he responded. “You are a journalist, after all. Now you will get to see what a real prison looks like in North Korea.” I had become used to his snide remarks.

  “Is the camp in Pyongyang or close to Pyongyang? I really hope we’re not moved too far away from the capital,” I said.

  “I’m not sure exactly where you are being sent, but I think you are going to the prison that’s about an hour’s drive away.”