by Laura Ling
Every morning, along with the antibiotics, I was given a packet of Emergen-C, an effervescent vitamin drink mix manufactured in California. I was surprised when I saw the familiar blue and yellow packaging. I had often taken Emergen-C back home whenever I felt the slightest onset of a cold. I wondered where the North Koreans had gotten this supply of the citrus-flavored powder, given the sanctions that barred any importation of goods from the United States into North Korea. I felt bad that it might have come from an aid shipment and that it was being used on me, not on the North Korean citizenry who need it the most.
It had been a month since the trial, and for most of that time I’d been largely secluded. Then I was told that someone was coming to see me in the afternoon. I wondered if it was Mr. Yee. I hadn’t heard from him since the last time we walked outside together, when he told me he’d try to visit me once a week. I waited anxiously, hoping he might be bringing some positive news from back home.
I heard footsteps approaching the room, followed by a faint knocking. The door swung open and I saw Mr. Baek standing in the entryway. I was happy to see him. Mr. Baek had always been kind to me and I missed his cheery disposition.
“Hi!” I said enthusiastically.
Though I could tell he was glad to see me, he was much more reserved than his usual self. After seeing whom he was with, I understood why he seemed so staid. Following Mr. Baek into the room was the prosecutor from the trial, along with the doctor and an older gentleman I had never seen before. The prosecutor wore the same imposing expression that never ceased to rattle me. He looked me over with the same indignant scowl that had greeted me on a number of occasions.
He began by saying it was his job to send me to the labor camp and that he was checking to see if my health had improved enough for me to go to prison. He questioned the doctor and asked for her assessment. According to the doctor, I was improving, but she thought I still needed a little more time for my appendicitis to heal.
“I thought that since you were in medical detention, your government might have done something to get you home before we sent you to prison,” the prosecutor said. “But, it doesn’t look as if they are doing anything. You should prepare yourself to go to the labor camp soon.”
I was surprised to hear that no progress had been made. A month had passed since the trial, and I was hoping that what Ambassador Foyer had said was true, that the trial was a necessary part of the process, that the U.S. government needed a justification such as a long and unfair prison sentence in order to act.
“So, nothing has been done? There has been no word from my government?” I asked the prosecutor.
The older man sitting on the couch beside me began to chuckle. “Your government has been silent,” he said. “Al Gore has offered to come here on a humanitarian mission, but he is the head of your company. Your government is trying to pass off your situation to your company rather than get involved. That is not acceptable.”
His words felt like a sharp blade to the neck. I recalled the letter I had given to Ambassador Foyer weeks before the trial, which was meant for my bosses at Current TV. In it, I asked if Vice President Gore would agree to be sent to North Korea as an envoy. My suggestion was based on the conversation I had with Mr. Yee, who had acknowledged that Gore might be an acceptable representative. Now it appeared that he was not seen as a viable representative by the North Korean government because he was viewed as an extension of Current TV.
“Sir, I am the one who requested former Vice President Gore to come here. I believed he would be a great envoy, not because he is the chairman of Current TV, but because he is one of the most recognized political figures in the world. It’s my fault. I did not know he would be unacceptable. If he is not the right person, just tell me who is, and I will try my best to make something happen. Let me call my family, and I will do whatever I can to get you what you want.”
“Your family!” the prosecutor exclaimed. “All they are doing is complaining about your health and claiming that you must be released on humanitarian grounds. You had an ulcer before you came here. We did not give that to you!” He got up from his seat.
“Time is running out,” he grumbled and headed out of the room followed by the others.
The prosecutor’s words made me very anxious, and I feared that once the issues with my appendicitis were resolved, I’d be sent to prison. When the guard gave me that day’s dosage of antibiotic medication, I pretended to swallow the pill but rushed into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. I hoped my appendix might actually burst, so that I would be taken to the hospital for surgery rather than being sent to a labor camp.
Later that evening, the older man from the prosecutor’s office returned, accompanied by Mr. Baek. I was glad the prosecutor wasn’t with them. The man asked me what I might say to my family if I was allowed to call them.
“Sir, tell me what needs to be done, and I will do my best to make it happen,” I pleaded.
I was tired of trying to guess what the authorities were after. I knew I was being used to convey messages to the U.S. government via my sister, but no one was giving me any concrete information.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” he replied. “That would be a violation of your human rights!”
I refrained from laughing at this absurd statement. I could tell he wasn’t trying to be humorous.
“Listen,” he continued. “I work for the prosecution. It is my job to send you to prison. But I am also a father, and I sympathize with you. I am not speaking to you on behalf of the North Korean government. I am simply giving you some fatherly advice.”
I didn’t believe him. I knew that he, like Mr. Yee before him, had been sent to prep me for my next phone call with my sister. Lisa and I had become a channel through which the North Korean government was communicating with the United States. It was essential that I send the right message. But rather than telling me directly what they wanted in exchange for our release, the North Koreans preferred an indirect method. It seemed they didn’t want it to appear that they had been feeding me instructions or making demands. In their eyes, we had committed a grave crime, and it was up to our government to make an apology and present a worthy envoy to mend the situation.
The older man said he believed an acceptable emissary must be someone who resonated with the Korean people: “The Korean people know about your crime. In order for them to forgive you, the envoy must be someone they recognize who can apologize on your behalf.”
It was an interesting statement, given North Korea’s totalitarian state and the mass propaganda machine that has brainwashed its citizens for the past six decades. Now they wanted a high-profile envoy to add to their propaganda.
“What about Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger?” I suggested.
I knew Kim Jong Il was a big movie buff, and I hoped he was a fan of The Terminator. I also recalled a letter Iain had sent that included a public statement from Governor Schwarzenegger expressing his concern after the results of the trial. As a California native, I thought it might be possible to get the governor of my home state to make the trip. The man discounted that suggestion immediately.
Still upset that Al Gore had been rejected as an option, I tried to convince the man that the former vice president was still the best candidate. “He’s a Nobel Peace Prize holder,” I said.
“What if you just cut off the ‘vice’ and go for ‘president’?” he replied with a smirk. I was speechless. Was he really suggesting that President Obama was the only person who could secure our release?
“Sir, if you think President Obama is going to come here on our behalf, you might as well send me to prison right now,” I responded, feeling defeated.
“I’m not suggesting the current president, but what about past presidents?” he replied.
I perked up instantly, and my mind began going through various options. I ruled out the two Bush presidents, thinking it would be more difficult to get approval from the current administration for their involvement.
That left former Presidents Carter and Clinton.
“What about Carter or Clinton?” I suggested.
“Carter or Clinton,” he said, mulling over the suggestions. “Those sound like good options.”
I couldn’t believe we were discussing men of such stature, but I was even more disheartened by how difficult the challenge might be to get either one to make the trip.
The older man got up to leave and told me he’d be back the next day. Mr. Baek followed him out, but returned shortly after and said he’d received permission to talk to me for a few minutes longer. He apologized for never getting a chance to say good-bye and asked how I was doing. I told him I’d been ill, and that I missed the old guards. I explained that I hadn’t received any letters since his departure.
“No letters!” he said, sounding surprised. He told me he’d ask about the letters on my behalf.
“Oh, and happy belated anniversary!” he said, grinning.
I was touched that he had remembered. From all of Iain’s letters mentioning our upcoming anniversary, I knew Mr. Baek was aware of our June 26 wedding date.
“Thank you!” I replied. “It’s so kind that you remembered.”
“Did they give you anything special for dinner that night? I told the woman in charge that it was your anniversary and to fix you a special meal.”
I thought back on the meals I’d been given since the trial. I recalled one dinner that was different from what was normally served. It was a dark, pungent soup. I couldn’t place what kind of meat was in the soup. The gamey flavor was too strong for my liking. I’d commented on its rich taste to my guard. “It’s a special kind of soup,” she’d replied. “Do you like it?”
Not wanting to seem disrespectful, I’d told her it was very good, while I concentrated on swallowing the tender bits of meat. I hoped it wasn’t the Korean delicacy “sweet meat,” better known as dog soup.
Later that evening, after Mr. Baek left, the guarantor brought me a batch of letters. They were the first I’d received since the end of the trial. I sifted through them, trying to find any sign of movement or news. I immediately went for the ones from Lisa and Iain and scanned through them for any information.
I gathered from reading the letters that very little progress was being made. In a note from Lisa, she explained how various nongovernmental organizations, such as the International Red Cross, were concerned about our health. She also wrote that my doctor in the United States, Dr. Basil, had requested through North Korea’s Permanent Mission to the UN that he be granted a visit to see Euna and me. Lisa also sought to convey messages to the North Korean authorities. She wrote:
…Every day that goes by saddens me to no end. I was truly hoping that this could be a unique opportunity for our two countries to have some kind of meaningful exchange. I am still hoping that will be the case. I just hope it happens soon. It has been too long and your families miss you so much, sweetheart.
In a letter that was handwritten from Iain and then scanned, he wrote:
Dearest Laura,
Things are moving very slowly at the moment. I don’t know why that is. It is very frustrating, particularly for you and Euna. I wish there was something to do to speed things up. In the meantime we are pushing for a family and doctor visit.
I cannot believe another week has almost gone by. Another week without you. I am sorry, sweetheart. But don’t worry we will keep on. I am thinking about you right now. I imagine your hair longer, being skinnier (from worry), but still strong and bright. Writing to you every day is the most important activity of my life at the moment.
Thinking of you every minute of the day.
Iain
I could feel the anguish in their words and blamed myself for their pain. I was upset that weeks had gone by since the trial, and still things seemed to be in a state of limbo. But it wasn’t the lack of progress that worried me the most. It was a news item Iain had included in his letter dated July 4 that filled me with unease. Sandwiched between a story from the Economist about the high court in Delhi ruling that consensual gay sex in India was not a crime and an excerpt about China delaying a mandate that all new computers be equipped with Internet-filtering software was one sentence about North Korea: “North Korea test-fired more short-range missiles, ratcheting up tensions in the region and defying recently tightened UN sanctions.”
In the three months I’d been held captive, North Korea had conducted a satellite launch and a nuclear test, and was now firing off missiles. There was no telling what they might do next, including sending two American journalists to a labor camp.
I spent that evening obsessing over what I needed to say in my next call to Lisa. I thought back to the jokes Mr. Yee had made about me becoming more and more like a North Korean. In a sense, he was right. I wanted to get into the minds of the North Korean leadership so I could better understand how my government might best respond.
In addition to the mammoth request for an envoy, I hoped Lisa might be able to appeal to Secretary of State Clinton or President Obama to issue some sort of apology for our actions. I knew from the letters that various U.S. politicians had made statements after our sentencing. Some called for our release on humanitarian grounds and said the North Koreans should let us go without delay. But none had actually apologized for our actions. I could see that the North Korean authorities felt insulted by this perceived lack of respect.
I also planned on telling Lisa to cut back on the requests for medical visitations and to stop commenting on my poor health. The conversation I’d had with the prosecutor told me that the regime felt slighted by the accusations that my condition had worsened in captivity and that they hadn’t been treating me well.
Throughout the night, I rehearsed in my head what I wanted to say on the call. I figured I would be given roughly ten to fifteen minutes, and I knew that each second was precious. The next day, the man from the prosecutor’s office came to escort me back to the Yanggakdo Hotel.
Before making the call, the man sat me down and gave me these instructions: “You must tell your sister that this is a life-or-death situation. She needs to focus all her energy on getting you out of here. Your life is in her hands.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I will not tell my sister that. I don’t need to put any more pressure on her than what she is already under. I don’t know if Carter or Clinton will agree to come here, but Lisa will spend the rest of her life working to get me home. That I know.”
LISA
ON JULY 7, LAURA called again. Earlier that night I had spoken with Robert Hong, who had just come out of North Korea after his three-day trip.
“I don’t have good news, Lisa,” he said. “They said that your family has hostile intentions against their country, and they have made a decision that this situation has to be dealt with politically. There is nothing I can do about it.”
Then in a grave voice he said, “I was told that the girls are ill, and their health is rapidly deteriorating.”
“Oh my god, Robert!” I screamed. “What does that mean?”
“That your government better act soon,” he solemnly replied.
When I hung up the phone, I was near hysterics. Paul came to comfort me, and I told him what Robert had just said about the girls’ health.
“Babe,” he said, “they’re probably saying that to delay sending them to a labor camp. As long as they are ill, I don’t think they’ll send them away.”
“They’re punishing her for what I did,” I exclaimed. “I have to get her out!”
I called my mom and Iain to brief them on Robert’s report, and was just starting to calm down when the phone rang again. It had been sixteen days since Laura’s last call, but when the phone rang at 10:15 P.M., I knew it was her.
The two previous calls had come entirely unexpectedly, but both had come shortly after 10:00 P.M. Since her last call, I had started making a point of being alert at that time every night.
“Baby Girl, are you okay?” I screamed breathlessly
. I desperately wanted to know about Laura’s health.
“Li, be calm,” she said. “Just listen to me, okay?”
I scrambled for my notebook and a pen and put the phone on speaker so that Paul could listen in as he had done during Laura’s previous calls.
“Do not talk about my health in the press,” she said decisively. “It will anger people. It will seem like our family is accusing the government here of mistreating us. I am being seen by a doctor. I’m okay.”
I was confused by what Laura was saying because I’d just talked to Robert, and he’d said Laura’s health was in trouble. So what was she saying now? Perhaps in anticipation of Robert’s call to me, the North Koreans were trying to send a message through Laura that speaking publicly about her health would make the situation worse for her. The North Koreans seemed to be trying to ensure that no one believed they had abused the girls’ human rights. Laura’s tone was very deliberate, which seemed to indicate that her captors were talking through her. I knew from Laura’s plea that the North Koreans must have seen some of the interviews our family had done, during which we expressed our concern for her ulcers and possibly deteriorating health. I was desperate to know the truth about her health, but she didn’t give me a chance to ask about it.
“The feeling here is that our government doesn’t care about us,” Laura urged.