by Laura Ling
Mr. Yee then got up and told me we were going for a walk outside. I leaped up and followed him. It had been nearly a week since I’d been out of the dimly lit room, and I winced as the bright rays of the sun hit my face.
As we walked, Mr. Yee brought up Euna. “You haven’t seen Euna since the trial,” he said.
“When will I get to see her?” I asked
“You will see her soon,” he said with a half grin.
He proceeded through a door on the other side of the compound, a part of the building where I’d never been allowed to go. We walked down a short hallway into a corner room—one that was exactly opposite my side of the building.
Standing before me was Euna. I raced toward her hysterically, and we embraced. It hurt me to feel her thin, frail frame. She had lost a lot of weight over the months. Her cheeks were sunken in and pale. We cried in each other’s arms. I didn’t want to let her go, for fear we might be separated again.
There was another man in the room—he was Euna’s interrogator. He was familiar to me because I had seen this tall, thin, professorial-looking man on a few occasions through the window in the guards’ area. Sometimes, if I was too close to the window when a person passed by outside, the guards would scold me and tell me to move away from the area, but I had seen this man.
As I suspected, Euna had been in the same building all this time. Mr. Yee told us that we could remain together, and after lunch we were going to meet the special U.S. envoy.
Seeing Euna was like a dream. It was hard to believe that during the agonizing months of our confinement, we had only been together for a total of six days. Every day for the past four months, I would wake up and pray for her well-being. “Lord, please give Euna the strength, courage, and wisdom to get through another day,” I would say out loud. My prayers had been answered.
Euna and I sat in her room and began to compare our experiences in captivity. We talked about the interrogation process, each worried that the other had divulged certain bits of information.
“I pretended not to remember Pastor Chun’s name,” I said, “but after a few days of questioning, they said they already knew who he was because you had confessed.”
Euna denied doing any such thing. “I thought it was you who revealed his name,” she said.
Both of us had figured the interrogators were pitting us against each other, but we were each determined to protect our sources. I hoped that nothing bad had come to the people who had helped us or opened their lives to us.
We shared what we had learned from our letters about the out-pouring of support from around the United States and all over the world and how the thoughts and prayers of so many people gave us the strength to endure.
For lunch, the guards brought out an elaborate meal of cold noodles, fresh fruit, and pastries. My stomach was still weak, so they served me a bowl of gruel, which had become my staple over the last few days. But having not had much fresh fruit in months, I slowly nibbled on some pieces of melon, savoring the sweet flavor.
Paris came over to give me my medication, which I’d been taking with each meal. “This is my friend Euna,” I said to Paris, who smiled.
“So now that you’re finally with your friend, you’ve already forgotten about me,” she said jokingly.
“Of course not!” I replied. I was touched that Paris felt a certain closeness to me.
“I’m just joking,” she said. “I’m glad you can be together.” She said we would be leaving soon to meet with the U.S. envoy.
My stomach was churning from being ill and also from nervousness. I continued to contemplate who it could be that was coming to our aid. I knew that Bill Clinton was the person the North Koreans wanted most, but maybe they had decided to accept Jimmy Carter after Secretary Clinton’s harsh remarks. On top of that, none of the recent letters I’d received indicated that any progress was being made on the Clinton front, but those letters were at least a week old.
“I have a feeling it’s either President Carter or Clinton,” I said to Euna, “but I’m not sure which one.”
After lunch, Euna and I were taken in separate cars to the Koryo Hotel, a twin-towered building built in the 1980s. When we arrived, our interrogators escorted us up an escalator to the second floor. They left us in a small conference room with the guarantor and Paris. I was so jittery and my stomach was so full of unease that I had to request to use the toilet every few minutes. The guarantor seemed worried that my condition might prevent me from being able to meet with the envoy. He offered me some stomach medication, but I declined, fearing it might make my stomach even worse. I closed my eyes and began to meditate. Just be calm, I thought. It’s all going to work out. You’ll be home soon.
“Euna, I think it’s happening. I think we’re going to be going home,” I said. “But let’s not jinx anything.”
We held hands, waiting to meet our savior.
LISA
WHEN THE NEWS ABOUT the Clinton mission hit the air-waves, our phones started ringing like crazy. Press from all over the world was calling to get a comment about what was happening. Still under strict orders to not speak, none of us answered calls from numbers we didn’t recognize.
With TVs blaring, we were practically dancing around my mom’s house. I looked at Iain, who had lost a significant amount of weight during the ordeal, and smiled at the thought of him and Laura finally having meals together in their new home. In one day, years had been lifted from my mom’s face. Dad was helping her prepare Laura’s favorite soup: Chinese watercress. They were like an old married couple snapping at each other to pass the salt, but it was a joyful bickering—their little girl was coming home.
A blocked number kept appearing on my cell phone over and over again. Then an e-mail appeared on my BlackBerry that read “POTUS [President of the United States] is trying to call you from the Situation Room. Pick up the phone.”
It was August 4, President Obama’s birthday. My mom, dad, Iain, and I picked up four different phones in the house so we could all be on the line.
“Michelle and I are so happy that this day has come,” President Obama said in his iconic voice.
“Thank you so much, Mr. President,” I said. “We know that this was a very complicated situation for all involved, and we’re so grateful for your blessing.”
“Listen, I’ve been on this for a while,” he answered, “and this was before I got the e-mail from my sister.”
We all graciously thanked the president for taking our matter seriously despite everything that he had going on in the first months of his presidency. At the very end of the call my mom blurted out, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!”
“Thank you,” President Obama replied. “This has been a great gift.”
Bill Clinton’s chief, Doug Band, and I were e-mailing news reports back and forth. I told him that President Obama had called us to tell us how happy he was that this mission was happening. The plane was so wired that everyone on board was getting real-time news reports of the Clinton trip, so Doug knew everything. And then all of a sudden, communication stopped. I knew at once that meant President Clinton and his team had landed in Pyongyang. I recalled my trip to North Korea, when my cell phone was seized immediately upon arrival. I imagined that while on the ground in North Korea, the Americans might not be able to communicate freely until they were back in the air.
Approximately two hours after I lost contact with Doug, photos started to emerge from broadcasts on North Korean television of President Clinton’s arrival inside the Communist country. He was shown coming down the stairs and onto the tarmac, but as he reached out to shake the hands of the North Korean officials, he was wearing the most expressionless face the world had ever seen on him. I would later learn that persons in the White House and State Department suggested that he not appear too affable under the circumstances, and that he had practiced maintaining that look of total stoicism. On the ground to greet President Clinton was North Korea’s chief nuclear negotiator Kim Kye-Gwan. For months w
e had been urging all parties to keep our issue separate from the nuclear one, but on this day it seemed as if the North Korean leadership was trying to make some kind of statement by having Kim Kye-Gwan there to meet with the former United States president. We wondered if this meant there might be an opening for discussions about nuclear disarmament in the future.
We were glued to the television; it was the biggest story of the day. We had been able to keep the mission secret for days, but now it was everywhere. We wondered if President Clinton had seen Laura and Euna yet—or if they even knew he was there. What was going on inside North Korea?
LAURA
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, we were told that the envoy had arrived. We were ushered out of the room and led down a long corridor. The path was lined with at least twenty North Korean security agents dressed in black. Their expressions were stone cold and intimidating. As I made my way down the hall, all of a sudden, at the end of the line of North Korean officers, I spotted a single bald-headed American, wearing an earpiece. It was a U.S. Secret Service agent. Seeing him there gave me goose bumps. I could feel the presence of my country standing before me.
When we reached the end of the corridor, two doors swung open, and standing ten feet in front of us was President Bill Clinton. Perhaps it was the way the room was lit, or my overwhelmed state of mind, but I felt like the former president was shrouded in a bright, beaming light. In my eyes, he looked like an angel who had come to our aid. I was awestruck. Every single moment of my captivity had felt utterly surreal, and this was no different. President Clinton had traveled halfway around the world to Pyongyang to rescue us. It should have been a scene out of a movie, not out of my life.
Unable to control our emotions, Euna and I burst into tears as we stepped toward the former U.S. president. He looked at us with fatherly concern and embraced us tightly.
“Bless you, bless you,” he said in his smooth southern drawl. He spoke in a hushed tone, out of earshot of the half a dozen or so people in the room. North Korean photographers and videographers seemed to be recording his every move.
“President Clinton, thank you so much for coming. You were the only person who could save us. We are so grateful,” I said. I then reiterated what Mr. Yee had instructed me to say.
“Well, that part has been done,” the president responded, referring to making an apology on our behalf.
He told us that he had just come from a good meeting, though he didn’t specify with whom. He also said there was still a little more work that needed to be done, but he felt confident that we would be leaving on a plane with him and his team the next morning.
“I’d like you to speak with my physician about your health and whether you can fly,” he said and motioned us to his doctor, Roger Band.
I knew from Iain’s letters that the swine flu virus was spreading in the United States and other countries. Iain joked in one of his letters that the one thing he didn’t have to worry about was my catching swine flu, because North Korea was so isolated. Even so, I didn’t want to take a chance by telling Dr. Band that I had just gotten over a serious fever. Nothing was going to keep me from getting on that plane.
“We’ve been treated fairly,” I told Dr. Band. “We might have a few ailments here and there, but it’s nothing that being on U.S. soil can’t cure.”
As we were talking, Doug Band, Clinton’s top adviser, John Podesta, his former chief of staff, and Justin Cooper, his top aide, introduced themselves. Also part of President Clinton’s team were Stanford professor and expert on North Korea David Straub, Min Ji Kwon, an interpreter from the U.S. Embassy in Seoul, and a contingent of seven U.S. Secret Service agents. The former president then came over to us again and said that he and his team were going to have to leave.
“Bless you,” he said again compassionately. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
After the room emptied out, our interrogators rushed toward us and asked us what Clinton had said. I explained that he still had some more work to do, but he hoped we’d be going home with him.
“Is that it?” Mr. Yee asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” I replied. “I hope it’s true.”
We went back to the compound, and I was told that I would be able to spend the night in Euna’s room. There seemed to be a lot of buzz going on. Though we were confined to Euna’s quarters, I could hear people moving about all over the building. There was a kind of frenzied energy in the air.
Euna and I contemplated the likelihood of our being released the next morning. Though we felt close to certain that things would work out, there was still a chance that something could go wrong. We were in North Korea, after all, a country notorious for being duplicitous. We tried to temper our expectations, not wanting to get our hopes up only to find out that we would not be going home. I tried to imagine what sorts of conversations the former president and his team were having with the highest levels of North Korea’s government. Would President Clinton be meeting with Kim Jong Il? By nightfall, we still hadn’t heard anything from our interrogators.
Since I was going to sleep in Euna’s room, I asked the guard if I could go back to my room to collect my toothbrush and other belongings. We had to walk outside in order to get to the other side of the building, and I noted that this was the first time I’d been allowed outdoors at night. I looked up at the moon and the glimmering stars, sights I hadn’t seen in months. I thought of my family and how anxious they must be feeling, knowing that our big chance to be released had finally come. The next time I look at the moon, I thought, I might be seeing it from home.
LISA
SOON MORE PHOTOS STARTED to surface. This time they included images of a man thought by the world to be on his deathbed, the infamous leader of North Korea: Kim Jong Il.
The Dear Leader was smiling and jubilant as he greeted America’s forty-second president, who held on to his inscrutable expression throughout the trip. From an intelligence perspective, it was tremendously valuable for an American to see the notoriously despotic ruler. Every one of my advisers had been convinced that Kim was not well. He had not been seen publicly in a very long time, and whatever photos existed were said to have been taken years ago and doctored to make them look more current. Some bloggers even speculated that the reason Clinton had been requested was that the North Korean regime was going to perform a succession ceremony that would usher in a new era of leadership, and Kim Jong Il would hand over power to his son.
But judging from the pictures, there was no denying that Kim Jong Il was alive and well. President Clinton later told me that North Korea’s leader not only was alert but was firmly calling the shots inside his country. He added that the younger Kim was not even present in any of the meetings during this visit.
LAURA
THAT NIGHT EUNA AND I lay in bed still unsure of our fate. The guard in the adjoining room was watching the evening newscast. Suddenly we heard a female North Korean newscaster say, “Clin-ton!” with the booming formal cadence I’d become so familiar with. Euna and I popped out of bed and rushed into the guards’ room.
The news anchor was describing a meeting between Kim Jong Il and President Clinton. Then photos from the visit were displayed on the screen. The first photo was a group shot with Kim Jong Il and Clinton’s team, all of whom, including Kim, had on serious expressions. It was hard to gauge the mood in the room. But the instant I saw the picture of Kim Jong Il with his wide, toothy grin, standing proudly next to the solemn-looking Clinton, I knew we were going home.
“The reporter said it was a warm meeting,” Euna explained.
“We’re going home,” I said, no longer worried about jinxing anything. “We’re going home!” We spent the rest of the night sharing in our excitement.
At 4:00 A.M., a guard came into the room and told us to get ready, that our interrogators were coming to see us. The guarantor brought in several boxes of books and things sent from our families that we had not been allowed to have. He gave us some duffel bags and told us to pack what we
wanted. The boxes contained protein bars, dried fruit, shampoos, lotions, beef jerky, tissues, toothpaste, deodorant, and other basic items. I recalled how much I had craved and begged for the protein bars and toothpaste but was not allowed to have them because the guards were worried I might be poisoned. I left the items in their boxes. I thought they would be put to better use by the people there.
I threw a few articles of clothing and other small items into the bags, including the black lined boots I was wearing on the day of our apprehension along the border. I remembered that morning and wondered if circumstances might have been different had those boots not been so heavy.
The things I wanted to take home most, my prized possessions, were the letters I had received. I don’t think I would have gotten through that terrifying time without the knowledge and wisdom contained in them. There were thirty manila envelopes in all from the Swedish Embassy, each containing several letters. I carefully packed the envelopes and all the memories they held into a bag.
Mr. Yee and Mr. Baek arrived and brought me outside to talk. Mr. Yee explained that a very high-ranking general would be arriving at the compound in an hour to issue Euna and me a special pardon on behalf of the chairman himself, Kim Jong Il.
“Are you happy now?” he asked, with the half grin I’d become so used to seeing.
“I can’t believe it’s really happening!” I beamed. “I’m finally going to see my family!”
He told me I must get ready quickly and urged me to look as presentable as possible. “Wear something bright and colorful if you have it,” he said. “He’s a very important general.”
I looked through the clothes my family had sent me over the months. They were comfortable, casual things like sweatshirts, T-shirts, and cargo pants in muted colors. I thought back on the times when I’d receive a package and the guards would peek at the clothes curiously. They were hoping to see some pretty outfits sent from America, but they were always disappointed when they saw yet another cotton T-shirt.