by Suki Kim
It was a horrible compromise, and yet I knew that to show the film to only twenty-five students was still better than showing it to none. I agonized for hours, and cried, before choosing Class 1, because they were the ones who had first asked about Harry Potter, and because the movie was quite difficult to follow for non–English speakers, and I knew that Class 1 would understand more of it than Class 4.
So this was how Avatar came to be chosen for Movie Day, on December 17, instead of Harry Potter. The exam started later than the appointed time of 8 a.m. due to an electricity outage. The winter morning was so dreary that, even after we opened all the curtains in the classroom, the students could hardly see their tests in the dim light. We waited for it to become more light outside and, as if by magic, it began snowing and the snow continued all through that last day, as though it could cover up whatever was about to occur in that devastated land. Once the exam was over, the students ran outside to take pictures, and the snow kept falling, and the boys looked happy as children as they fought to sit next to their teachers before the camera.
None of us knew then that it truly was the last day of an era. This was the last day of Kim Jong-il’s life, although the news would not break until two days later, December 19.
Later that afternoon, for the showing of Avatar, I did manage to bake a very thin loaf of bread with a lukewarm chocolate flavor, and the boys seemed happy with it. One pointedly told me that it was definitely not a brownie, but cake was quickly forgotten as they gathered to watch a Hollywood blockbuster with spectacular special effects for the first time in their lives.
27
DURING THE LAST week there, I dreamt of vomiting. I vomited up the images of the silent villages alongside the roads, the gaunt faces outside the van window, the Great Leader slogans and the Great Leader songs and the Great Leader portraits that marked every building, every living creature, every hushed breath like a branding iron. In my dream, I threw up every last bit of my final days into a black plastic bag, which was so heavy that I had to drag it with both hands to dump it into a pit next to the teachers’ dormitory. Alone in the Siberian winds, I stood gazing down at the bag that seemed to be breathing, so resilient that it refused to die.
Then I woke up, and it was 5:40 a.m. Outside it was pitch dark, but I knew that the students were awake. By 5:50, they were outside running in rows, shouting Joguk Tongil, which means “Reunification of Motherland.” It was good for their health, they uniformly claimed at meals, to wake up so early and run in the dark shouting such wishes. My little soldiers were also little robots. In groups, they inevitably mouthed the right answer, which would then be reviewed in weekly Daily Life Unity critiques, but in private, their voices resonated.
Every day is the same.
Every day is about waiting.
I am fed up.
On that Monday morning, December 19, 2011, I showed Harry Potter to Class 1. It was an emotional morning, as I knew I was upsetting Class 4. Soon after the movie started, some boys from the other classes, who were all assigned to self-study in nearby classrooms, began peering through the windows. Finally, there was a knock, and I told my class to continue watching the film and walked out to find several students in the hallway.
“We want to see the film too, Teacher,” they said. The monitor from Class 4 was also there, demanding to know why their class was not being shown the film when I was also their teacher. I told them that singling out just one group was beyond my jurisdiction; that it upset me more than anything I had ever done in my life; and that if I could have, I would have shown the film to every one of them; but that I was a mere teacher and had no such power.
“Will you please forgive me?” I asked, breaking down in tears.
Finally, one of them said, “We understand, Teacher. We just wanted to see the film too. As you know, we do not have many chances.”
Then the monitor from Class 4 said, “Don’t worry, Teacher. We understand you. We would like to invite you to our classroom after you finish your film. We have a surprise for you.”
The surprise turned out to be songs: “Our Unforgettable Teacher” and the “Song of Suki,” a regional folksong they had been vaguely aware of, whose lyrics they had searched out during their August vacation and written down neatly on a piece of paper as a parting gift. They all sang them together, and they asked me one last favor.
“Will you say something to us in Korean?”
The request took me by surprise since they knew that as an English teacher, I was not allowed to speak to them in our mother tongue. But I also understood why. They were afraid that I might not be coming back, and they wanted to share a moment of closeness that went beyond words.
So I thanked them, Gamsahamnidah …
Then I told them this, in Korean:
“Thank you for letting me be your teacher for as long as time allowed us. Thank you for teaching me so much more than I taught you. As long as I live, I will treasure each of your faces and names, one by one, in my heart, and from very far away I will always think of you, and wish you to grow up into real gentlemen. I want you to remember always that I am proud of each one of you.”
Then I bowed the way Koreans do when we say goodbye. I knew that I would not be coming back and I could not stop my tears.
There was still so much I wanted to say, and moreover, I still felt horrible for letting them down, but I thought I could explain better later—my final lunch was reserved for Class 1, and dinner for Class 4.
WHEN I CAME down to the cafeteria at 11:30 a.m., I saw that most of them had finished lunch earlier than usual and were already leaving. A few students from Class 1 waved at me, however, and said, “Professor, please sit here. We will wait for you to finish your meal.” One of them then explained that the entire student body had been summoned for a special meeting at noon. I did not ask what the meeting was about since they often had mysterious meetings in the afternoons.
They were still high from Harry Potter, which they thought was incredible. They especially loved the scene in which Hermione tells Harry that for Professor Snape’s class, she has to finish writing an essay on werewolves. They found it funny that Hermione and Harry didn’t like essays either.
But there was not much time to discuss Harry Potter, since they had to go to their meeting and were upset that I was leaving the next morning. One of them said, “We have been too sad for days that you are leaving us, Professor.” They asked, yet again, “Professor, are you coming back next semester?” I told them that honestly, I really was not sure if I would be allowed back in their country, but even if I did not make it back, perhaps one day they would have access to the Internet and then we could Skype. They remained silent until finally one of them, who seemed deep in thought, said earnestly, “Perhaps I could become a delegate at the UN. Then I could come to New York and see you again in person!”
They got up for their meeting and were walking away when one of them turned and said, “When will we see you again, Professor? Face to face?” I burst out laughing at their childlike insistence and said, “Come on, gentlemen. I’m not gone yet and will be here for dinner! So see you then!” At that, they broke into smiles and walked off, and none of us had any idea that we would never meet again—at least not like that.
IT WAS A bit before noon when I headed back to the teachers’ dormitory, stopping briefly by the clinic to visit a student who had fractured his ankle while playing basketball. I had been checking in on him, since due to exams, his buddy was not able to stay with him as much as usual. He could not participate in any meetings, and I knew this would upset him. His face brightened when he saw me, and we talked about what he would do during the break, but he kept bringing our conversation back to the same question: “So will you come back next spring, Teacher?” Neither of us was aware that back at the special meeting in the IT building, the entire student body was watching the news announcement of Kim Jong-il’s death.
It was about twenty minutes later when Martha knocked on my door and said,
“You must come to the meeting right now.” When I opened it she dropped her voice and whispered, pointing at the ceiling, “He’s dead.”
I ran to the special room where all the teachers were being given the news, and I learned that the students, upon hearing of the Great Leader’s death, had rushed over in groups to the Kimilsungism Study Hall. Our liaison informed us that if we wanted, we could go there to pay our respects as well.
Back in my room, I turned on Chosun Central TV, which showed the announcement on repeat. The anchor, wearing a black hanbok, sat at her desk in tears, telling the news to the nation. Kim Jong-il—General Secretary of the Workers’ Party, Chairman of the DPRK National Defense Commission, and Supreme Commander of the Korean People’s Army—had suffered a heart attack on a train, during a field guidance tour. He had worked day and night and was fatigued both physically and mentally, all brought on by his overwhelming concern for building a powerful and prosperous socialist nation, his people’s happiness, Korean unification, and the independence of all the nations around the world. He died at 8:30 a.m. on December 17 in Juche Year 100.
I looked out the window and saw some students coming out of the Kimilsungism Study Hall, so I ran outside. When one of the counterparts saw me approach the building, he hesitated only momentarily before escorting me inside. I had never been inside before, and I learned later that no other teacher except for our liaison went there. In that moment, however, all I thought about was my students grieving. The dead man was their father, and the least I could do, I thought, as someone who had taught them for months and loved them, was to show my respect by acknowledging their sorrow.
Inside, I could smell incense burning. On either side of the huge portrait of Kim Jong-il, a few students stood in a row. This was a familiar sight; sons stood like this at Korean wakes to greet visiting mourners who came in and bowed and lit candles. I knew that I was to stand before the portrait for a brief moment of silence. There was no pressure for me to bow, and I did not. I saw no student weeping, but the mood was solemn and funereal. On the way out, I passed a few students, but no one met my eyes. They lowered their faces and walked straight by me. Throughout the afternoon, this was the way. I knew that they were somewhere on campus, but the place felt eerily empty. The few who were walking about never looked up. Even when they did, their eyes did not see me anymore. Dinner was canceled. It was announced that bread would be brought to the students’ dormitory instead, and teachers were to eat whatever food they had in their rooms.
There was nothing to be done but finish packing my suitcase and watch TV, on which the anchor announced a ten-day period of mourning and gave details of the funeral that would be held on December 28. Every district capital would hold a memorial service, and all people were instructed to observe three minutes of silence per day. During this time, there would be an artillery salute and mournful horns from naval ships and the flag would be lowered. There would be no merrymaking of any kind, and no foreign tributes would be accepted. Each report ended with a reminder for the people to honor their late Great Leader by joining hands to assist Captain Kim Jong-un in continuing to build the powerful and prosperous nation.
I paced back and forth in my room. Even in reporting death, the messages on TV were circular, the same information and images repeated over and over. My flight was due out the next morning, and for a moment, I worried that it might not leave, since the entire country seemed to be shutting down before my eyes. There was no way for me to reach out to my students, and the night was long. I still had a pile of marked essays that I had meant to give back to them at dinner. But now it appeared that I would not see them again, so tucking the papers under my arm, I took the enclosed walkway to the clinic. It was utterly dark, and I passed no one. The clinic seemed empty as well, but in a dark corner, I saw a curled-up form sobbing on an air mattress. It was my sick student. He barely moved when I called his name, and I said nothing except to put the pile of essays next to his bed, telling him that I was sorry. He did not turn around.
AT 6:30 THE next morning, I ran to the cafeteria. The bus was picking us up at 7 a.m. for the airport, but I wanted to see my students—if they were there—one last time. They were indeed there, but they did not look up. Their eyes were swollen and red, and there was no expression on their faces. It was as though the life had been sucked out of them. I knew that I was no longer welcome among them in their time of mourning, so I took my tray and sat on the other side of the cafeteria, facing them. I looked and looked at each one of my beautiful boys, whom I knew I would not be able to see again. I watched them raise their spoons to their mouths. I watched them pick up their trays, and cast their eyes in my direction with no recognition, as though I no longer existed for them in this world that was now missing their Great Leader. Yet I continued facing them, just in case one of them looked up and noticed that their world had now changed, perhaps for the better.
Acknowledgments
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK THE FOLLOWING INDIVIDUALS AND institutions for their invaluable help and support in the writing of this book: Molly Stern, Rachel Klayman, Domenica Alioto, Suzanne Gluck, John Glusman, the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation, the Fulbright Scholar Program, Harper’s magazine, the Open Society Foundation, the MacDowell Colony, and the Corporation of Yaddo.
Author’s Note
THIS BOOK IS A REPORTED MEMOIR, BASED ON JOURNALS and notes kept beginning in 2002, when I first visited the DPRK; between 2008 and 2011, when I pursued the story of PUST; and throughout my stay in Pyongyang, from July to December 2011. Whenever possible, I wrote down or typed up events and conversations the day they occurred so that I would be able to reproduce dialogue verbatim. I have relied on some outside sources for verification: maps, photographs, and newspaper articles, both in Korean and English.
With the exception of James Kim, president of PUST, the names, and in many cases the identifying details, of the missionaries, minders, and students have been changed. In particular, I have sometimes blurred the identities of the students in order to protect them from reprisals. I have rendered all missionaries’ names as Western, even though some had Korean names, so that they can easily be distinguished from the students.
In a few cases, I have altered the chronology of events. For example, the stories of a few of the field trips in the book are told out of sequence so that the narrative will flow more smoothly. Also, I first saw PUST in 2009, during a brief unveiling ceremony before the school actually opened, but I do not mention that here and drew on those impressions for my account of seeing PUST in 2011. My descriptions of the events themselves are unchanged and are told as accurately as possible.
For transliteration, I have used both the McCune-Reischauer system (used in the U.S. since 1937) and the Revised Romanization system (the official style in South Korea). Since the McCune-Reischauer system is more commonly used in English, many of its spellings are well entrenched. Two examples are my own surname, Kim, which would more accurately be transliterated as Gim, and the word kimchi, which should be gimchi. But Kim and kimchi are familiar, so I have used those spellings. However, when romanizing words that are less commonly used in English, I have used the Revised Romanization system, which is more accurate. Thus I spell Gwangsan with an initial G rather than a K.
The styling of place names in the book is also purposely inconsistent, depending on the prevailing style. I have used hyphens for words such as province, mountain, and palace in combined nouns: Chungcheong-do, for example, for Chungcheong province and Myohyang-san for Myohyang mountain. However, I have omitted the hyphen for Gyeongbokgung (Gyeongbok palace), because that is how it is commonly styled in English.
In Korean, when writing out full names, the last name always comes first, as with Kim Jong-il, Lee Myung-bak, or Kim Suki. In this book, I refer to the minders, the counterparts, and some of the teachers by their last names. With the students, however, I use either their full names with the last name first, as in Park Jun-ho, or their first names only, as in Jun-ho, since that
was how I addressed them and how they referred to one another.
I do not pretend that this book offers a complete picture of North Korea, but I believe it offers a rare one. In the course of my career, I have traveled the defectors’ common escape routes to China, South Korea, Mongolia, Thailand, and the Laotian border and interviewed more than sixty North Korean defectors as well as defection brokers and leaders of groups that aid defectors. This book, by contrast, seeks to capture a slice of the lives of the elites in the DPRK, the sector of society about which the least information is available, relying on my observations of and interactions with privileged young men aged nineteen and twenty. The sustained contact I had with my students at PUST is extremely unusual, and allowed me to glimpse a world generally closed to journalists and other outsiders. There were several unique circumstances that allowed for a fuller experience: the fact that PUST was in its first year of operation and still disorganized; the impending regime change, which seemed to make my students feel more vulnerable; the boys’ youth and innocence; my position as their second foreign teacher ever; and the fact that I was a native speaker of Korean, which gave us a common language.
I have written this book with the knowledge that it will anger the DPRK regime, the president of PUST, and my former colleagues there. Although I am sorry to cause the president and faculty of PUST distress, I feel a greater obligation, both as a writer and as someone deeply concerned about the future of Korea, to tell the stark truth about the DPRK, in hopes that the lives of average North Koreans, including my beloved students, will one day improve.