Why is North Korea a jail?
07.06.2025 14:15
Without giving the commander a chance to think, I took out cigarettes and alcohol. That night, I drank three glasses without feeling tipsy, unable to sleep under the lieutenant’s blanket. Every hour, there was a shift change, and each guard was fully armed with guns and grenades. At dawn, we left with a letter of goodwill from the lieutenant. For people like us, who trusted only the darkness, the heightened alert in the barracks that night was terrifying.
“Sir, there’s a power outage, and we can’t get through to Maosan.” Upon hearing this, a faint glimmer of hope surged through me. Seizing the opportunity, I turned impatiently to the battalion commander, “Then confirm tomorrow. We just need a place to sleep now.” “Commander, we’re exhausted!” At that moment, a new squad came in for a shift change, curious about the situation. Among them, a second lieutenant with a sharp eye inspected my friend’s ID and exclaimed, “Oh, if you work here, you must know Woo Kwang-il!”
Later, we sat in the living room and talked about what to do in the future. Chaolin’s uncle said he didn’t want to worry about his child’s education. As for why he wanted his child to learn music, it wasn’t about professionalism but moral education. His child was young, mischievous, and temperamental. The father hoped that channeling his emotions through music could correct his character. He asked me what was most important. I replied that to understand emotions, one must first be familiar with the feeling of music, so while practicing piano, we should also work on listening skills. Uncle nodded, took out his wallet, and handed me 50 yuan. Chaolin was about to clap her hands in approval, then suddenly stood up and asked her uncle to give me more. I was nervous and quickly held Chaolin’s hand, explaining that just having meals here was already a big favor.
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//***
The next day, Uncle came, bringing along a young man about our age who introduced himself as Shin Gwang-ryong. He asked for our IDs and carefully inspected them, from the dates to the stamps and printing quality. Afterward, he made a phone call, and not long after, a Nissan SUV drove up the hillside. We hugged Uncle Chang-long tightly in farewell and then got into the car. We promised to repay his kindness once we reached South Korea, though we didn’t give him any money. Uncle had earnestly requested we keep quiet about the $700.
We glanced at each other, feeling that fateful impulse. We instinctively checked in both directions—my friend toward North Korea, me toward China. Seeing no soldiers, we counted to three and took off. We reached the Tumen River’s solid ice, each step echoing ominously as if knocking on the door of fate.
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The uncle said, "Tonight, the officers will be patrolling everywhere, but staying indoors is better than wandering the streets. As the saying goes, ‘under the light, it’s dark.’ Besides, the house is locked from the outside, so how could they get in?" We stayed in the empty house for three days. The uncle told us to wait for him because his nephew, who lived far away in South Korea, would be coming back soon. He slipped us three meals a day under cover of darkness, all bread. At one point, he suggested, “Why don’t you hide at that rich relative’s house?” We firmly rejected the idea because our identities had already been exposed. By this time, the officers surely had detailed information from North Korea. Uncle Chang-long was merely a suspected guide; even his mother-in-law’s house was under surveillance. Naturally, the homes of relatives of fugitives would be even more closely monitored. Uncle nodded repeatedly in agreement.
On the day I received my citizenship card, officially becoming a citizen of the Republic of Korea, I obtained Guangrong’s new phone number through Uncle Changlong. We have stayed in close contact ever since. Sadly, Guangrong couldn’t recall the phone number of Chaolin’s uncle’s house. Now, Guangrong is married to another defector from Chongjin, living in Lu Garden District, and they even have a son who looks a lot like his beautiful mother. Uncle used the $700 we gave him to buy a cow and some household appliances, rather than a hand-pulled tractor.
“Hello, it’s me. Listen, I—” Just as Guangrong answered, I rushed to speak, trying to keep it brief to save money. “I’m out of money; please find the last number you dialed and call it back, then tell me what that number means!”
“We’re here to see the pastor.”
In January 2004, when the north was frozen to the bone, my friend and I arrived at the border. The initial plan was to hide deep in the mountains until the guards passed, then cross the Tumen River. But upon arriving, we found the mountains were high but had no forests, not even a single tree to shelter us. Having never left Pyongyang, standing at the border felt like being blind in unfamiliar terrain. We walked along the Tumen River for hundreds of miles, desperately searching for a suitable escape route and timing.
He replied, “Today, I really want to buy a bottle of alcohol.” I brushed it off, telling him our priority was to find shelter for the night. I didn’t pay much attention to his expression then, but years later, I regretted my indifference.
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Chaolin urged me to start playing. I wanted to forget the fear and enjoy a moment of peace. My mind filled with Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. As I played the beginning, it brought a sense of autumn tranquility. Through this calm, I saw my faraway home in Pyongyang. I saw the piano I used to play and the couch where my mother would sit, listening to me. I saw my father, who worried my hearing would fail and hid headphones from me. I saw my sister holding her little child, his tiny hands in her arms. Tears started to flow. Who knows what tragic fate they might be facing now? My hands played faster, my heartbeat racing with the crescendos. When I reached the final note, I slowly lifted my foot from the pedal, tears blurring my vision and my eyebrows trembling.
“Where are you from?”
We ran until we found a deserted spot, catching our breath and looking back at the church in confusion. Every time the hopes of vagrants are trampled, it feels like something inside is being destroyed. My friend pulled out the map of the church from his pocket, slowly tearing it up. Then he asked me for 10 yuan.
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At first, her uncle was cold toward me. His home was much more opulent than Guangrong's in Yanji; the difference was like night and day. Sunlight poured in through huge glass windows, making the room especially bright. In his son's room was a black piano. I eagerly sat on the bench and pressed the pedal. The right pedal felt stiff, probably from disuse. Starting from the lowest octave, I played up the keys. The sound was good; the black keys felt just right. I told them the piano was like a living thing that could "sing," but if neglected, it would go out of tune with the seasons and room temperature, just like a person’s voice.
“Why are you near the border?” The battalion commander looked us up and down, seemingly suspicious of my younger-than-expected age for such a significant ID. “I was heading to Maosan for cadre work,” I replied, “but it got too late, and I was cold, so I thought of sleeping in the barracks and resuming my journey tomorrow.”
“I said, your friend is dead.”
I stared at the ground as I walked for 30 minutes, finding nothing. In despair, I suddenly remembered the Xita Church that Chaolin had mentioned. She had said many defectors went there to beg, as South Koreans would give money. With that in mind, I lifted my head, searching for a cross piercing the sky. Unfortunately, I only saw tall building signs and advertisements. Among them was one Korean sign that read “Kyung Hye Building.” I went inside, but it was still early for lunch, so only a cleaning lady was there. I greeted her, and she responded, saying it wasn’t yet time for lunch. I quickly asked where the Xita Church was. Following the directions and map she drew, I walked for about 15 minutes and finally found the church. The door was open, and someone asked if I needed anything. I said I wanted to see the pastor, but the person pushed me out upon hearing my accent, realizing I was North Korean.
Before I could explain more, Guangrong interrupted, “Your friend is dead.”
I leaped down the steps, racing away as fast as I could, hearing cries and the sounds of people falling behind me. At that moment, I didn’t realize that this was my final goodbye to Chaolin.
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The officer pulled out his phone, urgently making a call. Chaolin gripped my arm tightly. My heart was racing. “Oh no, what should we do?” Chaolin’s boyfriend sprang up from his chair, shouting something while shoving the officer. At the same time, Chaolin urgently stood in front of me and said, “Run.”
Then, Lady Luck smiled on me. A very beautiful girl, in her twenties, understood what I was saying and asked if I needed help. Tears welled up in my eyes. Controlling my excitement, I asked if she could give me a few minutes to share my story. She asked, "Are you a scammer?" I quickly shook my head and, using the simplest words possible, told her about my and my friend's story. She offered to take me somewhere. I followed her, nervous and fearing she might lead me to the police, but to my surprise, she took me to a bathhouse.
That night, I hid in a village cow shed. Just as I was about to fall asleep, I suddenly heard sirens and commotion in the distance. I hurriedly ran to the mountain under the cover of darkness and stayed under the tree where we had agreed to meet, spending the entire night there. I waited until midday the next day, but there was no sign of my friend. I guessed he had probably been caught. The pain was overwhelming, and I was caught in a dilemma. I went down the mountain, feeling that it was only a matter of time before I, too, would be captured. In those final moments, I decided to see the elderly man once more.
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Just as our conversation was ending, the door was flung open, and a young boy burst in. Uncle shouted something loudly in Chinese, but the child ignored him, running all over the house as if looking for something. He slammed a door so hard it seemed it might break. As quickly as he came, he disappeared.
---
The SUV felt powerful and confident, and we had the sense we would head straight to South Korea without hindrance. The car took us into a bustling street in central Yanji. To us, the hustle and bustle only brought immense fear. Gwang-ryong bought me clothes and shoes from a store, and I told him the clothes were nice and asked him to buy us sunglasses as well. He said that might make us look more suspicious, but he still granted our request. From that day, my friend and I wore sunglasses. We had quite a feast that day at a fancy restaurant. For the first time, we entered a mixed sauna where strangers—men and women in only underwear—could rest in the same space. Wasn’t this exactly the “decadent culture” North Korea warned about? As North Korean country bumpkins, my friend and I were openly astonished.
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Gwang-ryong then said, “But one thing puzzles me. My wife defected because she was starving. At first, she even wanted to bring back rice. But you two are from Pyongyang, right? Your jobs seemed decent, and you don’t look like murderers. Why defect? What was the reason?” My friend suddenly slammed his fist on the table, causing Gwang-ryong’s wife to look up, clutching her chest in surprise. My friend’s expression and voice were the harshest I’d ever seen. That night, we talked until late. My friend spoke of his father-in-law, who had been brutally executed as a suspected spy by the chemical division. I shared my story, explaining that I had been harshly investigated by the Ministry of State Security for lending my friend a South Korean book. We discussed all night, renewing our resolve to defect to South Korea, as if back at the banks of the Tumen River.
“What?”
Soon, he brought us a basin of hot water. We hurried over to take it, bowing and insisting that the other wash first. The old man ambled over and said, “Many have come knocking, but they always asked for food. This is the first time I’ve seen anyone asking to wash their faces. By the way, have you eaten?”
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As the drinks flowed, I blurted out this veiled threat with a smile, though her boyfriend didn’t understand and just smiled back. I quietly paid the bill, but the drinks were expensive, and I didn’t have enough. Chaolin rushed over, scolding me while covering the remaining amount.
IT IS A JAIL
This is a fact.
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At around 10 p.m., the sky was pitch-black. We ventured toward the riverbank, emboldened by the night, but as soon as we reached it, someone suddenly shouted, “Raise your hands!” A soldier emerged from the grass. My friend instinctively grabbed my arm, making me even more nervous, perhaps afraid of a backlash. The soldier blew his whistle, and immediately, five or six flashlights beamed toward us, leaving no room for explanation. We were marched at gunpoint into the isolation room of the 6th Battalion Border Patrol, where a small prison with iron bars and handcuffs was prominently displayed.
Perhaps to show off, Gwang-ryong called for a scrubber; as long as you paid, someone would scrub you down. I felt terribly embarrassed, as if I were deeply indebted, and even ashamed. Around midnight, we went to Gwang-ryong’s house, where a young woman around 25 or 26 greeted us at the door. Gwang-ryong introduced her as his wife. Seeing a woman up close felt quite special, like we had arrived from an isolated desert island to a world of people. This wasn’t a ruin, an empty house, or deep mountains, but a warm-floored apartment where we could sleep under blankets. It was blissful.
Every morning at 9 a.m., I began to play the piano for him, with Chaolin by my side acting as a translator. Even with two adults in the room, he was hard to control. When he sat at the piano, he’d climb onto the bench and press the keys with his feet. When we tried ear training, he’d mimic dog barks. His mother, unable to bear it, held a stick in one hand and a knife in the other. Chaolin explained that if his mother took a stick, the boy would run to the kitchen for a knife.
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As I left Xita Church, I felt like police officers were following me, so I quickened my pace, feeling a flood of anger rising inside me. We can’t go to South Korea. We ran away without any idea of the situation, thinking that seeing South Koreans would fulfill our dreams. If I were to be captured, would there be any escape? Three generations punished! Rather than getting caught, maybe it’d be better to take matters into my own hands.
I stayed at the Republic of Korea consulate for two and a half months. In my last days there, six other defectors arrived, from Chongjin and Musan. They recognized me immediately. They told me that after we defected, wanted posters with our pictures were plastered all over the country, from Pyongsong to Chongjin. A few days later, they even held a small event featuring stories of “betrayal,” and we became prime examples.
“Huh? Hey, you’re defectors. Get out!”
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“What do you need it for?”
“What are you talking about? Explain yourself!” My lips trembled, and my hand holding the phone shook as well.
Calling her name, I ran blindly, my vision blurring. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, but they soon blurred again. I spotted an old lady with a phone on a small stand and quickly approached, eagerly picking up the phone. As I waited for Guangrong’s voice, I tried hard to recall Chaolin’s face.
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The battalion commander took the ID embossed with a badge and immediately stood up in surprise. This officer, having served along the border for years, likely had never seen an ID bearing the red stamp of the Workers' Party Central Committee. The ID of the highest-ranking officials in North Korea is like the Golden Cabinet pass, commanding respect even from guns. However, they dared not relax their vigilance.
***//
I needed to find my way back, but I’d been running too intently to remember the route. From the view I had from the window, I remembered there was a train station and several tracks nearby, so I wandered around the area all night. After a long while, I realized I didn’t have a single penny left.
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Both of us realized we couldn’t return to the old man’s house. Being together would make us more conspicuous, as it would remind people of the two wanted “murderers.” So, we decided to split up, each seeking help in a different village. If we failed, we would meet under a large tree on the mountain the next day. I watched my friend walk away, and a surge of bitterness welled up inside me.
I quickly bowed deeply, almost to the ground, pleading, “Grandfather, please let us wash our faces.” The old man paused, confused, and peeked out, scanning the surroundings. I thought he might not understand Korean, but to my surprise, he said, “Come in.”
I thought about using this money to treat Chaolin to a meal. That evening, as the sun set, I went out for the first time, with Chaolin and her boyfriend. We went to a high-end restaurant. Maybe it was because I was treating, but the food tasted exceptionally good. Chaolin’s boyfriend and I didn’t share a language, but it didn’t matter—we understood each other’s intentions. I wasn’t worried about Chaolin’s future; I just felt a slight envy toward her boyfriend. If he dared to betray her...
When he found out how the church had treated us, he cursed angrily. He said that since his wife had passed away early, he was over eighty years old, living alone, and had nothing to fear. He told me to stay at his home without worry. While I was staying at his house, I contacted Uncle Changlong. I soon learned that he had been arrested not long after we parted ways. His wife answered the phone, crying as she berated me. After that, I contacted Guangrong, who told me that there was only one option left: I couldn't stay in Yanji any longer. The place was too small, so I should try to make my way to Shenyang. But going to Shenyang required money, and I was penniless by that point. I was determined not to ask the elderly man for money. After much thought, I decided that my only choice was to ask Uncle Changlong. I called his house again, and his wife answered. I asked her to lend me $100, even if I had to borrow it. She refused, so I had no choice but to play hardball, saying, "I heard that if it's confirmed you took money for housing defectors, the fine is twenty times the amount. You can only give me the money to escape, or risk me getting caught." Reluctantly, she agreed to give the money to Guangrong to hand over to me.
Later, we learned that Gwang-ryong’s wife was also a defector, originally from North Hamgyong Province. This made us more confident. If he could marry a homeless defector, it showed he was a kind man. But ten days had passed, and the promised miracle hadn’t happened. Gwang-ryong sighed more heavily, saying, “I want to keep hiding you, but all the money is gone.” My friend, feeling anxious, asked Gwang-ryong bluntly, “Just be honest—who are we waiting for? What’s causing the delay?”
Turmoil brewed in my heart as I sat on a cold park bench, reflecting on my fate with nowhere to go. I reached into my jacket pocket, feeling something. I pulled it out and found two folded bills. My heart raced—I jumped up. Was this money? Two one-yuan notes! This was a miracle from above. It must have been the change Chaolin had insisted on slipping to me the night before.
“Just leave! This isn’t the place for you. Go to the consulate or the embassy instead. There are lots of police nearby. If you don’t want to get caught, leave quickly!”
After a bath, I felt like a new person. In the communal lounge, I saw the girl again, and I shared more stories of my experiences in North Korea. She listened with tears in her eyes. My instincts told me that she was a kind soul who might truly help me.
Just then, Uncle went back into the house at his mother-in-law’s call. My friend turned to me, half hopeful, half doubtful, “Do we really have any money?” I whispered back, “Listen carefully. We’re dead broke. Not a cent. But we have to pretend we do. If we don’t get this guy’s help, we’re done for.” Uncle returned with some clothes and instructed us to hide back in the mountains, warning us not to light any fires. He told us his nephew would be back in a few days and to hang on until then.
Not wanting to delay, we decided to go that very night. The three of us hailed a taxi. About 30 minutes later, we reached our destination—a house that was even larger than we had imagined, practically a palace, with open surroundings that would make it easy to escape if needed. A suspicious van was parked nearby. I suggested we circle the area first, and finally, we decided to send Gwang-ryong to check things out. While he was gone, my friend and I waited anxiously, our palms sweating as each second passed. Each one felt like a year. After about 30 minutes, Gwang-ryong returned, looking as if he had been chased. He jumped into the taxi and told the driver to drive. Breathing heavily, he kept glancing back. This time, he didn’t stop until we were far from home.
“Why were you near the Tumen River in the middle of the night? Show your ID and pass.” Although my friend was the son of a North Korean elite, he was terrified at facing the dark barrel of a gun for the first time in his life, trembling all over. Anyone would have assumed he was a genuine defector. I pretended to stay calm, trying to speak on his behalf. “My friend is very cold; let him warm up a bit.” I reached into my pocket, preparing to take out my ID but only felt my heart pounding.
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My friend replied, “We’re trying to get to South Korea.” The old man then said he knew of a Korean church and that if we met the pastor there, we might have a chance. He even wrote us a letter and drew a map. We treated the old man’s letter like a passport to South Korea, carefully tucking it away before returning to Yanji.
The next morning, Gwang-ryong returned from somewhere, not even having changed his clothes. Unlike the day before, he was silent. After breakfast, he handed us paper and pen and requested that we write down our personal histories, family relationships, any secret information we could provide to the South Korean government, and our reasons for defecting. He emphasized that since it was sensitive information, he didn’t need to know the details; just a summary would do. Gwang-ryong then packed our personal histories, shopping photos, and photocopies of our IDs into an envelope. He mentioned that in South Korea, people say, “Fighting!” when facing challenges. From then on, we repeated “Fighting!” countless times in our hearts.
Chaolin, I’m so sorry if I got your uncle into trouble.
I don’t necessarily believe that what this person is saying is entirely true, but based on my life experience, much of what they’re saying is likely indeed factual.
After dinner, we went to Xita. Chaolin’s boyfriend refused to lend me change, getting out of the taxi first. Chaolin happily took the change and quietly slipped it into my pocket. I wanted to hold the hand reaching into my pocket, but I held back. Chaolin positioned herself between us two men, skipping along with a happy expression. When we rang the doorbell at Uncle’s house, we were still laughing and talking.
But after a while, I heard someone calling my name. I looked up and was astonished to see my friend peeking from behind a tree halfway up the hill, smiling and waving at me. I sprinted toward him, throwing a punch at him, cursing, “You’re smiling? You ran all this way just to save yourself, you little rascal?” Then, we held each other tightly like lovers, crying openly, apologizing to each other between sobs.
I cannot but admit the fact.
“Sorry, the pastor has a service to lead. Come back on Sunday if you want money; we can’t help now.”
The next morning, I put on my sunglasses and checked my belongings—my ID and registration were still intact. That was all I had. I tried hard to locate Chaolin’s uncle’s house. But unfamiliar buildings crowded my view, and even in the bright daylight, everything seemed bleak. Suddenly, I remembered that Guangrong had called me before; his phone should have the number for Chaolin’s uncle’s house. As I searched for a phone, I realized I needed money to call him. At least one yuan—could I find any loose change on the ground?
“We can only tell the pastor.”
We were speechless. Seeing our hesitation, the old man said, “Once you’re done washing, come on over.” Then he went inside. Cautiously, we followed him and entered the kitchen, where he was scooping rice into bowls. Although it was just a bowl of plain rice, it smelled incredibly fragrant—something I’ll never forget. The old man sat close and asked, “You sound like educated people. How did you end up wandering the streets?”
I hid in the darkness where I could see the apartment entrance. Soon, many police officers arrived—eight in total. Four went upstairs, while four spread out, as if searching for me. I quietly stood up, pretended to walk a few steps, then broke into a run, sprinting for what felt like ten minutes until I was sure the police weren’t following me. That night, it was freezing cold, and I thought of how I hadn’t frozen to death after sleeping for two days in the deep mountains of Yanji. Now, thanks to Chaolin’s help, I had enjoyed a few days of relative comfort, which made me realize the depth of her kindness. As I ran, I heard a loud crash behind me. Was it because the police pushed past Chaolin, blocking the doorway? Could she have fallen?
Gwang-ryong waited until his wife went out to buy alcohol, then said seriously, “I have a close friend who’s very concerned about defectors. I think he works for the National Intelligence Service. He told me to contact him whenever there are defectors from Pyongyang, so I told him about you and sent him the information. I even gave him money and asked him to ensure your safety. But now, I can’t reach him; his phone number has changed.” Faced with this, I didn’t know what to say. I could only nervously ask if there were any other options. Gwang-ryong said we could try going through Vietnam, Mongolia, or Thailand, but we didn’t have the courage. The journey from the border to Yanji had already been perilous, and the thought of facing such a long, uncertain road again was overwhelming.
The conclusion was simple: money was necessary whether we stayed here or set out. My friend pulled out a letter from his wealthy relative’s envelope, similar to how Chang-long Uncle had acted, and took out his phone. Speaking in Chinese, which we didn’t understand, Gwang-ryong’s expression showed that the call was going well. When he hung up, his translation of the conversation excited us. “My friend is a journalist. He said if this person really is your relative, there shouldn’t be any problem reaching South Korea. His children are in Shenyang and are well-respected. Is he really your relative?” Hearing our explanation, Gwang-ryong seemed assured that we had a 100% chance of success. He even asked us to take his wife to South Korea if we had the chance.
His words left us uneasy. “Their son came out, saying he doesn’t want to know anything about cousins or whatever. He also said his father is dead, so none of this matters to them. He even asked me, ‘Don’t you know that man is a murderer? How could a killer enter this home?’ They’re guarded by officers around the clock. If you don’t want to be caught, don’t come back.” I felt a chill at his words, and my friend curled up in a corner, crying out of frustration. Back at home, Gwang-ryong’s wife had prepared a spread of grilled meat, waiting for good news. We said nothing, and my friend continued to shed silent tears. Perhaps it was her first time seeing a man cry; Gwang-ryong’s wife buried her head in her knees. The meat burned, and Gwang-ryong took a drink, saying, “How can a man cry over something like this? You can’t defect with that kind of attitude!” I placed a glass in my friend’s hand and poured him another drink. We shared a few glasses before drinking the fourth to our limits.
In that moment, the warmth of her hand penetrated my skin, and I felt the fragrance of life and human kindness. Uncle said this was just an advance payment and that he would pay me 350 yuan each month.
My friend and I took enough hot water bottles to last two days and bundled up in blankets, curling up on the mountain. We joked that we wished the other were a woman, which finally brought a long-overdue smile to our faces. Through that brief laughter, I suddenly realized how rich life is and how beautiful it is to be alive. The taste of those two nights is something I will never forget.
“Calm down. Listen carefully. Last night, someone claiming to be your friend’s uncle called me. After you two separated, he went to Yanji to find his uncle, and he gave him my number. The uncle called me last night, so I went to him. He told me that his nephew had died tragically. He was captured by the police, and while being transported, he asked to relieve himself. When they stopped, he jumped off a cliff and committed suicide.”
I barely remembered what else Guangrong said. Dead? I stood there, frozen. How could this word be associated with my friend? Even if it was his uncle’s account, could it really be true? How could my friend be dead? Maybe it was a mistake or a misunderstanding. I tried to console myself as I walked, but eventually, I stopped, collapsing helplessly on the ground. I remembered how he had pleaded with me to buy some liquor, but I hadn’t agreed. Even if it meant putting aside our plans to reach South Korea, I could have shared a moment of weakness with him. We were burning with determination, even just to quench this dry life a bit. Yet, I hadn’t even fulfilled this one wish of his. Thinking of his tragic fate, I finally broke down and cried out loud.
I deeply wish to bow and apologize to Uncle and all my fellow North Korean defectors. I also long to see Chaolin from Shenyang again, that kind and beautiful girl. Perhaps by now she’s married and has children. I imagine every day—dozens of times—if she might suddenly contact me someday, and we could reconnect as friends or even family, visiting each other and keeping in touch. That would be wonderful.
“The pastor isn’t here; he’s gone to South Korea. I’m acting as the pastor in his place. You can speak with me,” he said. I handed over the letter from the old man. As he read it, we looked around at the crosses and Bibles on the table, examining them like strange artifacts. Suddenly, a loud voice echoed in our ears, “Defectors, get out!”
The next morning, we woke to the sound of cows. We both sat up immediately, our first instinct to check if the 100-yuan note was still in our pockets. We exchanged glances and suddenly felt a strong urge not to leave the barn. Just as Uncle Chang-long had said, our faces and clothing bore the clear marks of vagrancy. If we walked outside looking like this, anyone would be suspicious. Forgetting our hunger, we ran toward the nearest house and knocked urgently on the door. An old man opened it, and perhaps he immediately recognized us as defectors. Without saying a word, he tried to close the door.
Leaving Yanji, my friend and I searched for a church. Gwang-ryong had told us that churches and chapels often provided funds and food to defectors. But he warned us to say we fled due to hunger and never to mention being wanted for murder, as we might be reported. He also emphasized that many priests and pastors had connections with the authorities. We were excited, hoping for aid, but reality wasn’t so kind. We wandered all day, desperately searching for a cross, only to find most doors locked. Occasionally, a caretaker would appear, shooing us away like stray dogs. As night fell, despite our hunger, we felt strangely weightless, like balloons drifting into the night’s darkness. Perhaps because of our constant fear, the bright daytime left us tense and cautious. Now, breathing the open air freely, chatting casually and walking side by side, we felt a rare joy.
The streets of Shenyang were bustling. Dragging my exhausted body, I walked aimlessly. Unlike Yanji, very few people around me spoke Korean, so I went to the busiest pedestrian street. As I walked, I quietly greeted people in the crowd, "Hello, sir, hello, madam," hoping that someone might understand and respond.
Uncle was scolded by his mother-in-law, so he didn’t let us back inside and hurriedly came out. Seeing us safe, he looked genuinely relieved, as if he were our real uncle. “The police took all your belongings. Was there anything important in there?” I replied, “There were Chinese books and some underwear.” He asked, “Any money?” At the mention of money, my friend’s face turned ashen, so I quickly replied, “I have money on me.” My friend gave me a puzzled look, as if asking, “Is that true?”
The next day, we parted ways with Gwang-ryong. We reasoned that since the authorities would now be focused on Yanji due to our attempts to contact my friend’s relatives, we needed to leave quickly. Otherwise, Gwang-ryong and his wife would be endangered, let alone us. He gave us his contact details, reassuring us that South Koreans would help us and to stay in touch. Just as I was leaving, he pressed 100 yuan into my hand. Though he called it a small sum, it felt like a fortune to us at the time.
The map was meticulously drawn, and it led us easily to the sign for Yanji Church near a busy market area filled with buses. We pushed the door open to find three middle-aged men inside. One of them, wearing glasses, looked at us and asked, “What’s your business here?”
I had initially thought that once I entered the consulate, I would be free to call Shenguang and update Chaolin on my situation. However, for my protection, the consulate didn’t allow me to do so. After begging for several days, someone else finally made the call on my behalf. Unfortunately, Guangrong didn’t answer.
“Woo Kwang-il?” My friend quickly responded, “You mean Woo from the Kim Test Center? His father’s the head secretary there, right?” The second lieutenant’s face lit up. “Yes! Commander, that secretary’s son is my friend.” The battalion commander’s expression alternated between doubt and trust as he sized up the lieutenant and my friend. Recognizing a golden opportunity, I raised my voice, “Is Woo Kwang-il your friend? Can’t you let us sleep here?”
It was then I realized that what he was looking for on the floor was to check if I was alive. This filled me with a deep sense of guilt and unease. After confirming the area was safe, we waited until nightfall to go back down the mountain.
The soldier who had just apprehended us shouted, “But weren’t your feet already in the river?” I realized that at this moment, courage was everything. “You dog! Pointing a gun at me! I would’ve hit you if I hadn’t held back!” I yelled at the soldier. The battalion commander intervened, giving brief orders to call Maosan to verify if anyone was coming for cadre work. My legs felt weak, and my friend, warming his hands by the fire, glanced at me as if to say, “It’s over.”
But as soon as the door opened, the scene inside stunned me. There were two police officers standing there. I felt my heart drop. Uncle’s son wobbled over to me, poked my stomach, and said something in Chinese. One officer stepped toward me, and Chaolin quickly stepped forward to answer for me. I couldn’t understand a word. At this point, Uncle came over and quietly explained, "We told the child that you’re a defector, and if the police find out, you’ll be arrested. But today, that brat went out and told people we were housing a defector and even called the police. Don’t worry; Chaolin told them you’re South Korean."
The officer extended his hand, and Chaolin, almost like a lover, held my arm, smiling softly. She whispered, “They might ask for your passport. I’ll tell them you lost your wallet. Just say something—quickly.”
This text is a transcription of a video uploaded to Bilibili, a Chinese video-sharing website similar to YouTube in the United States. The copyright of this video belongs to its creator, a North Korean poet who was once called "my poet" by Kim Jong-il, North Korea's former leader. I am sharing this text solely to foster cultural exchange between East and West, without any other intentions. I would like to reiterate that all rights to this content belong to the original author.
Outside, I hid in the most secluded corner I could find, hoping to wait for the officers to leave. I wanted to see Chaolin again, even if it meant being captured and sent back to North Korea, just to thank her.
I resisted, insisting, “I’m not here to beg! I’m not here for money—I want to go to South Korea.”
The girl said her name was Chaolin and that she had extended my stay at the bathhouse, telling me I could stay there for a few days. She promised to come and get me later. Three days later, Chaolin returned as promised and said she might have a way to help me reach South Korea. But she asked if I had any skills I could use to make some money. I told her I could play the piano and that my teacher was a well-known North Korean artist. Her eyes lit up, saying it was perfect; she knew of an available job. She took me to a wealthy area, stopping in front of a mansion that looked like a castle, and said it was her uncle's house. His son was a mischievous boy who hadn’t had much luck with piano teachers, so I could try.
Chaolin brought me water, reassuring me that her uncle was a good person and that I was safe here. She promised to treat me as a close friend until I could get to South Korea.
When Kim Jong-il (referred to as "The Second General") heard that livestock like cattle and sheep could survive on grass even when there was no food, he launched a "grass-growing campaign" across North Korea. He ordered farmland to be converted into grasslands, so that starving citizens could at least have cattle and sheep to eat.
The protagonist of today’s story, Jang Jin-sung, was one of these select poets who had met and been praised by Kim Jong-il. He was also the son of a high-ranking official, making him part of North Korea’s elite. Normally, someone in his position would never think of defecting (escaping from North Korea), but fate had other plans. Jang and a close friend, both privileged young men, were caught up in a dangerous situation when they were found reading a forbidden book. Due to a careless mistake, they left the book in a public place, putting them at risk of imprisonment. In desperation, they decided to escape. The following is Jang Jin-sung’s first-person account of his defection journey.
Unexpectedly, three days later, the boy came at me with a knife. I was on the phone with Shenguang, checking on my friend’s situation, and could only glare at him. From then on, I was no longer just a music teacher; I had become a drill sergeant, and scolding had become routine. When the boy resisted, I pretended to hit Chaolin, who played along, saying, “Ouch, that hurts.” Once, the boy even peeked at Chaolin’s chest, so I had no choice but to tap him lightly with a stick. But this brought trouble. The child ran out crying, and Uncle handed me 70 yuan, so now I had 120 yuan in my pocket.
Running and running, I had no sense of time until I suddenly stopped, stunned. The shadow I had thought was my friend turned out to be a young calf. “Where is my friend? Didn’t he make it out?” By now, the flashlight beams were dangerously close. In desperation, I hid behind a yellow cow pacing back and forth. The officers were only five meters away, and I barely dared to breathe. Sensing something, the cow started staggering away, eventually breaking into a run. I had no choice but to follow behind it, tearing myself on thorns along the way. Somehow, I managed to avoid immediate danger. By then, the sky was beginning to lighten. I saw the officers’ van finally drive off, and it was only then that I realized I had no socks on, with my feet numb from all the scratches. I collapsed to the ground, massaging my feet, realizing my friend had likely been shoved into that van. I couldn't help but shed tears.
We talked a lot that day about stories from North Korea and the development of rural China. On the fourth day, I was startled awake by noise and quickly woke my friend. We instinctively shrank into a corner of the room. A figure with a flashlight was peering into the house, step by step, getting closer. The person rattled the door lock roughly, and I felt my heart pounding almost to the point of bursting. Then he caught sight of us through the crack in the door and screamed, running away. At that moment, my friend was lying on the floor searching for something, and I slapped him hard on the back, "What are you looking for? Run!" I didn’t know how I scaled that high wall, but as I ran, I kept muttering to myself, “I want to live. I want to live.”
Startled by this sudden turn, I was at a loss. My friend, however, suddenly knelt down. “We heard this was a Korean church, so we came here. I risked my life to escape North Korea because I want to reach South Korea. If we leave here, we’ll be dead.” But the man was unmoved, snapping, “There are too many of you. Because of people like you, our pastor was arrested by the authorities. Get up and leave.” Then he called to someone inside, yelling, “Call the police!” Hearing this, my friend and I could only flee.
Guangrong, truly a good person, met me at the long-distance bus station and gave me 800 RMB. I thought for a moment and gave him 400 RMB, asking him to give it to my friend if he hadn't been caught, so that he, too, could come to Shenyang.
I am a Chinese, a follower of Chairman Mao, and I believe in communism.
Suddenly, my friend asked, “Are we really going back to Pyongyang? We haven’t been at work for three days. By now, they must’ve reported us missing.” Knowing there was no going back, my friend was looking for a way out, though it seemed hopeless. But then, I had a sudden idea—not to sneak away at night but to escape in broad daylight so we could see them, too. “Let’s run.”
However, North Korea is a country disguised as a concentration camp.
That night, we lay side by side in a stable on the outskirts of Longjing, gazing at the 100 yuan note in our hands, our minds running wild. Confronted with the bill, we saw the boundary of life itself.