RECORD OF MY KOREAN ESCAPE TRAVEL by LEE CJOUNG-MEE(North Korean Refugee)
Originally published in RENK (Rescue the North Korean People! Urgent Action Network) newsletter No. 22 (12/20/2001). The following are excerpted from the Japanese text:
Editor’s note: The original 30 page article is the testimony of a North Korean woman, a former member of Pyongyang’s elite. With RENK’s assistance, she is in exile in China. She was asked by RENK to cover five themes:
- Rather than personal circumstances, describe general conditions in North Korean since 6/15/01;
- The situation in Pyongyang;
- Attitudes of ordinary citizens;
- Public security organs and public order;
- Recent events and accidents.
The Breakdown of Public Order
Travel on an “Empty Belly” Train
Last year, I found myself on a train to Pyongyang to take care of some business. To discourage people hanging on a train to go foraging for food, the train’s passenger cars deliberately lacked steps , leading to the term “sprinter’s brigade” for un-authorized passengers. There is no glass in the windows. People commonly enter and exit through the windows as if there’s no entrance or exit at all.
I thrust a twist of Chinese tobacco prepared for exactly this through a window at some soldiers, thinking somehow I’d clamber through. Someone tried to pull me through by both arms, but unfortunately, those below trying to use the same window were tugging on my legs. For a minute, I felt like a stretched out fishing net but somehow slithered inside.
But even having gained entrance, I still had no place to stand. I grit my teeth and stood on one leg, but as time passed, people began to accumulate on top of other people. I couldn’t bear it any longer and begged the soldiers next to me for some breathing room which they mercifully gave up.
I’d nearly always traveled by vehicle (trans. Note: earlier in the article, the writer claimed she worked in North Korea’s media and frequently traveled around the country), but hung on dying in a crush of people and bad air. Finally, both feet touched the floor and I could breath freely. The car, packed to the point of suffocation, began to move. People in seats, people sitting on the floor, perched in the overhead luggage racks were in common misery and lashed out in quarrels and abusive name calling.
After several hours standing, unable to move, I could bear it no longer. The only cause of action was to beg room from my fellow passengers. “If you stand up, there’d be room to move.” I said to someone squatting on the floor nearby. I gave tobacco and meat to soldiers sitting nearby. Fortunately an officer ordered his subordinates to climb up and hand down luggage to their owners, clearing a space for me. The owners of the luggage glared at me to the point of tears of rage, but in an military state, civilians do not challenge soldiers. I relaxed into my patron’s freed space.
It took five days from Onson to Shinpo station, a distance usually taking two day’s travel. People had prepared food for two days and reached the bottom of their provisions. Some had as much as two kilos of roasted corn which they ate slowly, kernel by kernel, but those without food or money could only stand there, drooling. I was surrounded by male soldiers in that situation and couldn’t eat what little food I had prepared in advance.
At each station, we were met by women, children, elderly who feverishly moved in, selling roast sweet potato, 2-3 to a stick, ten won. Beginning with pounded rice cakes with sugar dissolved in vinegar, they moved about, selling various home cooked food. Children sold clear water from plastic, 50 chon to one won. Passengers were dying to buy, but on a trip where you depended on your funds to last, you could only swallow your spit and watch.
Catastrophic Fire at Kocha Station
The “empty belly” train stuffed with passengers finally arrived at Kocha station. Later, I heard that our train was faster than most. Kocha Station was a collection terminal for trains to Pyongyang. Notwithstanding this important role, the schedule was in total disarray, due to a power blackout. It was common for trains to stop dead for days enroute, caught in a blackout. The trains in Kocha station, regardless of their full load, were standing still. Besides, my train, four other Pyongyang-bound trains were sitting at the platform.
Passengers from the different trains, momentarily set free from their long journey, scattered to the winds. In the middle of the frigid winter in the beginning of February, passengers ran hither and thither seeking food. I was done in by train travel I wasn’t used to and decided to seek lodgings with a local family.
I don’t know how much time had passed when I awoke from a sound sleep to the sound of explosions. Surprised, I leaped out of bed as successive explosions sounded.
“It’s war! Hurry, run!”
Flustered, I fled outside. I think it was between 11 and 2 at night. When I ventured further outside, passengers and freight cars were strewn about, spewing flames. It was the fires of hell as described in the Buddhist scriptures. The sky was a sea of flame and the buildings around the station were on fire and collapsing. In total absorption, I walked toward the front of the station.
In the midst of the sea of flames that licked at the trains, the station, and belongings and goods, pelple called to each other and ran back and forth. It seemed like a scene from a movie.
We were looking at a big scale train accident. A Pyongyang-bound train, an outbound train, and a third train had all by someone’s error, collided. I heard that the explosion came from a gasoline tank car in the middle of one of the trains. Of course, those train’s passengers and also all those passenger s sitting on other trains, unable or unwilling to seek lodging in private homes, burned in the explosion and fire in a tremendous loss of life. Rumor had that 4000 died, 3000 were injured. Kocha station was a Buddhist sea of blood.
By morning, the station was thoroughly sealed off by a cordon of public security and Red Guard troops. Local People’s Committee and party members were mobilized to deal with the dead, the injured, and the wreckage. Anything that could be pressed into use as a stretcher was used to carry the dead and injured. The area filled with the groans and shrieks of the injured. Broken legs, people so burnt they couldn’t be told apart, severed heads and bodies… stench and smoke from burnt train cars and people rose in the air.
The bodies of those who couldn’t identify themselves or be identified by others were stacked to the side. Identified dead were tagged and moved to another location, the injured were placed in local hospitals – people moved about, calling out this and that name.
Local cadre from the clothing factory, Red Guard, and who knows how many groups searched through the clothing of the dead for identity cards and travel documents which were recorded and placed in a large hemp bag while money and valuables were placed in separate, safeguarded bags.
I cannot adequately express the sad acts that happened next in this confused situation. The workers pressed into national public duty stole money from the pockets of the dead, and began to strip off wristwatches, and other personal effects. Public security troops attempted to stop the looting by drawing their guns, shooting shots in the air, and arresting pilferers. The scene became unthinkable.
Including myself, those passengers fortunate to escape injury were largely absent from the scenes of panic and cruelty. But with nothing to do but wait, we couldn’t help but be drawn into the rescue efforts.
By this single accident, the nation was in an abnormal emergency state for over a month. Even today, when I think of Kocha station, all that comes to mind is this accident. I later heard from various sources that the passengers in one 13 car train were model worker farmers from all over North Korea who were returning from a national gathering. Also, many victims were soldiers participating in manuveurs. Their bodies were collectively incinerated.
The accident was of course the result of confusion stemming from the power outages. As the outages proceeded for a long time, train personnel lost their vigilance. The authorities covered up the accident by distracting the population with a fishing boat confrontation with South Korea.
Bandits in Uniform
My troubles didn’t end there.
The trains weren’t running, but somehow I wrangled my way onto a truck to Pyongyang and concluded my business. My return would be by truck. I finagled some money and tobacco and found a truck headed to Sanwon County on the Wonsan highway.
In the middle of February’s fierce cold, the truck left at night. We approached the mountain road and the passengers huddled together, wrapping our bodies in plastic sheets to keep warm, occasionally opening a hole to keep from suffocating. The truck rocked and jounced on the treacherous road.
We passed Masik and approached the mountain road. Suddenly 4-5 men in uniform appeared, holding weapons, waving us down. The truck driver had to obey. We 10 or so passengers, not knowing what was happening, could only sit there wondering. Finally, the soldiers approached us, weapons leveled. One thrust his rifle at a 50 or so year old government functionary sitting in front of me. “You! Which is your bag? Hand over your money!”, he angrily demanded.
In that incredulous instant, the bureaucrat’s mouth hung open as he studied the men’s uniform and their hungry appearance. After a minute, he felt in his pockets, saying, “I just want to get home safely to my family. Here’s some money- please let me move on.” The 25 or so year old soldier replied, “You asshole! I’ve got mouths to feed, too!” and hit him with his rifle. In an instant, the atmosphere turned threatening.
Next it was my turn. I had no choice but to turn over my 500 won in cash and some roast pork I’d prepared for the trip home. We were all shaken down and the amount of confiscated money grew. After the soldiers left, we stared at each other in silence. I still remember the cold mountain wind that unforgettable night. Without money and food, I’d thought I’d died during the next three days and it seemed a miracle to return. For a few days, I couldn’t get up.
It is difficult to term those men “military.” They were bandits, and so, in the end, it is impossible to feel compassion. I will say I never expected this to happen to me.
But even saying that, this behavior is not unusual in North Korea today. It is definitely within the realm of possibility. After Kim Il Sung died, Kim Jong Il became head of the North Korean military and this type of behavior and attitude by the North Korean military was to be expected.
Carrying Out the Garbage in the Morning
My custom as a central government worker was to rise late, eat breakfast, and not venture outside until 10 o’clock or so. I normally read a book until late at night before retiring.
However, one day with my mother sick and in bed, I ventured out early in the morning with the garbage. There were many people near the garbage disposal area. Surprised, I moved closer and saw something I had had no inkling of.
The immediate neighborhood around our house was principally residences for the government elite. As a result, there was more garbage here than most places. It was if our garbage bins were surrounded by people. Some were scavenging garbage bags and scraps of paper. Others were lying or sitting on bits of plastic sheeting; still others appeared to be families.
Caught up in my surroundings, I slowly disposed our garbage, while watching the people around me. The people collecting garbage had no color; their hair was the color of dirt. The people standing dumbly before me appeared unable to utter even simple words. I wondered how much they wandered, whether I could see beneath them beneath the street lights at night… Always in rags, shoes worn to shreds, I couldn’t see color in their clothing and with their gaunt appearance, they looked more like orangutans dressed in rags than human beings.
The most pathetic were the children. Without shelter, entire families lived and slept on plastic sheets spread on the ground. Toddlers sat by themselves on the ground off to the side as their parants gathered garbage.
Wishing not to hurt them by staring, I retreated to my bedroom window to watch. After a bit, the people clustering around the bins began to disperse. Some washed discarded cabbage leaves in a nearby stream. Others began to boil water in small pots set on top of stones, lugged from somewhere. The cooking fuel was garbage itself; the hot, acrid smell of burning plastic drifted my way.
People threw vegetable scraps in the pots, adding bits of corn. This was after all discarded garbage so much of the scraps were rotten. But people wolfed down putrid refuse that even a dog wouldn’t eat.
My chest hurt and so that day I suggested adding kimchi and rice to lunch’s leftovers. But by coincidence, my mother had already given our left over rice to an old man and children who had knocked on the door last night while I was asleep. I hadn’t noticed, but apparently they were among the people sleeping near the garbage bins.
With this, I began to learn more. Around noon, these people dispersed, some going to the “chanyanmadan” (black market), families scattering, moving off to steal and purse snatch, grab lined up goods and run, breaking into shops for clothes and food. In the winter, they slipped into apartment building cellars to find heat.
From my (priveleged) lifestyle, it was difficult to understand how this could all be. But in reality, our roads and towns overflowed with homeless. How could this problem be solved? My head hurt, I could only think how painful it is to have been born in this country…
… In the midst of this chaos, the distribution of moonshine and narcotics flourished. Alcoholism and opium addiction increased day by day. Beginning with HHH and III, the areas near poppy fields had reportedly as high as 50 to 60 percent addiction rates. Official state policy was to shoot addicts, but given that the state was also sponsoring cultivation and trafficking, this had little meaning.
Husbands are “Dogs”
In today’s North Korea, husbands have next to zero value. With the economy and factories shut down, husbands are no assistance around the house. As a result, husbands have become just another “nuisance.”
Even though women are scrambling from early morning to late at night to keep house, scrape together a meal or two, the vast majority of husbands have less money coming in than their wives and so they watch the kids and serve as human watch dogs when the wives are away. Husbands have without exception become known as house watching “dogs.”
Actually, even if they actually manage to temporarily find work, they lack the wit and cunning to steadily support food and daily expenses. “There is nothing to do,” and they loiter around the house. And so the wives press them into service to protect what shabby clothing and broken down pots they do have, forcing them to pick up a portion of household chores. In this light, a “dog”’s life isn’t easy.
The majority of “dogs” don’t last two days protecting the home. When chores are done and the wife is away, they slip off and assemble to drink rot gut and commiserate.
These last few years, most of North Korea’s “dogs” have become alcoholics. From noon onward, they drink and it is not uncommon to see them run over by cars. Those not caught up in booze are done in by drugs. These “dogs” turn to dope and booze to temporarily forget their economic weakness, squabbling homes, hunger, lack of purpose.