On the way home at night, however, I began to notice changes. I could feel the light in the city dimming. After the death of our leader, Kim Il Sung, in July of 1994, most of our performances depicted sad stories. The sudden death of the Great Leader had shocked our country—there was a rumor that people had died from sorrow—but the tragedy was only the precursor of impending hardships. There were fewer and fewer performances at the hotel. People’s faces were darkening as well. My neighbors were becoming reticent. Sometimes they mentioned in passing that their rations were decreasing; both the quantity and quality of what we were receiving were going downhill. Cereals mixed in with rice created digestive problems, and people started selling their household goods at markets to buy food. We wanted to talk to each other about the problems, but couldn’t. All we heard from the government was: “Trust Kim Jong Il and the Party.” Most of us did; we felt we had no choice.
When eight dancers didn’t show up for work, the hotel manager said they had decided to devote their lives to being perfect mothers and wives, but everyone knew the hotel was simply cutting staff. The number of guests dwindled and the rules stiffened. The hotel manager warned us not to wear colorful clothes anymore. Curly hair was still acceptable, but we had to tie it back with thick elastics.
It took me a while to realize that despite my seeming freedom, I was still stuck in an isolated world. It was simply of a different design.
Several days of rain had turned everything in the city gray except the Kaesonmun (Arch of Triumph). I was standing before it with Seunggyu. My performance that day, meant to recognize an official’s 40 years of military service, was canceled because several government officials, including the honoree, had to leave for the countryside in the morning. I asked Seunggyu to take me to the Kaesonmun because I thought its grandeur might cheer me up. At the foot of Moran Hill, I looked up at the largest arch in the world, with its 10,500 blocks of shiny white granite. But, against my expectations, it made me feel worse. Attempting to read the revolutionary hymn inscribed at the top made me nauseated. I didn’t want to touch the white granite, I didn’t want to feel its coldness.
“I’ll be away for a couple of weeks, maybe more,” Seunggyu said. He looked uncomfortable in his casual clothes. Out of his uniform, he looked much younger than his 27 years; he could pass for a teenager. A pack of cigarettes stuck out of the chest pocket of his black jacket.
“Because of the flood?” I asked.
One year earlier, in 1995, the flood had been the main topic of conversation everywhere: so many were dead, houses and property had drifted away. Then, in July and August of 1996, another round of floods. Aunt Ann’s province on the east coast had suffered the worst damage. She said that people there had their rations cut off entirely. Seunggyu and I walked away from the arch toward Moran Park.
“Do you have to command your platoon to assist this time too?”
Seunggyu snapped some branches from the tree next to him and grumbled, “I didn’t join the army to drag dead bodies from the water.” The year before, his platoon had been sent to collect corpses in the countryside, and he had confided that 70 percent of the land had been devastated by the two years of flooding. The army was worried about the possible spread of infectious diseases.
“But Seunggyu, that is also an important job for the people and the country. Think about it we should be helping each other. Soldiers are helping—isn’t that why everyone respects them?” I was trying to smooth his anger.
“Not for those people,” he snapped. Seunggyu didn’t like anything that cast shadows on his bright future. I felt sad and distant from him.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Who knows? I just follow orders. Maybe the mining regions—they got it the worst this time.” His eyes glowed. “I’m wasting my time on useless vermin. We’re no better than janitors—we just take away bigger trash than they do.”
“What do you mean?” I looked at him as he flung a branch toward the pond with all his might.
“Jia, who lives in mines and isolated mountain villages? Trash, reactionary elements. Everyone knows we don’t need these people in this society. We’re just going there to throw trash away.”
“You think they’re not worthy of sleeping in a cemetery?” I tried to conceal my emotion. His eyes followed the branches as they fell on the pond.
“Jia, you don’t know about those people. You haven’t seen them, that’s why you’re generous to them. But I have: they are like zombies. They don’t think, they just walk and eat.”
I wasn’t able to defend then, having left the mountain myself and hidden my early life. But, looking at Seunggyu’s contemptuous profile, I was reminded of my maternal grandfather. “Don’t say that. They’re still human, they feel happiness and sadness like you do. How do you know what they think? Have you ever talked with them sincerely?” I was indignant.
“What’s wrong with you, Jia? I’m talking about useless people. I have seem them; you haven’t. Why are you so angry? “ Seunggyu dusted off his hands and stepped toward me.
I lowered my head, trying to swallow the rage in my throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t like hearing you talk with such contempt.”
Seunggyu took my hand and shook it lightly. “Let’s go. You are disappointed about the cancellation of the performance today. It’ll be fine. I have never seen you mad like that, Jia. I know you have a good heart, but you should learn when to show it, and for whom.”
There was no one on the street. The gloomy sky had driven everyone away, and we headed to the subway, the pride of Pyongyang. For the festival in 1989, I had memorized an introduction to the subway system in Russian and English, to show off these underground palaces to our foreign visitors.
Kaeson Station had always been full of young couples going home after dates in Kaeson Youth Park, where the Great Leader, Kim II Sung, made his first speech after liberation from the Japanese in 1945. But today the subway no longer seemed magnificent to me. I felt I was being sucked into the darkness pouring out of my heart.
The Limitations of Human Beings
One morning the following year, I had to stop at Saesallim Street on my way to the hotel, before crossing the Taedong River. Lines of people chained together marched past me, their heads hanging low. The policemen leading them shouted that they had committed crimes against the nation, and they had to walk around in public to demonstrate the consequences of their crimes.
Someone behind me whispered, “The line is getting longer. They ran away to China for food, but got caught. They’ll be punished harshly. Oh, look at those little children.” I turned back and saw two middle-aged women talking. As soon as our eyes met, they turned and left hastily.
By 1997, the country still had not recovered from the floods of the previous two years, and countless numbers had succumbed to cholera and paratyphoid fever. Seunggyu, observing the pile of dead bodies, said that it was impossible to count the dead. On TV and radio, the government told us the nation had recovered from the natural disasters, but the situation only seemed to be worsening. The appearance of the city had changed completely; instead of going to work, people wandered all day. The streets teemed with people carrying big bags on their shoulders, as they went into alleys to sell their belongings. The police couldn’t control the black market. Never had street markets been so popular, nor the goods so various. Groups of people sitting on the sidewalks displaying their belongings had become fixtures in the residential areas. Houses were emptied, and the sellers far outnumbered the buyers.
Beyond downtown Pyongyang, across the Taedong River, I would often see groups of children in the street markets. These children were called kkot-jebi, which means “flower swallows.” Their name suggests lovely lives, but their lives consisted of watching other people eat. If someone didn’t finish his or her food, the fastest kkot-jebi would snatch the bowl and gulp down the leftovers. Sometimes, begging for food and money, they offered to sing and perform “black art.” They called their performances black art because the performances might endanger their lives, but it was worth the risk.