Out of curiosity, Sangwon walked to the public execution grounds. He found the street market completely closed. A crowd had gathered around the accused family and the butcher. A judge announced the charges as the crowd stood hushed in anticipation; only the family’s sobbing could be heard. The judge asked the accused whether they acknowledged their crime, and a middle-aged man, who appeared to be the father, said they really didn’t know what they had eaten, and begged for forgiveness. The judge declared they would not be excused for their crime. The youngest in the family, a boy, looked no older than six or seven, but the police said that he was 16—the minimum age to receive the death penalty. No one believed the police, but they dared not argue that he was only a boy. Perhaps they thought it would be better for the family to leave this world together.
Sangwon knew the boy was younger than he was. Their eyes locked for the briefest moment, and he watched as the boy’s eyes filled with fear. Policemen fastened the family members and the butcher to several long stakes and covered their mouths and eyes with towels. The family sobbed and pleaded for mercy. Moments later, the sound of simultaneous gunshots. The sobbing stopped at once.
People turned away and returned quietly to their houses. Some gathered in the street market to sell and buy goods again. Sangwon stood there for a while before heading home and packing his things in haste. He vowed never to feel fear such as he saw in the boy’s eyes.
This was how Sangwon’s journey began. By the time I met him, he had already crossed the border three times and been arrested three times in China. On the first occasion, the Chinese police caught him on the street and handed him over to North Korea. After the North Korean authority interrogated him, they simply warned him not to cross the border again and let him go. The second episode was the same. But, the third time, he ran into the same investigator and was taken to the 927.
Sangwon looked at me and giggled. “You know, when some people are arrested and have to be interrogated, they put their money inside their bodies so it won’t be taken away by the investigators. Women put money wrapped in plastic bags in their… down there,” he said, pointing between his legs. He continued, “Some people eat their bags of money or put it up their butts. If the police suspect them, they force people to eat food that causes diarrhea and then follow them to the restroom. Then the policemen search their shit to see if there is any money or valuables, like gold or silver rings and necklaces.”
Sangwon taught me a song describing the kkot-jebi’s life. He said he learned it in the street market and that all the kkot-jebi knew it. The lyrics were a dialogue between an old man and a kkot-jebi.
Old man: What is your name?
Kkot-jebi: My name is Jebi (swallow)
O: It sounds pretty
K: But, it is kkot-jebi (flower-swallow: beggar)
O: What do you eat?
K: I eat on (duck)
O: You must be rich
K: But, I eatguksu-ori (noodle-duck: low quality noodles)
O: Where do you live?
K: I live in Sudo (the capital)
O: You live in a nice place
K: But, it is ha-sudo (sewer)
The train was pandemonium—slow and cold pandemonium. An icy wind came through broken windows, and in the dark before dawn, I saw a black lump drop from the sky and past my window.
I shook Sangwon. “Did you see that?” I asked, pointing outside. He was drowsy and said nothing.
A middle-aged woman in front of me spoke. “It’s a dead person. Someone must have fallen asleep on top of the train and rolled off, or he died of electric shock up there and others pushed him off” I was stunned. Sangwon closed his eyes again, indifferent to her explanation. She continued, “That’s not so bad compared to other things that happen on this train. If you see these scenes as often as we have, you won’t care anymore either.”
I fell asleep hugging Sangwon. Sleeping on the train was brutal; the seat was so hard it hurt, and fleas and bedbugs bit me all over. Though vendors sold food at each station, I was afraid I would have to go to the restroom, so I ate only a little. Even the restroom was filled with people, and passengers gave up using the toilet in the restroom, doing their business between compartments instead. Shyness and shame no longer existed. Nobody cared. Nobody blamed others. People joked whenever someone relieved himself, saying, “That looks like it was a great meal!”
The train often stopped due to engine trouble; we were stuck at one station for a day and a half. The ticket inspectors came to check tickets at some stations, and passengers who didn’t have tickets or travel permits sneaked out between the compartments and climbed to the top of the train. When the inspectors got to me, I stroked Sangwon’s hair as he lay on my lap and told them he was my ill cousin and I was taking him to his mother in Hoeryong. Sangwon showed his spindly leg to the inspectors. They grimaced and turned their heads, then went on to check other people.
As the days passed, it seemed as if walking would have been faster than taking the train. I thought the journey would never end. Patience was a struggle. But, looking back, the train trip turned out to be the easiest leg of my journey.
To Cross the Border
As we approached the border in Hoeryong, the sun lit up the landscape, but the wind was so cold I huddled in my coat for warmth. Sangwon and I had left the train in the early morning and squatted down in the bushes near the border. There was no fence dividing the countries, and in the distance to the right, I could see a bridge connecting low mountains in each country. From a small hut on each side, two or three soldiers with guns on their shoulders came and went; if not for them, the border would have been invisible. I caught sight of a wide plain across the river, quiet and peaceful; I could even see houses and dogs. The mountains on the other side looked more luxuriant, more springlike. Sun might have gazed across the border from just the place where I stood.
Several soldiers in dark-green uniforms and broad-brimmed hats paced along the river, looking nervous.
“Today is a good time,” Sangwon said, with a satisfied smile.
Four big military vans were crossing the bridge, coming from China.
“Those cars are coming from the Baekdu Mountains,” Sangwon said, pointing casually.
The vans stopped in front of a white, four-story building, where several soldiers were waiting. A man wearing a lighter-green uniform got out of one of the vans, and a soldier approached him. They saluted each other and began talking. Other soldiers opened the back door of each van, and prisoners bound together by a thick rope emerged. The rope was tied around the first captive’s hands, behind his back, and looped around the next captive’s waist and hands. About ten people were chained together in that way. Some lowered their heads, others looked around. The soldiers kicked them; when one fell down, others in the same line staggered. The soldiers made each group of prisoners stand in one line. Then they pushed them into the white building.
“They’ll be very busy, today,” Sangwon said without taking his eyes from the scene.
“Who are they?”
“Those people were held in a detention center in China. The Chinese policemen are sending them under guard to this side. When I was caught, I was one of them too. There are so many today, more than a hundred…” Several children appeared to be Sangwon’s age, and he tensed at the sight of them.