Christine Lee / Kitty Haley / Advertiser (16:48)
I could feel the sweat forming in the palms of my hands and a pit growing in my stomach as I sat in the backseat of an old Mercedes Benz which was being driven by North Korean officials. I could see a large figure looming in the distance and and I knew where they were taking us, and I didn't like it one bit. I had just arrived in Pyongyang, North Korea, with my father and our good friend Paul Kim. The airport officials had checked our passports and the visas that we had secured in Beijing, and then they immediately confiscated our passports. I remember it felt a little like being locked in the trunk of a car and the only way that you could get out was if someone let you out. It was 1997, which was just a few years into a terrible famine that North Korea had experienced where some estimates say that over 3 million people had already died of starvation. And we were there to deliver food and medicine for my dad's humanitarian organization, which was set up for the sole purpose of bringing aid to North Korea. That and essentially to bribe the government into letting my dad see his family. My dad was separated from his family when he was only 12 years old during the Korean War, and his parents had sent him and his older siblings to the south while they and his younger siblings stayed behind since the younger ones were too small to travel. And it was during that trip that the border between north and South Korea was closed, and he didn't know what happened to his family. He didn't know if they were dead or alive. And he basically grew up like an orphan on the streets of South Korea. And then in 1986, after he had immigrated to the States, my sisters and I were all born here. The North Korean government somehow managed to locate him, and they informed him that his mother and younger siblings were still alive and that his father had died during the war and they were inviting him to come to North Korea and to see his family. Now, by this time, my dad was a very well known pastor in the Korean community, and it's very likely that they wanted to use him for propaganda. And despite the fact that the North Korean government had a reputation for kidnapping people and my mother's tears and protests and concerns for his safety, he was determined to go. And after 35 years, he was reunited with his family and able to see his mother before she died. And he had made several trips since then, each time bringing this desperately needed money and medicine to his family. Earlier that year, I remember my dad sitting me down on the edge of my bed and saying, christine, I'm getting older and I'm not going to be around forever to take care of my family. The second generation, you girls and your cousins, you've never met our family. In North Korea, it can be dangerous. And each time I go, there's always a risk. Your sisters are married and have children, but you, you're single. And I knew exactly what he was saying. He was saying, if you get kidnapped by North Koreans, no one's gonna miss you. But, you know, I didn't care about the risk. This was my father's homeland. I grew up hearing stories about North Korea. Not the crazy place that's depicted in the news, but the North Korea of my father's childhood. And here was a whole side of my family that I had never met before, and a once in a lifetime opportunity to actually meet them. I mean, at this point, nothing could keep me away. We were driven to this large plaza at the base of a bronze statue of Kim Il Sung, which was well over 60ft tall, and, and his arm was stretched out in this gesture of benevolence over the city of Pyongyang. And as we were led into the plaza, Paul, our friend, leans over to me and whispers, just watch your dad and just do whatever he does. I remember there was a man in a suit standing at the front of the plaza with a microphone, and dramatic music was playing in the background. There were North Korean soldiers with rifles surrounding the plaza around us. And the government officials handed us flowers, and they lined us up with other people who were there. But they put the three of us front and center in front of this statue. I watched my dad and just followed his lead as he walked up to the base of the statue and placed the flowers at the foot of Kim Il Sung. And as we walked back to our place, he said to Paul and I, when they tell you to bow, don't bow, but just bow your head and pray for North Korea. We stood facing this image of this dictator who caused so much suffering and death among his people. And at that moment, the man speaking gave instruction for everyone to bow. And everyone lined up, bowed deeply, except for my dad, Paul and I. And we just stood straight, bowing only our heads as we prayed for North Korea. I remember seeing angry whispers and displeased looks from the government officials, but no one said a word to us as they led us back into our cars, driving through the streets of Pyongyang. It was unnaturally quiet. There were very few cars out as we drove to the hotel. And we were passing what felt like concrete building after concrete building after concrete building. And the few people who were actually out walking were almost always walking alone. And as we pulled up in front of our hotel, my dad leans over and whispers to me, look over at that tree. Behind it. You'll see a woman in a yellow sweater. That's my sister. I'm not sure if the officials even knew that she was there, or what they would have done if they had known that she was there, because North Koreans live in this constant fear of punishment and imprisonment and even death for what seems to be the most minor infractions. And out of the corner of my eye, I could see this woman in the yellow sweater watching us get out of our car and yet unable to approach us. We had requested to be taken to a number of different places, out to the countryside, so we could see the places that had been hit worst by the famine. An orphanage. We, of course, wanted to see my dad's family. But instead we got the Kim Il Sung tour. You know, Kim Il Sung's birthplace, Kim Il Sung's university, Kim Il Sung's tomb, which was his old administration building. And we walked into this huge cavernous room that was completely dark, except for this single creepy red light that was shining on his embalmed body in a glass case. And no one looks good in red light, especially if you're dead. It was just a creepy environment. And morning, afternoon, and night they would just talk incessantly about Kim Il Sung, their glorious father and his son, Kim Jong Il, and how much they loved the people and provided for them, you know, all of their achievements, their teachings or philosophies. And just on and on and on they would drone about Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. And after, after a while I just began to tune them out. And I was feeling the minutes slipping away and running out when we would have to get back on that plane and away from our North Korean family. Well, the day finally came to meet them. And I remember stepping out into the lobby of our hotel when I saw my aunt with the yellow sweater come rushing towards me along with my other aunts and my uncle and all of my cousins with their arms stretched out, you know, crying, hugging me, nearly tearing me apart. And we were all just laughing and crying like it was the first time and the last time that we would ever see each other. And I was able to see up close that my aunt had this moon shaped face and a wide smell smile and these eyes that were sad and merry at the same time. And she would not let me go. I met my cousin Hokchul, who was this tall, good looking young man with chiseled features and a mop of black hair. And between my terrible Korean and his terrible English, somehow we were able to communicate with each other. And he would ask me million questions about the U.S. you know, what it was like. He asked me questions about God and whether I believed in God or not, or whether I believed God answered prayer. And when I said that I did, he just laughed hysterically and would say, that's nonsense. But then he would stop and say, well, I don't know, they only teach us one thing. And then there was my sweet cousin Kyung Ah, who was just a few years older than I was and she was pregnant with her first child. Everyone said that we looked like we were twin sisters. She didn't speak any English at all, but I remember how she would shyly hold my hand as we walked along. We went to my aunt's apartment for lunch, sitting down at these long low tables on the ground. And they brought out two bowls of Naengmyeon, which are cold buckwheat noodles that North Korea is famous for. My dad would always say when we were growing up how much he missed the Naengmyeon that he used to eat in North Korea. After a few moments we noticed that no other bowls of Naengmyeon were being brought out, just the two that were placed in front of my father and me. And that's when we realized that they had saved up all that they had for just these two bowls. There wasn't enough to go around. And I noticed Kyanga with a roll of bread in her hand, which was likely given to her because she was pregnant. And we pleaded with them to share with us. We could each have a bite to eat, we told them, but they refused. And we begged them. You know, how could we possibly eat these noodles in front of them when they had nothing to eat? But they wouldn't budge. And I realized then that for them, this might be the only chance that they could ever give something to us. They didn't know if they would ever see us again. And we didn't know if we would ever be allowed to come back again. These two bowls of noodles represented all those years that we had missed together as a family. All of the memories that we were never able to have. These times of laughing together and sharing dinner together and having holidays together, of births and marriages, missed their joy in seeing me for the first time. Their gratitude to my father for helping them to survive. And I realized then that there is a dignity in being able to give to someone that you love. And that there's also a grace in being able to receive something from someone who loves you. And so my dad and I ate those noodles and we slurped up and every last bit of broth, and we told them how delicious it was and how we had never had such amazing naengmyeon in our lives. And then we went back to our hotel room and we just cried like babies. The next morning, they came to our hotel to say goodbye right before we were about to leave for the airport. And I gave them everything I had. You know, my clothes, my jewelry, my toiletries. As if I could somehow import some kind of hope and meaning into these objects and into their lives. I didn't know if this was going to be the last time that I would ever see them. Now, whenever I read about North Korea in the news, the first thing that I think of is not their bizarre, crazy threats they make to incinerate the US Or South Korea with nuclear weapons, or the rows and rows of soldiers marching in formation, or that 60 foot statue looming over the city of Pyongyang. Instead, I see a woman in a yellow sweater sweater standing against a backdrop of gray. I see Hakchol's earnest face and his hunger to know what was out there beyond the prison that he lived in. I see Kyung Ah holding that roll of Bread and those two precious and costly bowls of noodles offered in love.
