The Girl with Seven Names: a north Korean Defector’s Story

Am I North Korean? That’s where I was born and raised. Or am I
Chinese? I became an adult there, didn’t I? Or am I South Korean? I have
the same blood as people here, the same ethnicity. But how does my South
Korean ID make me South Korean? People here treat North Koreans as
servants, as inferiors.
I wanted to belong, like everyone else around me did, but there was no
country I could say was mine. I had no one to tell me that many other
people in the world have a fragmented identity; that it doesn’t matter. That
who we are as a person is what’s important.
As if reaching for a well-thumbed book, my mind turned again to
thoughts of going home to North Korea. But now that I was a South Korean
citizen it was illegal for me to go to the North. If I did go, at best the North
would parade me for propaganda purposes as someone who’d rejected the
South (this happened with some people who decided to go home); at worst
I’d be imprisoned or shot.
My mother could tell I was lonely and unhappy. I spoke to her every
Sunday. But I did not want to burden her. She had worries of her own. Ever
since armed troops had searched her house after I’d sent the money over
with the three sacks, she’d been living under a cloud. The incident had
drawn the attention of the Bowibu, and whenever a crackdown was ordered
from Pyongyang she’d find herself on a list of people to be banished to
internal exile in some remote mountain village. Each time she’d have to pay
an enormous bribe to the investigators to have her name removed, but
feared she could not go on doing this for much longer.
Had they known the truth – that her daughter had defected to the South –
they would have had no hesitation in arresting her and Min-ho.
Life in Hyesan was getting worse, she said. And hunger had returned.
I began to feel desperate for her. Surely it was time for her to come to
South Korea?
Gently, each Sunday, I began to raise the possibility of her coming to
Seoul.
‘I will never, ever leave,’ she would say.

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Slowly, I pulled myself out of my despondency. I had taken such risks to get
to here. I couldn’t give up now. I had made a promise to myself, on that
bright morning on the way to Hanawon, that I would succeed in this
country and make it proud of me. I would steel myself to succeed – no
matter what. There would be no failure.
After working very hard, I obtained my accounting qualification at the
end of 2008. A law firm offered me a job with a monthly salary of 1.3
million won (about $1,200), a respectable sum. But after some thought I
turned it down. I figured that without a degree I would never be able to
move on to anything greater.
I started to contemplate the gruelling university entrance exam.
By the time I qualified for university I would be thirty years old. I would
be thirty-four when I graduated. Could I do it? I posted the question in an
online question forum. It provoked a lot of comments. ‘It will be tough
working alongside people ten years younger than you,’ one said. ‘Give it up
and get a job,’ was another. Another common response was: ‘Your best bet
is to get married.’ They might have added before it’s too late.
The one person who encouraged me was Mr Park. He really wanted me
to succeed, and encouraged me to go for it. Before applying, however, there
was something I thought I should do – get a new name.
In Hanawon I had heard about defectors whose family back home had
been punished when the Bowibu learned they were in the South. There were
almost certainly spies among the defectors, who reported back to
Pyongyang. For these reasons, many changed their names. This wasn’t the
only motive. Others did it because fortune-tellers told them a name change
would bring better luck.
When I told Mr Park I wanted to have a new name with a special
meaning, he introduced a jakmyeongso, a professional name-giver. I paid
the lady 50,000 won ($45) and gave her my date of birth and the two parts
of my given name.
‘One of these names has brought you ill fortune,’ she said softly.
I couldn’t help smiling. I was thinking of my mother taking me to Daeoh-
cheon all those years ago for a dawn reading with that grizzle-headed
mystic. This one was more presentable, a middle-aged lady with a bubble
perm. I immediately found myself in a familiar frame of mind when I

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watched her close her eyes. I thought the whole thing was ridiculous, yet I
wanted to believe every word.
I decided to help her.
‘I’m always feeling cold.’
‘Yes,’ she said, taking the hint. ‘Yes, you have a yin not a yang
constitution, so you need to warm yourself with a warm name.’ She
presented me with five choices of name. I chose Hyeon-seo.
‘With this name, the strength of the sun will shine on you.’
But she
warned me: ‘This name is so strong it could bring you great fortune, or it
could overpower you and bring great misfortune. Therefore, I suggest you
also take a nickname, to balance out the overwhelmingly positive force of
“Hyeonseo”.’