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

talking it over, I’ve decided to help you.

---

My defences shot up. Why? Why would a white, fifty-something male all
of a sudden care about the problems of some Koreans he’d never met?
I searched his face for a clue. I dismissed the thought that his motives
were sexual – I think I would have detected that in his eyes. I decided that
he was probably making some feel-good gesture that he would end up not
honouring. I told myself not to get any hopes up.
‘Thank you,’ I said, in English. He seemed to sense my doubt.
He again tapped into my phone. It said I met two North Korean women
while I was travelling in Thailand. Their story moved me very much.
He again made the Wait here gesture.
I watched him walk across the street to the ATM. He returned holding a
thick wad of green bills.
To my astonishment he was putting hundreds of US dollars into my hand.
‘This is some of the money for the fines. I’ll withdraw the rest tomorrow.’
Was I dreaming? I was struggling to comprehend what had just happened
and express gratitude at the same time.
With the help of the cellphone dictionary and our translator waiter, the
tall man explained that he was on a two-year journey around Southeast
Asia. He’d intended to leave for Thailand tomorrow, but was willing to stay
and help if I wanted him to, and visit the prison with me.
‘Of course,’ I said, when I finally understood.
This kindness and willingness to become involved completely floored
me. My next thought was that if this impressive man came to the prison
with me, I would not have to face that superintendent alone.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you move to my guesthouse? It’s easier to
talk there. We’ll go to the prison together in the morning.’ He said this very
carefully, and in a way so that I would not misunderstand his good
intentions.
I nodded dumbly.
‘We’ll have dinner later if you like,’ he said. ‘Bring your bag.’
‘Sure,’ I said blankly.
He held out his hand. ‘My name’s Dick Stolp. From Perth, in Australia.’
I shook his hand. I had not even asked his name. He turned to walk away
but I held on to him. In halting English I said: ‘Why are you helping me?’
‘I’m not helping you.’ He gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I’m helping the
North Korean people.’

---

I watched him go.
Something marvellous happened as I walked outside. All that locked-up
beauty I’d seen in this country, and felt I was being denied, suddenly
opened. I could smell the scent of jasmine in the trees; the sun and the
stately white clouds were celebrating my mood. The whole world had just
changed.
Dick’s guesthouse was far nicer than mine. I had not expected him to pay
for my room, on top of what he’d already done, but he did. When you’ve
lived your whole adult life as I had, calculating the cost of even the smallest
decision, such generosity wasn’t easy to accept. It involved a loss of
control. All I could do was say thank you. Not once did he ask for anything
in return. I had never before experienced such detached generosity without
some connection or debt attached. If we had been two lone Koreans from
Hyesan meeting in Laos, or two young people in a crowd of old people, I
might have understood the impulse. But Dick’s simple kindness took no
notice of age, race or language. It crossed my mind that perhaps he was so
rich that money meant little to him, but I learned later that he was not a rich
man.
At dinner I joined Dick at a table with five others: a German couple in
their fifties, a middle-aged Chinese woman who made documentary films,
and a young Thai woman with her German boyfriend. Everyone spoke in
English. I had a very hard time following, but I didn’t care. I was so
relieved not be alone. I realized I would have to learn English. It was the
world’s common language. It was a relaxed and enjoyable evening. I
laughed and smiled for the first time since leaving Seoul.
Dick and I rented a scooter to go to the prison. We took fruit, food and
blankets.
He didn’t know the lady in prison was my mother, and that her son was
my brother, and that I was North Korean myself. But if he had, it wouldn’t
have changed anything. I wanted to tell Dick the truth about my identity. He
deserved to know. But North Koreans wear masks from such long habit that
it’s difficult to cast them off.
I held on to him as he drove the scooter. On the way he stopped at the
ATM to withdraw the rest of the money for the fines.

---

My most basic assumptions about human nature were being overturned.
In North Korea I’d learned from my mother that to trust anyone outside the
family was risky and dangerous. In China I’d lived by cunning since I was a
teenager, lying to hide the truth of my identity in order to survive. On the
only occasion I’d trusted people I’d got into a world of trouble with the
Shenyang police. Not only did I believe that humans were selfish and base,
I also knew that plenty of them were actually bad – content to destroy lives
for their own gain. I’d seen Korean-Chinese expose North Korean escapees
to the police in return for money. I’d known people who’d been trafficked
by other humans as if they were livestock. That world was familiar to me.
All my life, random acts of kindness had been so rare that they’d stick in
my memory, and I’d think: how strange. What Dick had done changed my
life. He showed me that there was another world where strangers helped
strangers for no other reason than that it is good to do so, and where
callousness was unusual, not the norm. Dick had treated me as if I were his
family, or an old friend. Even now, I do not fully grasp his motivation. But
from the day I met him the world was a less cynical place. I started feeling
warmth for other people. This seemed so natural, and yet I’d never felt it
before.
Reverend Kim had warned me of many checkpoints along the road to
Vientiane. The journey by road would take eighteen hours and pass through
three provinces, each governed independently enough for us to risk being
jailed and fined another three times. His advice was to hire a police van for
the whole journey. This sounded like a good idea. If the uniformed
immigration police took us, we would have protection.
The immigration police chief told me it was possible, but the sum he
asked for was exorbitant. I pleaded poverty and bargained him down to
$150 a head for the six of us: my family plus the three other North Koreans.
But I still did not have enough.
Once again, Dick stepped in and paid.
The police told Dick he could not go with us to Vientiane. He insisted,
thinking his presence would help protect us, but they were adamant. They
didn’t want him there. In the morning he rented a scooter and followed the
van to the prison. The van, a new Toyota, was at least comfortable.

---

The five prisoners were led out and I saw Min-ho for the first time in
weeks. He was very pale and his face was covered in terrible acne. But he
grinned at me, as if there’d been nothing to complain about. My tough