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

Shenyang girl
The cab driver’s eyes regarded me in the mirror, waiting for me to say
where to go. I was in an agony of hesitation. I had no plan. For the first time
in my life I had no one to turn to.
Shenyang is a vast metropolis. I could go anywhere, but my gut feeling
told me to stay away from the district known as Xita, or West Pagoda. This
was Shenyang’s Koreatown, where most of the city’s ethnic Koreans lived
and ran businesses. If anyone searched for me, it would be there. I told the
driver to head to a district I did not know, on the opposite side of the city,
where no one would find me. I would have to speak Mandarin, but after two
years of study, my ability was adequate. I felt I could handle things.
But once we were on the freeway and passing through unfamiliar
districts, I was again filled with doubts.
Although it was risky, the best chance of finding a job and someone to
help me would be in Xita, among Koreans. I had been there several times
with my aunt and remembered seeing an informal job market where people
hung about, waiting to be offered a casual day’s work. And I needed to find
work, fast. My uncle had been giving me some modest living expenses, but
I had only saved enough to last me a couple of days. I told the driver to
change direction and head to Xita.
Among the crowd of jobseekers I didn’t know whether to appear eager or
nonchalant. I’d been standing there only a few minutes when a woman
approached me and spoke in Mandarin.
‘Hello,’ she said brightly. ‘Are you looking for a job?’
She was middle-aged, but with very girlish makeup, and a cotton dress
that showed bare shoulders.
‘Yes.’

---

‘I’m the manager of a hair salon and need another stylist. Are you
interested?’ Her voice was girlish too. ‘You’ll be trained. And the lodgings
are free.’
I could not believe my luck.
‘It’s on the edge of the city. We can go by cab. It’ll take about thirty
minutes.’
Her name was Miss Ma. On the way there, she asked me many questions.
I felt she was trying to befriend me. I told her I was from Shenyang and that
my ‘father’ owned a trading company that did business with South Korea.
She expressed surprise that a girl from such a family would want a job in a
hair salon. I tried to give the impression I was rebelling.
I noticed that Miss Ma’s nails were painted a cyclamen purple, which I
thought rather far out for a woman her age, and she wore a thin gold trace
chain around her ankle.
We arrived at a drab suburb of shops and apartments. It looked more like
Changbai than Shenyang. The hair salon was unlike any beauty parlour I
had known. The left side was lined with black leather sofas and on the right
were a half-dozen barber’s chairs facing large mirrors. Two of the chairs
were occupied by middle-aged men having their hair shampooed.
This is a men’s hair salon?
Another man of about fifty was sprawled on one of the sofas reading a
newspaper and smoking. He tapped his ash into a paper cup. I noticed
something peeping above his shirt collar: the blue head of a serpent tattooed
on his neck. Miss Ma greeted him and his eyes followed me without
smiling. Without my needing to be told I knew this man was the boss.
Miss Ma led me down into the basement and pointed out six small
‘therapy’ rooms with smoked-glass doors. She told me this was where I
would be working. Her tone was less friendly now. There was a stale yellow
light. It smelled of damp and male sweat. She opened the door to one of the
rooms, and I heard myself gasp.
Inside, lit only by a tea light, a young woman in a skimpy slip was sitting
beside a man lying on a futon on his stomach. He was naked but for a white
towel around his waist. Coming from prudish North Korea, I had never
been in an environment where men and women mingled naked, let alone
touched each other. She was massaging one of his arms.