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

The love shock
Another year passed in Shanghai. I found a well-paid new job, at a
cosmetics company in the Mihang District. I was the interpreter for the
owner, a Japanese gentleman who spoke neither Mandarin nor Korean very
well.
I moved into a better apartment in Longbai. I liked my new street with its
shady sycamore trees. Families lived at close quarters. It was an aspiring
neighbourhood that retained a faint edge of slum, typical of Shanghai.
Pensioners in Mao-era padded jackets would sit on doorsteps playing mah-
jong, oblivious to the Prada-clad girls sweeping past on their way to work.
Most of the friends in my social circle, with the exception of Ok-hee,
were now South Korean expatriates. We dined out often, and made
excursions on weekends. I was twenty-five years old. I couldn’t complain
about my life. The emptiness in the core of me was something only Ok-hee
understood.
One evening in early 2006, my friends thought it fun to go for upmarket
drinks in the sky-bar of one of the luxury hotels on the Bund. Several of
these bars had opened, competing to offer the most panoramic views of the
Pudong skyline across the Huangpu River. In the group was a man I hadn’t
met before. We were introduced. I felt an instant and powerful connection
with him, like an electric shock. He was the most flawless man I’d ever
seen. Glossy black hair swept back, a beautifully proportioned face, a
straight nose that ended in a fine point. Tailored suit and cufflinks. His
name was Kim, he said. He was visiting on business from Seoul. We sat in
the window and began talking. Almost at once the two of us were in a
bubble, as if we were the only people in the bar. We forgot about the friends

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sitting next to us. The lights dimmed from pink to gold, and the view across
the river began to sparkle, illuminating the clouds. He seemed reluctant to
talk much about himself, and chose his words carefully, a reserve I found
appealing. When one of our friends chimed in that he’d done some
modelling, I wasn’t surprised. I liked his manner. He wasn’t trying to flirt,
or impress me, but I could see in his eyes that he liked me very much. There
was a trace of arrogance – of the confidence that comes with status and
money. But that, too, I kind of liked. Something cut me loose from
whatever kept me grounded. I was floating on air. After what seemed like
minutes, someone said the bar was closing. We had been there more than
four hours. I had never before experienced time contracting in such a way.
He called me next day and asked if I’d like to have dinner. He had one
day left in Shanghai before returning to Seoul, he said. I already felt
strongly enough about him to know that I would suffer once he’d gone, so I
said no. I was afraid of being hurt.
I lay awake that night, regretting this. You fool. Now you’ll never see him
again.
In the morning I called him back. I asked if he had time for a coffee
before his flight. When I saw him waiting for me in a café in Longbai, and
he stood to greet me, I thought he had an aura of light. I asked if he could
delay his return home. He made a call, and said he could stay a few more
days.
I prayed again, something I only seemed to do in extreme situations. I
know this man is not a match for me. We come from different worlds. But
please let me date him for a few days.
The next week passed in a trance. Until now I had never been open to the
possibility of romance. My emotional devotion to my mother and brother
had always eclipsed all other feelings. The sexual instinct I knew existed
inside me was one I’d always kept deeply hidden. In fact, I had hardly ever
even kissed a man before.
Kim’s few extra days in Shanghai turned into a month. That month would
turn into two years. Soon he had rented an apartment just a few minutes’
walk from mine in Longbai. We had entered into a serious relationship
almost from the moment we’d met.
Kim had graduated from university in Seoul and was working for his
parents, managing a small portfolio of property investments they had in

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Shanghai. He opened a door onto a world I had only ever glimpsed before.
Money had never been a worry for him. His life seemed effortless, his
problems all highly rarefied – to do with rental yields, occupancy,
presentations to planning officials. He seemed unaware of the respect
people showed him, because he’d never been treated differently. He had no
difficulty getting tables at fashionable French restaurants on the Bund.
When he flew in China on business, he’d take me with him. He had a dark
side, I discovered, a reckless streak, which I suspected stemmed from the
fact that he’d only ever done what his parents had expected of him and had
never made his own choices in life. On one trip to Shenzen he took me to a
private country club set in landscaped tropical grounds, with gleaming
limousines and sports cars parked outside. The club had a late disco bar
where breast-enhanced women got up to dance on tables. I was shocked,
but Kim looked mildly bored. A bottle of complimentary champagne was
presented to us. I don’t drink alcohol, so Kim drank it all. I saw only flashes
of this occasionally. Most of the time he was sensitive, loving and quiet. He
was discreet to the point of secretive. He was someone I wanted to trust
with my secret. I felt more and more certain he was the man I would marry.
And that meant that South Korea was back on my agenda.
For the first time, I told my mother that I wanted to go to South Korea. She
did not take the news well.
‘Why do you want to go to the enemy country?’ she said. ‘This could
cause us even bigger problems.’
But I could hear the resignation in her voice. Min-ho and I were the
same, she said. Headstrong, disobedient, obstinate. Not even a beating in an
army cell had budged Min-ho. She knew the Hyesan stubbornness in me
would win out.
‘I have no roots in China. It’s not my home. South Korea is at least
Korean.’
‘But you’ll have to marry soon …’
With each passing year she was becoming increasingly worried that I was
unmarried. She’d been looking for a husband for me, she said – a man of
good songbun who could earn money, and whose family she could trust
with our secret. She talked of candidates in Hyesan she’d started vetting on
my behalf. Again, she was adamant that she could bribe officials and fix

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documents so that I could return without punishment. I didn’t have the heart
to tell her that my reason for going to South Korea was to marry a South
Korean man I loved.
About a year after meeting Kim I quit my job and lived for a while off my
savings. With my free time, I started investigating in earnest how I might
get to Seoul. Reading the posts on a South Korean website set up by
defectors, I saw that dozens of people were asking the question I had: ‘I am
illegal in China. How do I get to Seoul?’ Defectors who had made it offered
their advice. I had thought there had simply been a rush of people trying to
get to South Korea in 2004. Now it was 2007 and the flow of defectors was
greater than ever.
I called the helpline of the website in Seoul. A sympathetic lady gave me
a broker’s number.
With great patience, the man talked me through my three options.
Because I had a Chinese ID I could get a Chinese passport, he said.
However, as I was single it would be hard to get a visa because I would not
be able to convince the South Korean authorities that I would return to
China. The easiest way, therefore, would be to marry a Chinese man with
relatives in South Korea who could send us an invitation to visit. I
dismissed that idea out of hand. But the second option was almost as bad.
This was to pay for a fake visa and fly directly. It would cost about
$10,000. It was expensive and seemed extremely risky to me. If the visa
were exposed as fake, I would be sent back to China and investigated by the
Chinese police, who would discover that my whole identity was fake.
The third option was to travel to a third country, such as Mongolia,
Thailand, Vietnam or Cambodia, which would give any North Korean who
crossed its borders refugee status and allow them to travel to South Korea.
That route would cost around $3,000. However, it could involve very
lengthy periods of waiting while my status was assessed.
When the call ended I felt a wave of depression. None of these options
appealed. I was no further forward. But I wasn’t giving up now. After
almost ten years living in China, I was no longer accepting of my
indeterminate status. I wanted to resolve it. And I wanted to marry Kim.

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A few nights later Kim and I were dining out with friends. I wasn’t feeling
hungry or very social. I was still mulling over what the broker had told me.
Waiters served enormous steamed crabs. We messily picked the white flesh
from coral-pink shells. When my bowl was cleared away, I saw that my
paper placemat displayed a map of the world, with Shanghai at its centre. A
red Chinese dragon undulated across the top and another along the bottom. I
looked for the other countries the broker had mentioned, Thailand,
Mongolia, Vietnam and Cambodia. I wasn’t even sure where they were. It
took me a minute to find them. Although all these countries were in Asia,
China was so vast that none of them was near Shanghai.
Kim said: ‘You all right?’
I told him I was just tired. I folded the placemat and put it into my
handbag.
Next morning I awoke at first light.
Something was niggling me about that map. I retrieved it from my bag
and spread it out on the table. I looked hard at each of the countries the
broker had mentioned.
A tingling sensation spread across my scalp as the realization came to
me.