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

Brokers.
That evening I mulled this over in my apartment. Kim called and asked
what I’d done with my day. I opened my mouth to tell him, and changed my
mind. He would not understand. He would tell me it was insanely
dangerous, and wonder why I wasn’t content to let things be. He understood
little about North Korea. It was the same with his friends – most of them
did not want to think about the North, let alone talk about it. I would see a
shutter come down behind their eyes if I mentioned it. The North was their
mad uncle in the attic. A subject best avoided.
I had hoped Reverend Kim could somehow avoid using brokers, but I
knew that even humanitarian organizations had to rely on some unsavoury
characters at local level. As these brokers were breaking the law and their
motivation was money, they were seldom trustworthy or pleasant. If a
situation turned dangerous, they’d vanish like morning mist and leave their
clients in the hands of the police, or worse. I would never forgive myself if
that happened to my mother; if she were returned to the North. After talking
it over with Ok-hee, I decided to use the broker only for the very final part
of the journey – getting out of China.
I would go to Changbai, and meet my mother on the riverbank. I would
guide her across China to Kunming myself.

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Chapter 42
A place of ghosts and wild dogs
I pressed the bell feeling that familiar flutter of nerves. Suddenly I was
seventeen again, standing outside this very door, at the start of my
adventure. I shivered. It was much colder in northern China than it was in
Seoul. I was wearing a thick, hooded sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers, and
carried all my stuff in a backpack. I heard someone coming, and a latch
jangling.
‘My goodness,’ my aunt said, looking me up and down. ‘You’ve
changed. You were only a girl when I saw you last.’
The difference in her appearance surprised me, too. She had become an
old lady, thin and stooped, with swollen, rheumatic fingers. It immediately
made me think how much older my mother must have become.
My aunt invited me in. She had redecorated the apartment, and showed
me around. The guitar was still in my old room. My uncle was away on
business, she said.
I had long repaid the debt I owed him, and had stayed in touch. I hoped
time had healed the hurt I’d caused all those years ago when I’d fled this
place to avoid marrying Geun-soo. I’d heard that he’d married, and was
glad for him. It had released me from my penance never to marry. I
wondered whether he had provided his fearsome mother with the
grandchildren she’d wanted. I didn’t dare ask.
My aunt was warm and welcoming. It was clear that all was forgiven, if
not forgotten. I was relieved, because I needed her help again. And it was a
big favour to ask.
‘My ID card?’ She was taken aback.
I lowered my eyes. ‘I’ll mail it back to you in two weeks’ time.’

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For my plan to work, I needed to borrow a genuine Chinese ID that my
mother could use. When I explained this, my aunt laughed. I was grateful
for that laugh.
‘Well … I suppose so.’
I had timed everything finely, and couldn’t stay long at my aunt’s.
Having taken her ID, I told her apologetically that I had to leave
immediately. She shook her head, gave me 500 yuan (about $75), and
wished me all the luck in the world. Within an hour I was on an overnight
coach to Changbai.
I stowed my aunt’s ID carefully in my wallet. I had enough cash with me
for the broker’s fee, for food, accommodation and travel. The money was
the last of my savings from Shanghai. I’d been living off that and my small
monthly stipend of 350,000 won ($320) from the South Korean
government.
It was now the end of September 2009. All going well, in two weeks’
time I would be back in Seoul, and my mother – a shudder of apprehension
and excitement ran through me – my dear omma would be safe in the South
Korean embassy in Ho Chi Minh City, claiming asylum. This meant I
would still have enough time to take the entrance exams and attend
interviews at any universities that had accepted my application for the 2010
academic year beginning the following spring.
Mr Park the policeman had warned me to be extremely wary. ‘Tell
nobody you’re a defector.’ There had been cases of Chinese police handing
defectors over to the Bowibu even though they were travelling on valid
South Korean passports. So as soon as I’d passed through immigration at
Shenyang, I hid my South Korean passport and took out my old Chinese ID.
This made me feel safer.
It was 3 a.m. by the time I arrived in Changbai. I checked into a two-star
hotel to make preparations. Once Min-ho had brought my mother across,
my plan was to have a few days’ vacation with them both before Min-ho
returned to Hyesan. To help them blend in as Chinese I bought some
trousers for him, and some colourful, good-quality clothes for my mother,
who would have to throw away any North Korean-made items.
I went to several hotels in the town to see which would be safest, and
decided on the Changbai Binguan, the hotel with the largest lobby, and
where we wouldn’t have to walk past the reception desk every time we

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came and went. It was also the most expensive hotel in town, and the last
place Chinese police or Bowibu agents would expect to find an escaped
North Korean. I checked in the next day and took a room with two double
beds.
Min-ho had confirmed the plan – he would bring our mother over the
next evening between 7 and 8 p.m. He told me where on the river they
would cross. I knew the spot: there was a derelict house on the Chinese
side.
My mother had prepared her departure ingeniously. If she had done what
most escaping families did – leave everything and disappear – the
authorities would come after Min-ho. But she also knew that if she sold the
house, the authorities would still want to know where she’d gone. Either
way, Min-ho would be questioned. To pre-empt this, she sold her house and
told the city authorities that she was moving to Hamhung. However, instead
of registering her residency in Hamhung, she bribed a hospital doctor there
to file her death certificate and funeral documents. If the Bowibu
investigated, it would appear as if she had died en route to Hamhung.
At 6.15 p.m. next evening, I began to get ready. I was frightened yet
strangely exhilarated, my senses sharpened, my body tense with nervous
energy. I set my phone to silent, dressed myself entirely in black, picked up
the bag in which I’d put the new clothes for my mother and Min-ho, and
walked calmly and purposefully through the hotel lobby. Outside I hailed a
cab and directed the driver to take me to the point where the town ended,
about 200 yards from the river. There, at the end of a row of low buildings,
was the derelict house among the trees. I crouched down behind an old
garden wall, and waited. The place was cold and damp and smelled of
mouldering leaves and animal droppings. I peeped over the wall and saw
North Korean border patrols passing on the opposite bank. In the half-tones
beneath the trees, I felt camouflaged.
The sunset looked ominous, a palette of murky reds and yellows. On the
other side of the water Hyesan seemed lifeless, a city dug from rock, or an
intricate cemetery. A place of ghosts and wild dogs. I felt no nostalgia for it.
Only defiance. I dare you not to give me my mother.
An icy breeze lifted swirls of leaves, and sent wavelets lapping across the
surface of the river. If I hadn’t felt so alive with nerves and excitement I

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would have found somewhere warmer to wait. It was too cold to stand still.
Not long now. I’m about to meet my omma again. I could hardly believe
this was happening.
Min-ho had told me he would lead her waist-high through the water, and
help her up one of the ladders on the Chinese bank. The water must be