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

Journey into night
I left Min-ho with my mother in the hotel room while I went to the coach
station to buy tickets. Outside in the bustle of the town I seethed with
nerves, as if everyone I passed was reaching for their phones to call the
Bowibu. At the station, I realized what was unsettling me. There were
police everywhere – Security Police in navy uniforms, People’s Armed
Police in olive-green uniforms. What was going on?
When I asked for the tickets, the woman at the counter held out her hand.
‘Your ID and those of the other travellers.’
This was a surprise. ‘IDs?’
‘It’s National Day,’ she said flatly, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed.’
That explained the police. It was 1 October. Nor was it any ordinary
National Day. This was 2009, the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the
People’s Republic of China. There was always heightened vigilance on this
date to prevent anything marring the celebrations. But the sixtieth was
considered so propitious an anniversary that security was at maximum.
I gazed about in disbelief. Not only had I picked the worst possible night
for my mother to cross the river, I’d picked the worst day in a decade to
travel.
‘Min-ho, could you borrow an ID from someone in Changbai? Anyone.’
Min-ho said he could try a few business contacts.
The first man ran a used motorcycle shop. He came out as he saw us
approach, wiping his hands on an oily, stained T-shirt.
‘What’re you doing here? Who’s she?’ was his greeting. He wasn’t fat,
but his posture was so slouched that his gut hung over his belt.

---

Min-ho said that he was buying family gifts for Chuseok, the Korean
harvest festival that was two days away. He introduced me as a cousin from
Shenyang, and said he wanted to go to Shenyang, but needed to borrow an
ID for a few days.
‘If I lend it to you and you get into trouble, what am I supposed to do?’
Min-ho had told me this man was honest, but a born coward when it
came to bending the rules.
‘Report it stolen,’ I said.
He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head slowly.
Min-ho’s second contact was a motorcycle parts trader, a friendly man
with a patchy beard. We took him for lunch, and gave him the same pretext.
I also offered to pay him 1,000 yuan ($150), and to return the card to him in
a week’s time.
‘What if you get caught?’ he said, lighting a cigarette.
‘Say you lost the card, and get a new one.’
He blew out a mixture of laughter, nerves and smoke. ‘There are an awful
lot of cops around. They’re checking everyone.’ I could see that he wanted
to say no. Instead he said: ‘Give me a day. I’ll think about it.’
We had no choice but to wait. I went to Mrs Ahn’s house to see if she
could help. The house was boarded up. A neighbour said that she had
moved away.
We were out of options. It would have to be the second trader or nothing.
In the meantime I had to book another expensive night at the hotel.
I was back in one of those tight corners where I found myself closing my
eyes and muttering to my ancestors, beseeching, desperate, asking for their
help. But I expected no miracles. Our predicament seemed hopeless.
The trader called the next morning as we were eating breakfast.
‘I’m scared shitless about this, but Min-ho has helped me make a lot of
money. I owe him.’
When we had the ID in our hands I noticed that the man’s age was thirty-
eight. Min-ho was twenty-two, and looked nothing like him. Still, it was the
gender that counted. I figured that’s all the police would look at. The card
was also in a different format from mine – it was in both Chinese and
Korean scripts, which I’d never seen before.

---

The parts trader told us the police had launched a massive nationwide
social clean-up campaign prior to the sixtieth anniversary celebrations.
Travellers were facing checks and roadblocks everywhere. The sensible
thing would have been to wait two weeks until things had calmed down, but
I didn’t have enough money. We had to move. I did not want to panic my
mother and Min-ho. I reassured them that I had faith in our good luck. If
fortune was with us, we’d be protected no matter what. If it wasn’t, there
was nothing we could do.
At the coach station I bought three 160-yuan ($25) tickets for the coach
leaving at 2 p.m. the next day. It had sleeper bunks on two levels and in
three rows, split by two aisles. I asked for the three bunks at the back of the
bus on the second level. My hope was that if the coach was stopped, the
police would come through and collect all the IDs. At the back they would
neither see us nor check closely that the IDs were ours.
The coach left on time. Our epic journey had begun. My stomach
tightened with trepidation. But I was also hopeful. Getting that ID for Min-
ho made me think fortune had turned our way. We travelled southwest out
of the town, along the Yalu River. The first leg of the journey, to Shenyang,
was about 250 miles. It wound through hilly countryside and would take
twelve hours.
I held my camera up to the window. I had taken a few shots of Hyesan
the previous day. This fleeting view would probably be the last time I’d
ever see the place. It made me reflective and sad, glimpsing the high white
wall of our old home on the riverbank. I thought of far-off days in spring,
before the famine, when my father skimmed stones with us across the
water, when the world beyond the river had seemed vast and mysterious.
The coach passed the customs post at the end of the Friendship Bridge. I
took a few last pictures. Then, less than five minutes into our journey, the
coach slowed, and pulled over.
We leaned into the aisle to see what was happening. The hydraulic door
opened with a hiss. A soldier in green uniform and cap climbed in, carrying
an automatic rifle.
I felt my guts coil.
I looked out of the window on Min-ho’s side. A group of People’s Armed
Police was manning what looked like a temporary checkpoint. Jeeps were
parked along both sides of the road ahead.

---

The soldier moved down the aisle. He was not demanding IDs, he was
checking people’s eyes, looking each passenger in the face. Why? For signs
of nervousness? For anyone who doesn’t belong? It was only at that
moment that I realized Min-ho was the only man on the coach. Every other
passenger was a woman. Min-ho did not even look Chinese. He was
weathered and had darker skin than Chinese men his age. Sunblock is
unheard of in North Korea. In the street earlier, I’d given him my baseball
cap to keep the sun off his face. Now he had pulled it over his eyes and
pretended to be asleep.
The soldier moved slowly, taking in each face. I could hear my heart
pounding in my ears. He had now checked more than half of the passengers.
I glanced at the bridge with its flags flying. I could see North Korean
guards on the far side.
The soldier was just feet away. He met my eye. Then he spotted Min-ho.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. I swung my legs off the berth and
blocked the aisle. I felt something metal and hard in my hand. It was my
camera. Without thinking, I pointed it at the soldier’s face and took a
picture. Somehow, the flash was on.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said.
Then I swung around and pointed it through the window and started
snapping pictures of the armed police at the checkpoint.
He grabbed my arm. ‘No photos.’
‘Oh.’ I smiled stupidly with my hand over my mouth. ‘Sorry. You look
awesome in your uniforms.’
Behind him I noticed that every passenger on the coach had craned their
heads into the aisle to watch.
‘It’s illegal. Delete them now.’
‘Aw,’ I said, sounding put out. ‘Can’t I keep this one?’
‘No. Now. Quickly.’
The passengers all looked like locals from Changbai. I looked like a girl
from somewhere foreign and fashionable. With luck, they all thought I was
some clueless tourist. The soldier was embarrassed and annoyed. He knew
the whole coach was watching.
‘Here’s the one of you,’ I said. His face looked blanched and stunned.
‘Look, I’m deleting it.’

---

Then he turned and stomped down the aisle to escape the stares. The
automatic door closed behind him.
I slumped back into my berth. What just happened? I had a sensation of
coming back to reality, as if I’d just come off stage and the performance had
left me exhausted. We had more than 2,000 miles ahead of us. How often
would this happen?
For the rest of the journey to Shenyang we lay in our berths without
speaking. When the sun set the other passengers also settled into sleep
beneath rough blankets.
I lay awake listening to the hum of the engine, as the road unrolled
endlessly from the darkness. I was too unnerved to sleep. My mind was
running far ahead of the coach, probing for danger.

---

Chapter 45