Anna Broinowski - Aim High in Creation! - A One-of-a-Kind Journey Inside North Korea's Propaganda Machine

“She has no idea about the affairs of our country, none at all,” I hear Mr. O saying to Pak in Japanese. Everyone is tipsy now, and the conversation is boisterous.

“That’s true. Our newspapers mainly speak about your prisons,” I intrude, hoping my childish Japanese will soften the fact I’ve just raised the taboo of the gulags.

Pak shoots me a look and slips back to Korean: “God, if only she knew how much harder it is now,” he says to O. “We filmmakers used to be at the top, didn’t we…?” Pak raises his glass in ironic celebration, and O, with a sympathetic nod, clinks and drinks.

“Hey, you mustn’t say things like that,” Mr. Pei interjects. “Her investors have spent a lot of money sending her here. They’ll be embarrassed!” I suspect Pei is more worried about the Man in Black than our investors.

But Pak ignores his warning. “Anna, there is a seismic shift coming in our country,” he says, deadly serious. “That’s something the DPRK can show the world. Everything is going to change. Let’s sing!”

Q and Ms. Yun immediately stand and remove their aprons, smoothing their hair. “Where have the seeds of love blossomed?” Ms. Yun begins sweetly, sweeping her arm to invite the whole group to share her joy.

“Have they sprouted near the window where learning echoes? ” chimes in Q, making Nic and me look up in astonishment. The man who has said nothing but yes for the last thirteen days has a surprisingly beautiful baritone.

“My endless love has blossomed in the bosom of my comrades,” Pak joins in, the love in his eyes for the people around him both sorrowful and warm. “My love when I am happy, my happiness when I am sad,” sings the whole table, swaying to the beat. “My endless love has blossomed in the bosom of my comrades! ” Everyone cheers and Mr. Pei blushes with pride. The song is his, from the war drama My Happiness . I turn to Pak, determined to find out what he meant by a “seismic shift,” but he grabs my wrist: “Shut up. Now you must share a beloved song, from your country.”

Twenty faces turn to me expectantly. Bloody hell. The only anthems Australians sing with the same kind of patriotic fervor are AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell,” Cold Chisel’s “Cheap Wine,” and, at a pinch, the Peter Allen–penned Qantas jingle “I Still Call Australia Home.” My own favourite, Nick Cave’s moody ballad “From Her to Eternity,” would bomb with this crowd. They’re after something saccharine—which is not a quality the hardbitten cynics of my motherland are known for. Quietly cursing Pak, I take a swig of soju and choose the most asinine thing I can think of. “It’s a beloved children’s song,” I announce. “It’s about a bird.” The table clap with delight, and in my pathetic soprano, I let rip: “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree; merry, merry king of the bush is he; laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra, gay your life must be.” The filmmakers nod, trying to clap to the beat. Before they can join in the chorus, I’ve finished, and everyone laughs with relief. Everyone, that is, except the Man in Black—who continues to clap to a 4/4 beat, lost inside the strange mechanical universe of his mind.

“Thank you for recollecting the Australian people’s pure and innocent childhood,” Pak says kindly, patting my hand. But Sun Hi looks appalled. “What is ‘gay’?” she whispers, clearly picturing a country so decadent even the birds are homosexual.

“It’s just an old word meaning ‘jolly,’” I say, putting her out of her misery.

Pak grabs my hand, impatient. “Anna, let us make a film together,” he says and pulls a newspaper from his satchel. “Comrade Translator, pull yourself together,” he says, nudging Sun Hi.

She dutifully scans the article he’s circled. “This is about a mentally handicapped man in Pyongyang, who through the devotion of his family and comrades had a happy and productive life,” she explains.

“It is a really moving story,” Pak adds enthusiastically. “Let’s make a film about him. Take it!”

I slide the paper into my bag, stunned by Pak’s choice of subject. North Korea is notorious for its treatment of the disabled: according to the 2014 UN report on the country’s human-rights abuses, handicapped babies are seen as “impure” and are relocated to remote areas, along with their families. Some are sent away forever to secret “treatment” facilities; others are killed at birth. With North Korea’s disabled population sitting at a lowly 3.4 percent, against the 10 percent world average, it is doubtful the majority survive to adulthood. I’m sure Pak isn’t intending to make a critique of the regime’s abuses; but even a straight Kim Jong Il–style propaganda movie in which a disabled hero devotes himself to the nation and no ill-treatment is revealed would be a subversive act. It would fly in the face of Kim’s rule that the hero must be physically beautiful and promote the idea that all people, including the disabled, are worthy of respect.

“Read it when you get home,” Pak says casually, as if there’s nothing unusual in what he’s proposed. I’m still thinking about it two hours later, when we climb in the van to drive to the Yangakkdo. Night has fallen, and the driver makes me sit in the front to distract the soldiers. “Hi there!” I wave sunnily at the first checkpoint, and the guards wave us on, too astonished to query our lack of a curfew permit. Pak, Ms. Yun, and Ri Yon Chol chat with Team Gas in the back—and Nic and I share a smile, delighted our comrades have decided to keep drinking with us at the hotel. But then, the driver stops beside an ovoid skyscraper towering over the lightless river. Ms. Yun gets out, shakes my hand through the window, and hurries off into the topiary hedges.

We drive on, down a bumpy side street I haven’t seen before. A soldier steps out of the darkness to stop us, and this time, my friendly “Hello” doesn’t deter him. “Where is your permit?” he barks at the driver—and I can feel our North Korean friends become tense. Then a voice growls from the back of the van: “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, comrade?” The soldier, furious, marches to the window—to find Ri Yon Chol leaning out, wearing his most evil scowl. The soldier’s eyes widen in recognition.

“Yes, it’s me, you bastard,” Ri Yon Chol sneers, with jaded indifference. “Now let us through.” The soldier steps back, starstruck. “Nice to know my ugly mug is good for something,” Ri Yon Chol says pointedly to Pak, and the old man gives him a grateful nod. We round a bend and head down a bumpy hill to a cul-de-sac of low-rise tenements. These buildings don’t have the fresh paint and flower boxes of Yonggwang Street: they are buckled and dirty, the window panes either cracked or gone. Ri Yon Chol mumbles his goodbyes and disappears into the shadows.

“Are you going to join us at the hotel, sensei?” I ask Pak, desperately hoping he’s not going to disappear too. I want to talk about his film idea over some sake. I’m certain there’s more he wants to share. He smiles, but says nothing. We turn onto a highway, and I realize it’s not the one leading back to our hotel. The North Koreans lapse into an apprehensive silence. This area, after curfew, is dangerous. I try again: “Do you think we can talk some more, Tongji Pak?” He ignores me and says something softly to the driver. The driver slows to a stop beside a desolate stretch of dirt and barbed wire. A line of pale, decrepit buildings is visible through the gloom, miles in the distance. Pak swings open the van door and climbs out. The North Koreans whisper goodbye.

I jump out, bewildered. Pak turns in surprise and holds out his hand: “Goodnight, Anna. You must go back now.” I hold his hand, unable to work out what’s going on: “Thank you, sensei, thank you for everything,” I say, and he breaks into his usual smile: “Don’t be silly. The pleasure’s mine. Now off you go.” He gestures at the van with his head but doesn’t let go of my hand. We stand there, staring at each other, and his smile disappears. His hands start to tremble, and his eyes fill with tears. “When will I ever see you again?” he asks.