Krys Lee - How I Became a North Korean

After prayers, Mrs. Bang hoisted slices of cake onto paper plates and passed them down like an assembly line. Gwangsu’s tongue washed over his teeth like windshield wipers and Cheolmin rubbed his frostbitten foot, the way he always did when anticipating something. The cake slices were gone in three swallows. Only Yongju didn’t disappoint me; he nibbled his one bite at a time, savoring it.

“ Trauma ’s the only word for it.” Missionary Kwon set a hand on his heart, as if it was hurting. “Entire villages of women are bought and sold. There’s even a house church pastor who turned in the North Korean refugees in his congregation and collected the Chinese government’s cash reward.”

The cake was the other boys’ universe; only Yongju and I were really listening. The missionary gave a summary of each of our lives, with details that emphasized how pitiful it was to be North Korean. He even introduced me as a homeless kkotjaebi from Musan whose parents had been part of the underground church, though I’d told him that I was a Joseon- jok orphan. Namil spat out a chunk of cake at the flagrant lie. I was ashamed; I’d been made even more of an imposter than I already was.

“Outside of this one”—Missionary Kwon nodded my way—“none of them had known of the Lord’s word before they met me.”

“You’ve devoted your life to these poor North Koreans.” Mrs. Bang’s thin nose quivered. “They owe you their lives. I heard how you used to lead refugees out of China across the Gobi Desert. You could have died.”

He said solemnly, “And the jungles of Southeast Asia, but I’m on their radar now. Too many of us have been caught; I can’t put any more lives at risk. The trouble is, trustworthy smugglers are as rare as the Hope diamond.”

Missionary Lee’s head bobbed up and down, his slice of cake long gone. He said shyly, “There’s been too many lives at risk already.” It was the first complete sentence he’d ventured in front of the Bangs.

“You’re thinking of Missionary Lim,” said Missionary Kwon. “I saw him the last time I was back.”

They continued to talk, and I got that this Missionary Lim had sold the only residence he owned in Seoul and spent that money to personally escort North Koreans to a safe third country.

Mrs. Bang said, “Is it true what I heard — that after they caught him, the Chinese tortured him until his heart stopped and he was declared dead?”

Missionary Kwon nodded. “He weighed forty-five kilos when he finally made it to Seoul. An eighty-kilo man, originally as large as Missionary Lee. He said when he came back to life, they started torturing him again.”

“It’s been two years now since our diplomats got him out, but he’ll never be the same man.”

“It’s not just him, either,” said Missionary Lee. “His wife and children, think of their suffering.”

“China.” Mr. Bang’s narrow shoulders jumped at each word. “No country’s brave enough to challenge it.”

“But why?” Yongju interjected, looking baffled. “Why do people risk their lives this way?”

The smooth mask of Missionary Kwon’s face softened. “Because we believe in God.”

The thought of so many risking their lives for other people moved me. I wanted to be like them, to have my DNA restructured and become someone capable of such faith. To conquer my own desires and live for something greater than the self. But my awe diminished when Missionary Kwon showed them the photos he’d taken in the cave, with our scabby faces and our dirt-caked clothes, then photos of a man and a woman sitting cross-legged with tiny Bibles spread open in their laps, talking to an elderly couple. Then came photos of a squinting man at a guard post and others in front of North Korean statues, obviously across the river.

Missionary Kwon said, “I told you about them earlier, the ones we taught who returned to do the Lord’s work in North Korea. One of my contacts went in posing as a Chinese tourist — which is dangerous! — to confirm it.”

While Mr. Bang talked about bringing the Lord’s light to that dark world, I tried to stop the pounding in my head. I was so confused. I couldn’t stop staring at the photos of the couple, apparently part of the underground church in North Korea. Was that Missionary Kwon’s plan for my friends, too?

“The Lord guided them — it was their choice to return. I’d never force that on anyone.” Missionary Kwon took the closest hand — Yongju’s — in his. “The Bible’s your friend. And you’ll know the entire book like a friend once you’ve completed your studies with us.”

Yongju pulled his hand away. “What does that mean?”

“It’s standard practice.” Irritation crossed Missionary Kwon’s face, then disappeared. “How could you leave without knowing the Lord’s word?”

My pencil splintered in my hand. “You mean you’re holding them hostage until they memorize the whole book?”

Namil snapped, “The whole book?”

Cheolmin’s half-closed eyes popped open. “What do you mean, the whole book?”

Missionary Kwon gave me a look of warning. “You’ll be blessed. A year, three years, however long it takes, the Lord’s word can only change your life for the better.”

Cheolmin flipped through all six hundred and twenty-eight pages of the Bible, then shoved it away from him. The Bangs smiled, but they avoided meeting our eyes.

Yongju rubbed at the Roman numeral on the last page. “Most of them can barely read.

“You promised we’d be here a month, a few months at most, while you raised the funds, Missionary Kwon.” His voice shook as he clasped Missionary Kwon’s hands. “Please. I promise to go to church and read the Bible in Seoul, anywhere you send me.”

“You’ll be surrounded by the devil’s many temptations, but here where you need the Lord the most, he will find you. I’ve witnessed the miraculous change in so many of you.”

“But my family. How will I find my family—”

Yongju’s beautiful head bowed to the saang as he shook with silent sobs. All his hopes hinged on making his way to South Korea, a country that equaled information and resources. I felt his helplessness and the way his family must have seemed to be drifting further away from him. I wanted to do something, anything, to stop those tears.

Missionary Lee looked to the left and right at us. “Missionary Kwon?” His voice was a whisper.

Silence finally became impossible. I said, “We might not know God’s will, but he just might not have brought them all this precious way only to leave them rotting in China!”

Missionary Lee pinched my foot under the saang, but I didn’t want to stop; I didn’t want to ever stay silent again.

“What’s more, if that couple you sent back get caught and are executed,” I said, slamming the table for effect, “you will become a murderer.”

Missionary Lee gasped. Missionary Kwon reached across the table, grabbed my hands, and stopped their thumping. He said, “That’s enough!”

The Bangs were too shocked to notice that I’d slipped up and said “them” and not “us.” But something else — maybe recognition that what I said was true? or shame? — flashed like a bat’s shadow across Mrs. Bang’s face.

Missionary Kwon’s words came at a furious clip. We had only been with him for a few weeks and were transitioning. Missionary Lee was new and though knowledgeable, he had a soft heart and was too indulgent. As Missionary Kwon regained his composure, he ruffled my hair, saying, “ Jaashik, you’ll come around.” But I didn’t believe in him anymore.

He added, “You little rascals. Someday you’ll understand that though the body may be safe in South Korea, we’re keeping you here to save your soul.”