The Girl with Seven Names: A North Korean Defector’s Story (26 page)

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.

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.

I don’t need a fake visa. I don’t need to seek asylum in a faraway country. And I don’t need to marry a Chinese man … all I need to do is get to Incheon International Airport in Seoul.

I called Ok-hee. Her voice was heavy with sleep.

‘I think I’ve figured a way,’ I said.

I knew that with a Chinese passport I could obtain a visa for Thailand. If I could book a flight to Bangkok, via Incheon International Airport in Seoul, then once I was in transit in Seoul I would declare that I was a North Korean and ask for asylum. Visas were for normal visitors. I wasn’t a normal visitor. I was a defector. I would have to book a return ticket in order to allay any suspicions at the exit immigration in Shanghai.

Next time Kim and I ate out with our South Korean friends I asked one of them if such a route was feasible (without telling him why). He said: ‘Are you nuts? Who flies a route like that?’

He had a point.

My ticket would have to be for Shanghai–Incheon–Bangkok–Incheon–Shanghai, a route that defied all logic. How would I explain to exit immigration in Shanghai that I was flying to Bangkok, which is southwest, on a 2,000-mile detour via Incheon, which is northeast, when I didn’t have a visa for South Korea but was only transiting through the airport?

I would need a convincing story.

While I thought about this I applied for a Chinese passport. It was processed much quicker than I expected and arrived by mail.

I then applied for a Thai visa. The travel agent sent my passport to the Thai consulate in Beijing and it was returned a week later, visa included. I was almost ready to take the plunge – buying the round-trip plane ticket.

Ok-hee, meanwhile, couldn’t apply for a Chinese passport using her fake ID. That would never work. So she paid a broker for a fake South Korean passport. That would at least get her to South Korean immigration control. She opted for a different route – taking the ferry from Qingdao to Incheon.

One thing remained. The matter I could put off no longer. I had to tell Kim the truth about myself.

On a cold sunny weekend in December Kim was making lunch for us in his apartment. I broached the subject by saying I wanted to live in Seoul.

‘Why?’ He turned the gas up and was jiggling the pan, stirring chopped celery with a bamboo spatula. He was pulling a face. ‘Korean-Chinese suffer from low status in South Korea,’ he said over the hiss. ‘You know that.’

‘I know.’

One of my reasons, though I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to spell it out, was so that we could marry.

I watched him add squid, and mushrooms, and salt and pepper.

‘You have a good life here – better than you’d have in Seoul. You’re Chinese. This is your country.’

This was not encouraging.

A dash of sake and soy sauce, and lunch was ready. It was delicious, but I ate in silence.

‘Is this what’s got into you lately?’ He was speaking with a mouth full of steaming food. His reasoning was that I’d be half foreign in South Korea because I was Korean-Chinese. ‘I tell you, people there don’t make it easy for ethnic Koreans from elsewhere. They treat Korean-Americans as foreigners, and look down their noses at the Chinese.’

‘I have a particular reason.’

‘What’s that?’

I took a deep breath
.
‘I’m not Chinese.’

‘What do you mean?’ He was lifting his bowl to scoop more food into his mouth.

‘I’m not a Chinese citizen. My ID is a fake. I’m not even Korean-Chinese.’

He put his bowl down. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘I am North Korean.’

He stared at me for a long moment as if I’d made a sick joke. ‘What?’

‘I’m from North Korea. That’s why I want to go. I was born and brought up in Hyesan in Ryanggang Province, North Korea. I can’t return home, so I want to go to the other part of Korea.’

He dropped his chopsticks on the table and slumped back in his chair. After a pause I thought would never end he said: ‘I never expected this. I’ve heard you a hundred times on the phone with your family. They’re in Shenyang.’

‘No, they are in Hyesan, on the North Korean border with China.’

He gave a huff of incredulity.

‘How could you keep this from me for two years?’ His mouth was taut with hurt. ‘How could you lie to my face all that time?’ He was far more upset at my deceiving him than at learning that I came from the enemy country.

‘Please try to understand,’ I said, keeping my voice level. ‘When I was in Shenyang, I had a serious problem and was almost sent back to North Korea because I had told people the truth about myself. I came to Shanghai because no one here knew me. Only one North Korean friend here knows the truth. Now, you do. That makes two people.’

Again he was silent for a long time, looking at me, seeing me anew. The winter sun slanted into the room, casting his face in sharp relief, and I thought I’d never seen him so beautiful. Gradually the hurt went out of his eyes, and was replaced by curiosity.

I told him the story of how I crossed the frozen Yalu River, and of my life in China. At the end of it he reached over and took my hands. Then he surprised me by laughing. A relaxed, gentle, would-you-believe-it kind of laugh. ‘In that case you should definitely go to South Korea. Let’s spend New Year here, then go.’

I think I loved him more at that moment than I even did before or after.

I booked the ticket for January 2008.

My mother remained totally opposed, but relented when she understood there was no changing my mind. Kim was too important in my life now, but I still hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell her about him. She still hoped I would one day return to Hyesan.

At this time, I entered my details into a defector site called ‘people search’ to see if I could find anyone from Hyesan. I put in the name of my last school and year of graduation and left my email address. Within a day, I had received a message from someone who said she was from Hyesan, though not from the same school. We talked by chat. When she said she was in Harbin, I mentioned that I was in Shanghai. I was reluctant to reveal more. I didn’t say it, but I half expected her to be a man, and probably a
Bowibu
agent operating in China.

‘Do you have a webcam?’ she said. She must have sensed my suspicion. ‘I’ll turn on my video chat so you can decide if I am a woman, and not a spy. Okay?’

The picture came on. In the grey-pink half-light was a smiling woman of about my age, but to my surprise, her shoulders and chest were bare. Kim was sitting next to me and peered closer.

‘Are you naked?’ I said.

‘Yes. Sorry, I’m at work.’

Kim and I looked at each other.

‘If a customer calls, I’ll need to switch the chat, so I don’t have time to put clothes on.’

‘Uh, what kind of job is that?’

‘Video chatting,’ she said brightly.

She said her name was Shin-suh. She had been trying to get to South Korea but had been caught in Kunming and deported back to North Korea. Kunming is the southwestern city that North Koreans head for en route to Southeast Asian countries that accept their asylum requests. A year later, she had escaped again and was doing this job to make money to pay a broker to get to South Korea.

‘You chose that job?’

‘No, of course not.’ She gave a sad laugh. ‘Most of the brokers who help defectors are human traffickers. They help women escape, not men. They’re paid to bring us to China either as brides or prostitutes. What I’m doing is a kind of prostitution, I guess, but it’s very new. I’d rather do this than be a real prostitute.’

By this time, all my suspicions had vanished. ‘I’m going to Seoul soon. If I succeed, I’ll help you get there,’ I told her. I was determined to help this girl.

As the date of my flight approached I got more and more nervous about the check-in procedure at Shanghai Pudong International Airport. I was booked on a flight for Seoul with only a visa for Thailand.

Kim said: ‘If you’re worried, call the airport and ask.’

The official I spoke to at immigration was dubious. It would not be impossible for me to pass through, he said, but it would be difficult.

‘First, look at the map. It’s hard for anyone to figure why you would want to fly up to South Korea when you are going south to Thailand. Second, a lot of Korean-Chinese go to Seoul and don’t come back. That’s a problem for both countries. You will need to persuade us why you want to do it this way. If you succeed, we will stamp your passport and you can pass.’

I visualized the inspection process at the airport, trying to anticipate what might happen, and rehearse my answers. They might ask me anything, so I thought I should take all my documentation along with my passport – my driver’s licence, my ID; all the detritus of a prosperous, settled life in Shanghai. I was ready.

Kim came to the airport and said goodbye. We had decided that travelling together risked complicating matters. ‘I’ll call you from Seoul,’ I said. I didn’t mention the alternative, not wanting to tempt ill fortune. In a few minutes, I was at the immigration counter.

‘You’re travelling to Thailand?’ the man said, pursing his lips.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a weird way to go.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Why are you travelling via South Korea? Your ticket is for Thailand and you’re transiting at Incheon. It’s a roundabout way to go.’

‘My boyfriend is in Seoul. He’s booked on the same flight as me from Incheon to Bangkok,’ I said. ‘We’re doing the same on the way back.’

He held out his hand. ‘Let me see your ID.’

Now he is suspicious. Perhaps he thinks the passport is a fake.
I put all my documents on the counter. That seemed to help. By now, I had been there for ten minutes as he examined each, and I was holding up the line. I was afraid, but stuck. After what seemed like an age, he stamped my passport, looked up at me, and stamped it again. I took my documents and walked towards the gate.

I had a one-hour wait before boarding. Although it was mild in Shanghai, I was wearing a padded coat in readiness for sub-zero Korea. I was sweating with apprehension. Any moment now, I thought, that officer at the desk would realize this was a ruse. Police would appear to seize me and take me away. I kept glancing around nervously. As soon as boarding started, I rushed to the front. I took my seat on the plane and kept an eye on the door for the police. Finally, it was closed and the airplane taxied for takeoff. The stress flowed out of me like air from a tyre. My head sank back against the seat.

But within minutes I had started worrying about what would happen at Incheon. I did not have the documents to pass. For years I had been a fugitive in hiding. This would be the moment when I
gave myself up
. I felt a wave of terror.

After just an hour, the pilot announced the beginning of the descent. Minutes later we were flying over Seoul and Incheon. My heart was racing. I was excited, and very frightened.

Suddenly the clouds parted and I had a steep-angle view of a city that stretched to the horizon in every direction I could see. It looked like some endless geological formation, vast colonies of sand-coloured stalagmites with tiny cars moving between them.