Heungnam Prison in the Snow

The most valued possession in prison after food was a needle
and thread. Our clothes would wear out and be torn during
the hard labor, but it was difficult to get a needle and thread to
mend them. After a while prisoners began to look like beggars in rags.
It was very important to mend the holes in our clothes in order to block,
even a little, the cold winter winds. A small piece of cloth found lying
on the road was extremely valuable. Even if the cloth were covered with
cow dung, the prisoners would fight each other to try to pick it up. Once
as I was carrying the bags of fertilizer I discovered a needle stuck in one
of the bags. It must have been left there accidentally when the bag was
made. From that time, on I became the seamster of Heungnam Prison.
It was such a joy to find that needle. Every day I mended pants and knee
breeches for other prisoners.
Even in the middle of winter it was so hot inside the fertilizer factory
that we would sweat. So you can imagine how unbearable it was during
the summer. Not even once, however, did I roll up my pants and let my
shins show. Even during the hottest part of the summer I kept my pant
legs tied in the traditional Korean fashion. Others would take off their
pants and work in their underwear, but I kept myself properly dressed.
When we finished work our bodies would be covered with sweat and
fertilizer dust, and most prisoners would take off their clothes and wash
themselves in the filthy water that flowed from the factory. I, however,
never washed myself where others could see my body. Instead, I would
save half of the single cup of water we were rationed each day, then get
up early in the morning while the others still slept to wipe myself off
with a small piece of cloth dipped in that half cup of water. I also used
this time early in the morning to focus my spirit and pray. I considered
my body to be precious, and I didn’t want to casually expose it to others.
The prison cell held thirty-six people, and I took a small corner
next to the toilet. In this space no one would step over me, but nobody
wanted this space. We called it a toilet, but actually it was only
a small earthenware jar without even a lid. Fluid would overflow
from the toilet in the summer and it would freeze in the winter.
There is no describing the putrid smell that came from it. The prisoners
often experienced diarrhea because of the salty soup and hard rice
balls that we ate every day.
I would be sitting by the toilet and hear someone say, “Oh, my stomach.”
The person would make his way to the toilet in quick short steps.
As soon as he exposed his bottom, the diarrhea would come shooting
out. Because I was next to the toilet I was often splashed. Even during
the night, when everyone was asleep, sometimes someone would have
abdominal pain. When I heard people yelping in pain as they were being
stepped on, I would know that someone was making his way to
the toilet and I would get up and press myself against the corner. And
if I were asleep and did not hear him coming, I would suffer the consequences.
In order to endure this impossible situation, I even tried to
think of these sights and sounds as some form of art.
Still I kept the spot by the toilet as my own during the entire time.
“Why do you choose to stay there?” other prisoners would ask.
I would answer, “This is where I feel most comfortable.”
I wasn’t just saying this. This was, indeed, the place where my heart
felt most at ease.
My prisoner number was 596. People called me “Number five nine
six.” On nights when I couldn’t sleep, I would stare at the ceiling and repeat
this number to myself over and over. If I said it quickly, it sounded
very much like eo-gul, the Korean word used to describe the feeling of
injustice. I truly had been imprisoned unjustly.
The Communist Party initiated dok-bo-hoi, or gatherings where
newspapers or other materials were read aloud, as a way of studying
communist propaganda. Also, we had to write letters of gratitude to
Kim Il Sung. The Security Detachment kept a close watch on our every
move. Every day we were told to write letters of gratitude saying what
we had learned, but I never wrote even a single page of these. We were
supposed to write something like this: “Our Father Kim Il Sung, out of
his love for us, gives us food to eat each day, gives us meals with meat,
and lets us lead such a wonderful life. I am so grateful.” I could not write
anything of the sort. Even if I were looking death in the face, I could not
submit such letters to the atheistic Communist Party. Instead of writing
them I worked ten times harder than the others in order to survive in the
prison. The only way I could get away with not writing these letters was if
I were the number one prisoner. Because of this effort I became the best
prisoner and even received an award from a Communist Party official.
My mother visited me many times while I was in prison. There was no
direct transportation from Jungju to Heungnam. She had to take a train
to Seoul, where she would change to a train on the Seoul-to-Wonsan
line. The trip would take her more than twenty grueling hours. Before
starting out she would go to great trouble to prepare mi-sut-karu, or
powdered rice, for me, so that her son, who had been imprisoned in the
prime of his life, would have something to eat. To make this powder she
would gather rice from our relatives and even the distant relatives of my
older sisters’ husbands. When she came to the prison visiting room and
saw me standing on the other side of the glass, she would immediately
begin to shed tears. She was a strong woman, but the sight of her son
undergoing such suffering made her weak.
My mother handed me the pair of silk trousers that I had worn
on my wedding day. The prison uniform I was wearing had become
threadbare, and my skin showed through the material. However, instead
of wearing the silk trousers, I gave them to another prisoner. As
for the mi-sut-karu that she had gone into debt to prepare, I gave it all
away right there as she watched. My mother had invested her full heart
and dedication into preparing clothing and food for her son, and she
was heartbroken to see me giving away these things, without keeping
anything for myself.
“Mother,” I said to her, “I am not just the son of some man named Moon.”
“Before I am a son of the Moon clan, I am a son of the Republic
of Korea. And even before that I am a son of the world, and a son of
heaven and earth. I think it is right for me to love those things first, and
only after that follow your words and love you. I am not the son of some
small-minded person. Please conduct yourself in a manner befitting
your son.”
My words were as cold as ice to her, and it hurt so much for me to
watch her weep that I felt as though my heart would be torn apart. I
missed her so much that sometimes I would wake up in the middle of
the night thinking of her, but this was all the more reason for me not
to succumb to my emotions. I was a person doing the work of God. It
was more important for me to clothe just one more person a little more
warmly and to fill his stomach with a little more food than it was for me
to be concerned about my personal relationship with my mother.
Even while in prison I enjoyed taking whatever time I could find to
talk with people. There were always people around me who wanted to
listen to what I had to say. Even in the hunger and cold of prison life
there was warmth in sharing with people with whom I had an affinity
of heart. The relationships formed in Heungnam left me with twelve
people who were both compatriots and as close as family to me, with
whom I could spend the rest of my life. Among them was a famous
minister who had served as president of the Association of Christian
Churches in Korea’s five northern provinces. These were people with
whom I shared intense emotions in situations where our lives were on
the line, and this made them closer to me than my own flesh and blood.
Their being there gave my prison experience meaning. I would pray
three times each day for the people who had helped me and for the
members of my congregation in Pyongyang, calling out each one by
name. When I did I always felt that I needed to repay a thousandfold the
people who would slip me a handful of mi-sut-karu they had hidden in
their clothing.