December 2009 Archives

This is the sixteenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

Our presence on the wrong side of the frontier caused a mild scramble among the South Korean forces.

Frantic radio messages were dispatched. Binoculars were trained on us. Reinforcements jogged over to take up positions half-concealed by the corners of buildings, where they conducted a whispered conference and pointed accusing fingers of guilt. They clearly considered us traitors to humanity.

A group of North Korean soldiers-- the promised "escort for our protection"--was posted at attention along the edge of the line, and a pair flanked the freshly painted blue door of the truce building.

Our escort whisked us directly inside, where a table had been divided precisely down the middle by the 38th parallel. Having experienced the North Korean sense of one-upmanship, I could just imagine the petty squabbling which must take place there, each side attempting to grab just a little more territory by pulling the table towards them when they thought no one was looking.

Like their North Korean counterparts, the US military also conducts tours on the South Korean side of the DMZ, and a strict agreement is in place to prevent brawls inside the negotiating room--when one side enters, those from the opposing side are not allowed to go in.

For guests of the US Forces, walking to the opposite side of that room--and technically crossing the line--is as close as most people will ever come to entering the world's most reclusive country. I guess it was fitting that, on a trip where everything felt like a strangely reversed mirror image of reality, I had the opposite experience--it's the only time I've ever stepped over the border to enter the geographic territory of South Korea.

I've spoken to friends who participated in those US military tours, and I'm told it's a serious, strictly supervised affair overburdened with a list of strange rules: dress codes are enforced, with collared shirts, no jeans, no open-toed shoes, and no clothing featuring English lettering. It's also absolutely forbidden to gesture towards, point at, or otherwise attempt to communicate with the North Korean forces on the opposite side.

The North Korean tour was nothing like that. Instead of acting tense, the soldiers inside the truce building went out of their way to seem laid back and sociable. They laughed loudly at our jokes, answered all our questions, and smiled as much as possible. They even encouraged me to lean back comfortably in my chair and put my feet up on the conference table. They really went that extra mile to present the impression that we were all one big happy Juche-believing family.

Even as we sat there laughing it up, the South Korean military was busy adding to our dossier. South Korean soldiers stuck their faces right up against the window glass, staring at us intently while speaking into portable radios. They peered at us through binoculars to see us better from 5 feet away, and one arrived with a camera and attempted to capture a clear photo of each of our faces.

Unlike the US military tour guides, the North Koreans didn't discourage us from making attempts to communicate. They pointed at the enemy soldiers and laughed as though to say, "See what we're up against?" When I finally had enough of all the picture taking, I pulled out my camera to take photos of them taking photos of us. The North Koreans just laughed and encouraged me.

Back outside, the air was thick with heightened tension. South Korean soldiers had taken up positions that mirrored those of our escort, standing eye to eye across that thin concrete line, glaring into each others faces only centimeters apart. I was reminded of the fact that, despite all the rules, gunfights sometimes broke out here.

I still couldn't believe the world's most heavily defended border was nothing more than a strip of concrete one foot wide and a couple inches high, with only self-discipline separating hate from fanatical hate.

I turned to our escort. "What would happen if one of us tried to run across the line?"

"You'll be shot," he said.

That was ambiguous.

"Who'll shoot us?" I asked. "You guys or them?"

"You'll be shot," he repeated, looking me steadily in the eye. It was pretty clear which side he was referring to.

By then an American soldier had joined the South Korean deployment. He lingered in the background, watching us from around the corner of a building while the South Koreans continued to photograph us, one man using binoculars to spot and direct the man with the camera.

I turned my back and put my head down anytime I saw that camera being raised, but in the end it wouldn't have made much difference. The video cameras that peppered the wall of the building opposite us were busy recording everything.

I resented that a little. I realize they need to watch the DMZ carefully, and that they would naturally be suspicious of someone who gained access to the other side. But the thought that some government bureau-rat might one day hold this trip against me--or even worse, attempt to label me as a sympathizer--really pissed me off. I'll travel wherever and whenever I like. I'll see things for myself and form my own opinion as to the conditions and rightness or wrongness of a place. I don't need a nation or a government to tell me how or what to think.

When we finally had enough of being stared at, suspected and photographed, our military escort led us inside the large glass-fronted building, to a second storey balcony overlooking the line. By the time we got there the South Korean solders on the other side had disappeared, but I'm sure they were watching us from the other large building that mirrored our own.

I was posing for pictures when one of the North Korean soldiers approached and began to interrogate me.

"What do people in your country think of North Korea?" he asked. From the sneer on his face, I knew he was itching for an argument.

"We don't get a lot of news from Asia," I said, groping for a diplomatic exit. "People in Canada really don't know very much about Korea."

A little more honesty would have been satisfying, but total honesty would probably have gotten me shot ("Actually, the rest of the world thinks North Korea is a seething mass of brainwashed lunatics ticking slowly toward a catastrophic implosion.")

He then said, rather forcefully, "Did you see the flag of your country on the other side?" 

He was referring to a plaque on the south wall of the truce building which showed the United Nations flag, and below it the flags of each country that had fought on the UN side in the Korean War.

I admitted that I had.

"What did you think about this?"

"I was a little surprised." It was only a partial lie. I was surprised to see a Canadian flag decorating the room, but of course I knew we'd fought against them.

"What do people in your country think about the Korean War?"

 "We don't learn much about it," I replied. "It's not studied much in our history classes."

He seemed satisfied with that answer, but I knew that we each drew different meanings from my statement. He believed Canadians don't study the Korean War because we're filled with shame and remorse. The truth is we don't study it because, despite the incredible sacrifices made by those involved, in the larger picture of world history it was an isolated 3 year war that happened over 50 years ago. At most it would occupy a page in a high school history textbook.

You must realize by now that the North Koreans don't see it this way.

For the DPRK, the Korean War and the earlier Japanese occupation of 1925-1945 are very much current events. They're the constant topic of films and books, newspaper stories and propaganda. They talk about it so much it feels like it happened yesterday. This obsessive resentment is deliberately kept at a slow boil by the regime. When a people are held in constant fear of the enemies surrounding them, they're less likely to realize that the very regime which claims to be protecting them is the worst enemy of all.

While we were standing on the balcony, another soldier came over to tell us about Kim Jong-IL's visit to Panmunjom. For the record, I don't believe in a million years that he ever actually went there. He would never be reckless enough to place himself within an easy sniper's shot of the Americans.

But this solider was convinced.

"When the Dear Leader was inspecting this site, a cloud of smoke came down to blanket the area. The Leader could see the DMZ, but his enemies couldn't see him. When he left the area, the fog mysteriously lifted."

For a moment we were knocked speechless--not by this miracle, but by the fact that the solider absolutely believed it. He, on the other hand, clearly interpreted our speechlessness as awe.

One of our guys finally managed to sputter, "Do you mean to say that the Dear Leader generates his own fog?"

The soldier simply said "Yes."

He wasn't smiling.

This is the fifteenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

The highlight of my time in North Korea--the moment that made all the badgering and propaganda worthwhile--was our visit to the Demilitarized Zone and the truce village of Panmunjom. This thin line bisecting two worldviews is the last Cold War frontier, and the world's most heavily defended border.

The uneventful drive from Pyongyang featured the same broad tourist highway we'd seen on the drive north to Mt Myohyang, with the same manufactured greenery on both sides. There were more roadblocks and checkpoints as we neared the border, but this was the only indication of the massive concentration of conventional, chemical and biological weapons stockpiled in the surrounding hills.

One of the guys in my group was carrying a Beatles tape he'd picked up in Beijing, and much to our surprise our minders let him put it on. At times like that the world seems to waver and reality looses its grip. We were rolling down a highway in the most oppressive totalitarian country in the world, listening to songs of love and freedom. It felt like that music insulated us and protected us from the horrors outside.

Between songs, our minder explained Kim Il-Sung's brilliant idea for reunification of the two Koreas.

"The Great Leader saw one country, two systems, and two governments. In this way the Fatherland can be reunited."

"But isn't that two countries?" I asked.

He just repeated the formula.

At the end of the road we pulled up in front of a small building. We were told to wait there, and that several soldiers would accompany us around the Zone "for our protection."

We met a strange Australian 'tourist' inside. He was sitting in the corner with his two minders, dressed entirely in military fatigues, right down to the polished black boots. When we questioned him he insisted he was just a civilian on vacation, and that he dressed this way because it was "more comfortable." He became another subject for our daily speculations. You don't come to the world's most heavily defended border dressed like a combatant if you're a tourist.

The military guide arrived and took us to another room, where he explained the features of the DMZ using a large scale model and wall map.

"Here we can see firsthand the suffering and anguish of the Korean people over their divided Fatherland," he said, peering at us with beady eyes, as though we were personally responsible.

One of our guys pointed to the map, at some islands which appeared to be very close to the border. One was clearly to the north of 38 degrees. But the red line didn't extend that far.

"Which country do those islands belong to?" he asked.

The soldier answered a totally different question three times in a row, repeating by rote the same general information from his speech about where the border runs.

Peter finally gave up and let it pass. Even the Lonely Planet guidebook is clear that the islands belong to the South. The North Koreans didn't want to admit this, for some reason unknown to us.

We reboarded the bus accompanied by our military escort, and passed through triple rows of electric fence.

"You are now inside the truce village of Panmunjom," our minder said. "It is called the "peace village" because no weapons are permitted here."

I pointed out the window at a soldier walking past.

"How come he has a rifle?"

Our minder glanced quickly at the AK-47 slung over his shoulder. "It's not loaded."

"There's a clip in it," I said.

"No bullets."

Clearly the subject was closed.

We were taken to the building where the Korean War armistice was signed. I could sense the North Koreans rolling up their metaphorical sleeves for a serious bludgeoning of propaganda.

"The US came here hiding behind the flag of the United Nations, with their South Korean puppet stooges and their 15 satellite countries," they said.

"Notice that the UN flag is all faded and yellow, but the DPRK flag is still as bright and fresh as the day the truce was signed. It points to the fact that the intentions of the United States and the United Nations were rotten to the core, while those of the DPRK were pure."

That was a bit of a cheap shot. No doubt they've replaced their own flag several times since 1953.

Few people realize that a full peace treaty was never signed--only a cease fire--and so a state of war still exists between North and South Korea, and by extension the 15 countries of the UN mandate. The North Korean opinion of that cease far was made very clear to us.

"Here you see a copy of the armistice agreement. We regard it as nothing more than a worthless piece of paper."

Suitably chastised, we were loaded into the bus once more and driven a short distance to a small parking area. I happened to look to the left as we pulled in, and saw a group of soldiers hiding in the bushes. As our bus rolled to a halt the officer nudged the lead man. They marched out of the shrubbery and passed the bus in a crisp column, hurrying along as if on some important business. No one else in the group had seen them waiting there; they were all looking to the right where the border would be.

When we were finally permitted to disembark our military escort ordered us to pair up and form two columns. We were expected to march in an organized fashion to reflect dignity and respect of this important place.

After the barrage of propaganda we'd just put up with, not to mention the insults to our countries and our countrymen, this was too much. As we marched across the parking lot in the hot sun, one of the Brits began whistling the song from Bridge on the River Kwai. It immediately spread through our ranks until we were all whistling loudly in protest.

The Korean soldiers just looked at us with puzzled expressions. They either didn't get it, or they thought it was a traditional marching song. Lucky for us they hadn't seen the movie.

I thought the tortures of Tantalus were finally over and that they'd let us see the line, but I was wrong. They halted our column beside a large marble monument which depicted a replica of the final scrawled signature of the Great Leader. According to the official story, Kim Il-Sung died of a heart attack at his desk, where they found his still fresh signature on a document urging the reunification of the two Koreas. That's how deeply he cared about reuniting his heartbroken Korean people. How poignant. How moving. The soldier blathered on and on about the signature as we stood there sweating in the blazing sun, and it was all I could do not to shout "Shut up! No one gives a shit! Just show us the goddamned border!"

He finally ran out of patriotic things to say, and we were allowed to march over the hill two-by-two.

Two large three-storey buildings faced off across the no man's land of the border, covered in tinted glass and bristling with an array of video cameras and microphones. The line itself--over which so much blood has been shed--was nothing more than a strip of concrete about a foot wide and two inches high.

Five rectangular blue buildings, divided precisely in half by the 38th parallel, straddled the line. The center building was the famous 'truce building', where meetings are occasionally held between the two Koreas and through which all messages pass between North and South.

North Korean soldiers had been deployed around the truce building, standing almost nose to nose with an equal deployment of South Korean troops on the other side of that one foot line.

The soldiers on the south side didn't look very happy to see us. In fact, the first glimpse of white faces on the wrong side of the line prompted a small scramble of troops. US military advisers came running from the three-storey building to peek around corners with binoculars and cameras as we were marched over to the truce building's blue door.

This is the fourteenth in a multi-part blog on North Korea. You can find the others here

The Arch of Triumph commemorates North Korea's liberation from the Japanese occupation at the end of World War Two. It looks an awful lot like the Arch in Paris, but of course Pyongyang's Arch was deliberately built to be 3 meters taller...

North Korea doesn't acknowledge the Pacific War (WWII) and the role it played in the liberation of the country, which made this a natural topic to bring up with our minders. It's good to test the waters every now and then, to remind each other we both know where the line's been drawn in the bullshit.

"When was Korea liberated from Japan?" I asked, shading my eyes and squinting up at the flat grey stones of this rather uninspiring monument.

"In 1945, after the Japanese surrender," he said.

"After Japan surrendered to America in the Pacific War?" I asked, in my most conversational tone.

"After the surrender," he repeated, with a little more emphasis on the neutrality of the last two words.

He didn't want to say who Japan surrendered to. It was of course America, but the official party line is that Japan surrendered to the unorganized and scattered Korean resistance groups, one small faction of which was led by Kim Il-Sung.

In the highly creative North Korean version of history, Kim Il-Sung led a vast army of all the united resistance forces, crushing the Japanese occupation single-handedly. Both our minder and I knew this wasn't true--he had lived abroad while working at an embassy posting, and so he had a little more awareness of the outside world than the average isolated North Korean.

We exchanged a glance, one of those "you know and I know, so don't push this any farther" sort of looks. I was satisfied and didn't press the issue. It was exactly the type of answer I'd expected.

After plodding around the hot grey pavement of the Arch of Triumph in the sun, we were taken to a hill on the outskirts of Pyongyang to trudge around the Revolutionary Martyr's Cemetery. This is the burial place of military heroes from the liberation war against Japan. Each gravestone is crowned by a lifelike bust of the person buried beneath it.

A site guide led us to the graves of important people such as the Great Leader's brother, and others whose stories of sacrifice and heroism on behalf of the Fatherland were considered particularly moving. At the top of the hill, the focal point of the cemetery, was the grave of Kim Jong-IL's mother, also a revolutionary hero (at least according to the current version of history), and the occasional third in the North Korean Holy Trinity. The base of her monument was strewn with flowers, evidence of the many North Koreans who came each day to pay their respects. We were once more obliged to line up and perform the "one-time bow" in homage to the founders of this cruel regime. It was just one of the prices we paid for admission.

Moping around communist monuments in the sun was finally beginning to wear me down. I was growing tired of listening to the ceaseless stream of nonsense about the Leader and seeing all those god-awful militant revolutionary monuments, and so I finally began to tune it all out.

Besides, I was more interested in the far-off view of the Pyongyang cityscape, with its enormous pyramid hotel that towered over everything. That strange black pyramid--that heartless shell--would begin to show up in more and more of my photographs. It mesmerized me. It lured me in. It was slowly becoming an obsession.

On the way back from the hills we drove past the former Presidential Palace of Great Leader Kim Il-Sung. According to an Australian businessman who joined our group from time to time and who does business with the regime, it was just one of several residences maintained by the Great Leader. Today it's a mausoleum where, thanks to the same Russian technology that brought us the eternal remains of Lenin and Chairman Mao, Kim Il-Sung's embalmed corpse is on permanent display.

Masses of local people were lined up in the entrance courtyard to file past the Great Leader and give the respectful "one-time bow", but unfortunately this wasn't on our itinerary. Apparently foreigners can be admitted, but it's difficult and must be arranged far in advance.

The Australian businessman also told me that no one knows where the current leader Kim Jong-Il lives. He's believed to move around between several residences for fear of assassination, and to have many mistresses.

I decided to test this notion with our minders later that day.

"Where does the Dear Leader live?" I asked, my voice tinged with the appropriate tones of respect. "And does he have a family?"

Both times the answer was a brisk "I don't know."

They either really didn't know--which I suspect is the case--or they weren't permitted to discuss it with us.

I found that rather strange. As recently as a month before my visit, the Asian edition of Time magazine published an old family photo of Kim Jong-Il with his wife and kids. His eldest son had been picked up at Tokyo's Narita airport while trying to sneak into Japan on a false passport in order to visit Tokyo Disneyland. The existence of his family was common knowledge in the outside world, but it was apparently a state secret within the country. I got the impression that to even speculate about it was forbidden.

I was bursting to tell our minders all about the Tokyo Disney bust, but slighting the Leader even innocuously was the one thing which would have gotten us in serious trouble in North Korea, and that was certain to place our lives at risk.

[Those interested in reading more will be fascinated by this link to a high level North Korean defector's report of Kim Jong-Il's residences and living conditions]