7. Upper Middle School and Leaving Home
A massive wildfire ravaged Daehongdan County (대홍단군) when I was in 5th grade at Yonpung Boys’ Upper Middle School (연풍남자고등중학교). Ignited by a cigarette discarded by a tractor driver, approximately 100 million square meters of forest were incinerated, leaving the mountain looking bald and barren.
The entire province mobilized for recovery efforts. Adult volunteers from factories and enterprises used trucks, tractors, and equipment to remove the roots of burnt trees and level the uneven ground. Meanwhile, students were assigned tasks such as furrowing with shovels and hoes and sowing seeds on the flattened terrain.
The Milk Vetch we planted is a medicinal herb commonly added to ginseng chicken soup (삼계탕). As a child, I would occasionally come across Milk Vetch roots while picking azalea petals in the mountains. Digging them up was quite a challenge. The roots, which could grow to be 50-70 cm long, extended vertically underground. Unlike potatoes or sweet potatoes, which grow horizontally and are easier to dig up, Milk Vetch roots require significant effort to unearth. The soil in Daehongdan County was surprisingly cooperative unlike the hardened mountainous soil mixed with gravel that I was accustomed to. The roots would often come out easily after just a bit of digging, thanks to the soil texture composed of volcanic ashes. This unique soil composition is a result of volcanic eruptions, which have left tens or even hundreds of kilometers of land around Paektu Mountain covered in white volcanic ashes or gravel, sometimes meters deep.
Volcanic gravel is excavated and transported in large trucks to various construction sites, where it is used as a substitute for regular gravel in cement concrete. In South Korea, agitator trucks transport ready-mixed concrete without including gravel. However, in North Korea, due to the probable scarcity of cement, a mixture of cement and gravel at a 50-50 ratio is commonly used.
In 1983, I was graduating from upper middle school. Nowadays, school typically begins on April 1st, but back then, September 1st marked the first day of school, with August 30th being graduation day.
In early May of that year, the government authorities called not only our school but also dozens of schools in the province to participate in the construction of a world-class Milk Vetch farm (황기농장) on the charred mountain. We prepared food and daily necessaries for the two-month stint and headed to the site. We shuddered at the prospect of having to spend two months, not a couple of days, in a remote area hundreds of kilometers away from Hyesan. Nevertheless, it was an absolute directive from the Party, tantamount to the commands of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il, and had to be carried out at all cost.
Both young students and adults were mobilized for sowing and harvesting, spanning a month or two in spring and fall, respectively. Additionally, there were occasional assignments such as road construction or tree planting that required participation over multiple days.
Life on Paektu Mountain was tough. In the span of a single day, we experienced everything from rain and wind to snow, followed by moments of clarity with rainbows, only for the cycle to repeat. The strong winds often carried volcanic ashes into our eyes, causing them to water as we worked to furrow the land.
Our lodging options included the farm’s resting room, propaganda room, or the households of local farmers. The recent blaze on the mountain left behind abundant fuel, which led to sufficient indoor heating. However, hunger was a constant and severe challenge. We relied on the provisions we had individually brought from home and the supplementary food provided by the farm, which typically consisted of potatoes, kimchi, and dried radish greens.
A typical meal, such as potato-rice (a mixture of the rice we brought from home and potatoes provided by the farm), served with dried radish leaf soup in a medium-sized bowl, fell far short of satisfying the voracious appetites of teenage boys. This was especially true given the strenuous nature of our work—removing tree roots and tilling the soil all day long in a mountain enveloped in acrid dark smog.
The snacks students brought from home typically lasted less than a week, and among them, the most effective for staving off hunger were taesik (태식) and mishi powder (미시가루). Taesik resembles small candy-like pieces and is made by boiling soybeans, perilla seeds, and yeot (엿), then cooling and cutting the mixture into edible pieces. Just a few of these could help alleviate hunger pangs. Mishi powder, on the other hand, is a blend of rice powder, wheat powder, and bean powder seasoned with sugar and salt. Consuming a cup of mishi (100g powder dissolved in warm water) or a few scoops of it guaranteed a source of energy.
Those from less fortunate families often went without snacks or relied on the kindness of their close friends. I fondly reminisced about the comforting evening scene at home, where warm bowls of rice, covered with a blanket to keep them hot, awaited us on the cozy ondol floor. My father, seated nearby, would be puffing on a marijuana pipe, anxiously awaiting the return of their children for dinner.
One day, an unexpected fortune smiled upon me, I was selected for military recruitment. Both the Chairperson of the Elementary Organization (초급단체위원장), equivalent to the Chairperson of the Union Division (분단위원장) of the elementary school, and myself, as Class President, were chosen to enlist in the spring recruitment cycle. These recruitments occurred twice a year, in spring and fall.
Selected candidates convened at the Military Mobilization Department (군사동원부), where they underwent multiple health check-ups in two phases and participated in an interview with the head or deputy head of the department. Those who passed these assessments were then assigned to different military units—air force, navy, or army. Finally, they received uniforms from the leading officers dispatched from their respective units and embarked on a decade-long journey.
The next day, after spending one final night with their families, the enlisted individuals boarded the train that would carry them on their long journey.
I was full of joy knowing I was exempted from the arduous farmwork and could return to my dearly missed parents and siblings in the third compartment of our six-compartment house. It was a time when I felt like I was floating, untethered, like a rubber balloon. Everything seemed fun, and I hardly noticed hunger, even as I skipped multiple meals. Ten or so days passed in a blur as I visited relatives to bid goodbye and hung out with friends.
Protecting the fatherland (조국보위) was considered the highest honor for a citizen of the DPRK at that time. Moreover, I wasn’t just enlisted as an average soldier, but as part of the special forces, which made me feel as though I were flying on a cloud.
While the Chairperson of the Elementary Organization held the top spot in the official hierarchy, I, as Class President, functioned as the de facto leader in all respects. Unlike the Chairperson’s primarily political role, my role required leading the organizational life of the entire class according to the guidance provided by our homeroom teacher, including setting and implementing rules. This responsibility demanded not only good academic performance but also strong ethics and physical prowess.
Interestingly, a teenager’s class, unlike that of an elementary school, is prone to undisciplined behavior and fragmentation if led by a weak Class President, likely due to the volatile and radical tendencies of the age group.
My class, Class 3, was formidable in every aspect. However, I can’t take sole credit for our success as a class president. Without the unwavering support of my homeroom teacher, Kim Jongok, and the cooperation of my classmates, I wouldn’t have been able to fulfill my role effectively.
Engaging in gang fights may no longer be prevalent today, but in the past, winning a bloody battle and emerging victorious was a surefire way to earn respect from both female and male students. Each of the six classes in the 5th year had a leader, or “kingpin,” who answered to someone older by 2-3 years. I held such a position, but I was part of a gang led by Brother Songhae (성해), who was renowned as the strongest in Hyesan at the time. My closest associate was Brother Ilgwang (일광), who was five years older than me and later enlisted in the liaison office with South Korea (대남연락소). Tall, handsome, and possessing charisma and nobility, he had the ability to captivate anyone. As his protege, I found myself in confrontations with other prominent figures in the city, such as Dong, Myongsong (동명성) or Jang, Gilryong (장길룡), who were four years my senior. This dynamic differed from the typical class kingpins who competed with peers of the same age.
I specifically recruited classmates who were well-dressed and came from respectable family backgrounds, leading them while following Brother Ilgwang’s guidance. The gang fights I participated in as the bold spearhead weren’t confined to schoolyard skirmishes but occurred at a higher level, facing off against “big brothers” who were 5-6, even 10 years older than me.
These confrontations were brutal and often took place under the cover of night. Sometimes, the gang leaders would arrange the location and timeframe in advance, while other times, they would launch sudden, unexpected attacks, resulting in bloody clashes. I frequently found myself drenched in blood, my school uniform stained from head to toe. However, the sense of accomplishment that followed a victory made it all worthwhile—the liquor poured by the big brothers, the shared cigarettes smoked into the night. The honor and pride I felt in those moments were beyond words.
No one emerges victorious in every fight. One day, as two other companions and I were making our way home, we were ambushed at a turn on the hill. Still basking in the euphoria of our recent triumph, we were seized by the rival gang and subjected to a brutal beating on our knees by around twenty members until we lost consciousness. Despite their efforts to force us to surrender, we refused, enduring the relentless onslaught until we were left battered and unconscious.
I have no recollection of how I managed to return home that day. Perhaps the assailants, after the altercation, showed a semblance of compassion and helped us to our respective homes. Despite the ferocity with which the opposing sides engaged in combat, it was followed by a display of gentlemanly conduct, with both parties releasing each other once the fight was over.
The next day, I was unable to attend school due to my injuries. Meanwhile, my gang members sought revenge that night by carrying out “Gijangdori (기장돌이)” on the house of Myongsong, the leader of the group that had attacked me the previous day. Gijangdori involves wreaking havoc on everything in retaliation for missing the intended target.
Reflecting on it now gives me chills, but at the time, I felt no fear. We used whatever we could lay our hands on—axes, saws, shovels, rope sticks, clubs, stones, and bricks—to destroy everything in sight. By the end of the rampage, only the walls and roof of Myongsong’s house remained intact; everything else lay in ruins. Windows, glass doors, and door frames were shattered, while furniture like the bedding cabinet and dresser were smashed to pieces. Even the kitchen furniture, including the rice kiln, was destroyed with hammers.
Although Myongsong’s associates managed to restore the house to its original state within a couple of days, the scene of devastation on the day of the attack was truly horrific.
Amidst the tumultuous events of my life, one notable gang leader tragically met his end before even reaching the age of 30. His younger brother, Gilsong, who was my age, began to assert himself, but he never quite reached the same level of prominence as his older brother.
In the summer of 1991, at a sushi restaurant near the Daedonggang district in Pyongyang, I experienced a strange mix of emotions as I unexpectedly encountered Myongsong, the leader of the gang that had assaulted me a decade earlier. At that time, I was visiting the restaurant with my army comrades to enjoy some cold raw fish noodles. I was nearing the end of my military service and held the position of commander of a company comprising 120 soldiers.
As I sat at the table, I couldn’t help but notice a distinguished and handsomely dressed man at the neighboring table casting frequent glances in my direction. His persistent scrutiny aroused a sense of curiosity, prompting me to pause my meal and return his gaze. To our mutual surprise, recognition flickered in both our eyes.
With a look of disbelief, he initiated conversation, “Excuse me, Special Task Officer (특무상사), are you from Hyesan by any chance?” The title “Special Task Officer” denotes a military rank responsible for overseeing both soldiers and officers within a company. Upon confirming his suspicion, he rushed over to me with palpable excitement, clasping my hand firmly. “You are indeed Sangil. I knew it!” he exclaimed.
The overwhelming emotion of encountering the very adversary from our violent past a decade ago was palpable. After introducing him to my comrades from the army, we resumed our meal together, bridging the gap that had once divided us in conflict.
“Hey, Myungsung,” I asked filling his glass with a drink. “Is it correct that the night I left my hometown to join the military, you clung onto the train, intent on ending my life with your own hands, and followed me all the way to Baekam Station? I heard that it was only thanks to the intervention of my commanding officer and fellow crew members that you were prevented from harming me.”
“Yes, indeed,” he admitted. “But let us not dwell on the past any longer.”
The fact that they pursued me relentlessly, even to a station ten stops away from my hometown, speaks volumes about the perceived threat I represented to them. It’s a stark reminder of the animosity that once existed between us and the lengths to which they were willing to go to confront it.
On the night I embarked on the journey to Pyongyang, the entire passenger compartment of the train was filled with around 80 enlistees under the name “Daesongsan (대성산).” This name holds significant meaning, referring to a place in Pyongyang where revolutionary partisans from the Kim Il Sung era are enshrined. The military headquarters to which I was later assigned is also located in the same region.
Gwangil, another selectee, and I were attired in fancy Soviet-style equestrian uniforms. It was indeed a remarkable achievement that two students from my class, out of the six classes in our year, were chosen by the Guard Command (호위사령부) to travel to Pyongyang, the capital of revolution.
It’s interesting how our paths intertwined with those from our past. Just like the unexpected encounter with Myongsong, I also stumbled upon Gwangil at a restaurant in Gwangbok street of Pyongyang, around the same time. Despite enlisting together with me, Gwangil came from a reputable family background, thanks to his father’s influence, he was discharged after only five years of service. He then pursued studies at Pyongyang Architecture University (평양건설건재대학) and commuted from his wife’s residence within Pyongyang.
Among the 80 enlistees aboard the train on May 23, 1983, there was one female soldier, Yang, Gumhee (양금희). Her father happened to be the principal of the People’s school where I graduated, and we later served at the same post.