Sangil #19

16. Decade of Smuggling that led to Imprisonment

I worked as a Taekwondo instructor for six years, and those days were very busy. At work, I often had to write dozens of pages, and during teaching hours, I trained with my students, losing track of time. After work, my schedule was even more hectic. As the head of a family, I couldn’t afford to have a job that didn’t provide any income or food.

My first smuggling venture began as a member of a group led by Yun Chul, who lived in my village. The first item I smuggled was 1.8 kg of seshin (asaroum).

Seshin is a mint-scented herb that, when placed in a room, produces a strong smell that can repel insects. While other smugglers were bringing in dozens or even hundreds of kilograms of goods, I only had 1.8 kilograms, which was all I owned. I joined about ten other smugglers at the Aprok River.

We stripped down, wrapped our clothes around our necks, and crossed the river with help from a border guard who was in on the plan. To keep the dry herbs from getting wet, I packed them in a large plastic bag.

We arrived at the house of a Korean Chinese man named Kim Chun-bok, located 500 meters across the river. Several other smugglers were already there. Each person weighed their items on a scale and chose what they wanted to take home in exchange. We were warned not to visit local shops or restaurants, as it would increase the risk of getting caught by the Chinese police.

Instead, various products in high demand among North Koreans were stored in large warehouses at his house. If we needed to buy something from a local shop, we would change into Chinese-style clothes and go to the store downtown, ensuring we didn’t speak a word while we were there.

I decided to go to a downtown store with the others. Since I couldn’t afford large items, I browsed the smaller products and found a men’s magnetic belt. At that time, these belts were popular in North Korea and sold well in cities like Pyongyang, Hamheung, and Wonsan. That day, I bought 30 of them.

My fellow smugglers laughed and teased me, wondering what kind of toy I was buying. They had the means to purchase hundreds or even thousands of belts. Instead, they chose larger home appliances like TVs and recorders. While the recorders were new, all the TVs were used. There were new models available, but they were too expensive to leave any profit margin for resale in North Korea.

They returned home with heavy, bulky luggage, while I came back with just a small plastic bag. When we counted our profits, the person who struggled to carry two TVs across the river barely made enough to buy three TVs on his next trip. In contrast, I made enough profit to buy 60, 90, or even 100 of the belts I had bought after selling my 30 belts wholesale in the market.

Crossing into another country for the first time was incredible, but what shocked me even more was the huge profit I made on that first smuggling trip. I thought, “Why didn’t I start sooner?” and decided I’d continue smuggling to support my family and friends.

Back then, we’d usually depart around 8 or 9 p.m. and return by midnight, though sometimes we wouldn’t get back until 4 or 5 a.m. Some trips stretched over ten days. As my smuggling load grew, I even started making two or three border crossings in a single night, often wrapping up just by 6:30 a.m.

I crossed the border about once a day, visiting China around 300 times each year, except during major holidays or special crackdowns in North Korea and China. Over my 10 years of smuggling, I crossed the border over 3,000 times. People who started earlier than me likely crossed it more than 10,000 times.

In Hyesan City, around 30-40% of the population was involved in either domestic metal sales or direct smuggling with China. In my neighborhood along the Aprok River, nearly every household engaged in smuggling.

With the profits from my smuggling, I purchased 20 kilograms of seshin, divided it into two burlap bags, and transported it with my wife. Moving goods required extra caution because inspectors across the city conducted random searches of luggage and people’s belongings.

Reflecting on it now, my life in my 30s and early 40s feels like a miracle. I was constantly busy—working by day as a Taekwondo instructor and by night as a smuggler, crossing the Aprok River. I usually managed only 4-5 hours of sleep, sometimes pulling all-nighters, but my life went according to plan.

My wife worked as tirelessly as I did. The goods that crossed the river at night or dawn were quickly transported to the wholesaler’s house by cargo truck, yet she was always the one selecting and preparing the items for each night’s trip to China.

In these transactions, trust was everything. Generosity in the short term brought greater rewards over time. When I approached deals with punctuality, commitment, and even a willingness to take the smaller share, blessings often came back to me tenfold.

Smugglers traveled in groups and usually had a strong sense of loyalty, sticking together for years, sharing both joy and hardship. Groups ranged from 3-4 to as many as 20-30 people. About two months after I began smuggling, however, I decided to go my own way.

In each smuggling group, there was usually a leader. Although the hierarchy wasn’t as strict as in the military, following his orders and watching my actions felt restrictive.

After much thought, I sat down with my team over drinks and explained my situation. I asked if I could operate separately, explaining that my day job limited my flexibility. Since we were already friends before our partnership, they understood and respected my request.

This was how I formed my own smuggling team. It grew in reputation on both sides of the river, to the point that Chinese contacts at the riverside would compete to host my team, which became known as the “Taekwondo team.”

As the leader, I needed to be several times more diligent than others. I had to coordinate with a cooperating soldier about the time, location, and number of people crossing the border and check each member’s luggage before departure. Planning for a safe journey didn’t just mean crossing the border—it included securing our route from home to the riverside. This route, known as the secondary layer of protection, required escort personnel from the Department of Security, the Department of Safety, or even prosecution to ensure smooth passage.

During the river crossing, a young and strong person would cross upstream first, establishing a path. We held each other’s hands, with women in the middle, bracing against the current. Once we reached the far bank, I or a quick-footed member would enter the client’s house first, while the others waited, hidden in the forest.

The Chinese contact would also come out to check for public security or border guards before we finally met.

In the snowy winter, the crunch of footsteps on snow sounded almost like explosions in the quiet. In the fall, the dry leaves would crackle beneath our feet, echoing sharply in the silence.

In the pitch-darkness, it was nearly impossible to see what lay just ahead. But when I lay flat on the ground and looked up at an angle, the faint outline of a building or a person against the dim sky would come into view, blurred but recognizable.

Rainy nights were the safest for crossing—the guards on both sides rarely stayed outside in the rain. Snowy days, however, were dangerous. On such days, we covered ourselves in large white cloths to blend in with the snow, moving slowly and silently. Once, we passed within four or five meters of a guard without being noticed.

I remembered how, during my military service, working the night shift had revealed something curious—the colder the night, the sleepier I would get.

When a smuggling alert went out, Chinese guards would patrol the area, and sometimes even groups of armed soldiers would scour the border, capturing any smugglers they found. On the North Korean side, a permanent guard post stood near the riverbank, where soldiers worked in two-hour shifts. Seasoned officers, familiar with the smuggling routine, enjoyed small treats—alcohol, beer, chicken feet, sausages, or eggs—brought by smugglers. Younger soldiers, often napping or intentionally dozing off, were content with items like canned beer or Chinese cigarettes tossed their way by their superiors.

Crossing back into North Korea was more challenging than crossing into China. Complicit soldiers on our side would use a prearranged signal, varying each time to avoid detection; there was once an incident where smugglers were caught for reusing the same signal. Signals ranged from a flashing red or green light in the sky to a rock thrown at a specific spot in the Aprok River.

Once safely back, we stashed our goods in a quiet public building, a private house, or occasionally hid them in the mountains near where the cargo trucks would meet us. This final leg required the utmost care, as any sign of our activities could bring unwanted attention.

Each member was free to choose the items they’d bring to China, and once sales were completed in North Korea, I would collect protection fees from each member and pass these on to the respective soldiers. Over time, as trust grew, the soldiers no longer collected the protection fees immediately but left their accumulated earnings at my house. Over the years, these sums grew into a considerable amount. When they were discharged, this money often went toward getting married, buying a house, purchasing furniture, or even a motorcycle; what remained filled a large bag. Some soldiers even called home in advance, having their families transport money and goods months before their discharge.

Toward the end of their service, some soldiers would bribe brigade personnel or cadres in the Pyongyang command to secure a recommendation for the Security University, often returning to the same base later as officers.

Friends who held key positions in special enforcement agencies, such as the prosecution and Ministry of Security, also lent invaluable support to my smuggling operations, offering assistance and protection when needed.

One day, Kang Sung-sam, a prosecutor who was very close to me, visited my house. I quickly set up a rough table in an empty room while my wife was away, and we sat down together. After a long silence, he opened his imported leather briefcase with a serious expression and handed me a 10-page document, urging me to be cautious.

The document was a detailed report listing my smuggling activities in chronological order. Reading it felt like flipping through photographs or watching a movie of my life. He didn’t show me the page with the reporter’s name, but as I read, I could guess when and who had reported me. Respecting his request, I refrained from pursuing the reporter but resolved to be more vigilant moving forward.

Had that record been submitted to a higher authority or a different department, I could have easily vanished one night, only to end up beaten in a dark room behind bars.

Among those who played a crucial role in my smuggling operations was Lt. Col. Bang Dong-chol from the provincial Safety Bureau. I first met him when he caught me with a substantial load of metal intended for smuggling. I ended up paying him 50% of my profit, a heavy loss, but that incident forged our partnership. Now, armed with a pistol and wearing his military uniform, he sat in the passenger seat of a large cargo truck, ensuring our safe passage to the riverside.

One day, under his leadership, we transported logs in two trucks and worked throughout the night to send them across the Aprok River to China, tied up into rafts. Around 7 o’clock in the morning, people on their way to work paused to watch our operation, intrigued by the unusual sight.

Even before the death of Kim Il Sung in 1994, smuggling already existed during the 1970s and 1980s, a period when I was still a student. Back then, the scale was small, and smuggling often took on a playful nature between individuals. However, it began to grow rapidly and flourished from the early 1990s.

Since my defection in 2018, border controls between North Korea and China have become extremely strict, with around 95% of smuggling now blocked. Nevertheless, I believe that smuggling once revived North Korea’s stagnant economy and played a critical role in sustaining people’s livelihoods.

Once-thriving industrial and grocery stores in North Korea had remained closed and empty for years, but at some point, wealthy individuals began restocking the shelves using their own money. Although the government took a portion of each month’s income, store owners retained the rest. The stores were filled with hundreds or even thousands of products, most of which were made in China. Household utensils, such as spoons and chopsticks, were almost entirely replaced by Chinese goods. Based on my memory, the only domestic items commonly found in Hyesan stores were axes for cutting wood. On national holidays, products like bog blueberry wine and jelly from the Hyesan Bog Blueberry Processing Factory would occasionally make an appearance.

In inland areas beyond the border cities, 60-70% of goods were Chinese, while 20-30% were produced domestically.

Ultimately, countless daily necessities were brought in from China through smuggling, often secured through the life-risking efforts of smugglers. This illicit trade helped marketplaces—primarily run by young women—to flourish, providing food and essentials for many lives each day.

I brought various items into China, including gold, silver, otter skin, badger skin, raccoon skin, rabbit skin, dogs, goats, sheep, pigs, nutrias, a bear cub, various medicinal herbs, fruit, seafood, fish, logs, antiques, tiger skin and bones, stainless steel, scrap iron, aluminum, cobalt, manganese, nickel, pobedit, copper, mercury, osmium (Os), ytterbium (Yb), lithium (Li), and more.

However, I never dealt with weapons, bullets, opium, methamphetamine, cocaine, uranium, or plutonium.

Restaurants often operated with rice and meat supplied by smugglers, and those who profited from smuggling provided opportunities for the less fortunate to beg for money. Factories were kept running thanks to the oil brought in overnight by smugglers in quantities of 50kg to 200kg, and tractors in rice fields resumed operation due to their efforts.

Pesticides for fruit trees and crops on cooperative farms and private gardens were also brought in from China. I take pride in my role as a smuggler because I believe that tens of millions of North Koreans survived thanks to people like me, who transported every essential item for daily life.

There were times when I went without a minute’s sleep in a 24-hour period while smuggling. I also endured painful experiences, such as losing companions to the Aprok River or to the gunpoints of Chinese border guards and police. Yet, there were moments of hope and camaraderie, where we dreamed of a brighter future together. Our mutual loyalty was unbreakable, forged by risking our lives side by side, never knowing what each day might bring. We became like blood brothers, sharing the struggles and challenges our households faced.

I once spent months working on a deal to sell ytterbium. The sample I carried with me was verified by the Beijing Military Academy, but ultimately, the transaction fell through because higher authorities in Pyongyang refused to release the material. If it had gone through, it would have been the most expensive item I handled during my 10 years of smuggling, as the bargaining price for 1 kg of ytterbium was immense, reaching millions of yuan in Chinese currency.

Another deal that I failed to close involved the ‘Map of Geumgangsan Mountain (금강산총전도),’ a masterpiece created by the Mansudae Art Studio (만수대창작사) in Pyongyang. It was a 12-panel folding screen, each panel measuring 1.2 meters in height and 60 centimeters in width. I had negotiated a price of $200,000 in China, while the seller’s asking price was only $50,000, which would have allowed me to pocket a significant profit. However, the owner ultimately backed out, likely believing he could secure a better deal through another smuggling channel.

On one occasion, a bald man in his mid-40s wearing high-quality gold-rimmed glasses visited Hyesan. He was a relative of my brother’s wife, a medical doctor employed by the Chosun Workers’ Party History Research Institute (조선로동당역사연구소) in South Hwanghae Province. While there are many people with doctorate degrees globally, in North Korea, they are relatively rare and thus held in high regard.

When I visited my younger brother, his wife mentioned that this relative had been trying unsuccessfully to close a deal in Hyesan for six months. During that time, he borrowed a substantial amount of money from my brother and his wife, but she expressed doubt that they would ever see it repaid.

Determined to find him, I asked about the relative’s whereabouts and learned that he was staying at the home of a well-known gang member. When I visited, my appearance caught them off guard. At the time, I was quite well-known as a Taekwondo director, and people tended to behave cautiously around me.

When they saw me, they were visibly startled. As we sat around a hastily prepared drinking table, I listened to their story. They expressed deep regret for not being able to repay my brother.

The product the relative had brought was snake venom, stored in a double-layered 250g glass bottle reportedly made in Japan. Inside, it contained shiny, yellow, ice-like crystals. The venom was said to be extracted and processed from venomous vipers, such as the mamushi. 

Even without my request, they suggested that I hold onto a bottle of snake venom until the deal was finalized and the debt was repaid. The value of the bottle was said to be dozens of times greater than the amount the relative had borrowed from my brother.

I declined the offer. I didn’t like the idea of having poison in my possession, and I also felt sympathy for the relative, who had been living off a stranger away from his hometown for six months. Instead, I requested that my sister’s money be repaid once the deal was completed.

Two months later, he finally closed the deal. Cleared of the dishonorable reputation of being a fraud in Hyesan City, he packed two large trunks with Chinese money and quietly headed back to Pyongyang. Before leaving, he repaid all the money he had borrowed from my sister’s household, as well as debts owed to others, along with a generous amount of interest. I am unsure exactly how many kilograms of snake venom they had at the time.

When I visited the relative, he asked me to trust him and showed me credentials from his briefcase. I believe it was these credentials, issued by the Central Party, that enabled them to venture deep into China’s interior and complete the transaction safely.

There are also many interesting stories related to smuggling. While the tradition of eating dog meat has nearly disappeared in South Korea, it remains a part of dietary customs in North Korea and China, where dog meat soup is consumed during the summer for its perceived invigorating properties.

The demand for North Korean dogs in China was high, as was the demand for pigs, sheep, goats, cows, and other livestock. When I asked why Chinese buyers preferred North Korean animals despite China’s vast land and abundant livestock, I was told that North Korean meat was considered tastier. This was attributed to Chinese livestock being fed on fodder, making them rich in fat, whereas North Korean animals grazed on grass and natural foods, resulting in leaner, more flavorful meat.

Goats and sheep are sold by weight, but dogs are priced based on their size and fur color rather than their weight. Among dogs of the same size, those with yellow fur and a yellowish nose are the most expensive, with prices ranging from 80 yuan to over 100 yuan. White and spotted dogs are less expensive, while black dogs are priced the lowest.

I could manage to transport up to 10 dogs and 40 to 50 goats by myself. Dogs and goats are quite timid, often running together when people run and walking together when people walk. Goats, sheep, and pigs are safe to move at night, but dogs should not be transported after dark. At night, dogs tend to bark even at the faintest sound or dim light.

As for goats, the largest, oldest goat with thick, long, crooked horns leads the herd, and 40-50 goats will follow behind.

On a dark night, if I wore a white cloth or a ski suit and walked ahead, dozens of goats would follow me, mistaking me for their leader.

Goats are reluctant to dip their first foot in the river. However, once you give the first goat a nudge by kicking it in the rear, it will plunge into the water, and the rest of the goats will follow. As you cross the Aprok River, which is about 70-100 meters wide, you can simply grab the horns of the first goat, and the others will follow in a long line. By the time the first goat reaches the foot of Chinese soil, the last goat is stepping into the river, aided by the North Korean soldier at the river’s edge. On a dark night, looking over the river, a long line of white goats crossing is truly a picturesque sight.

I once led a flock of about 60 goats across the river. Halfway through, I turned around to find a commotion as the goats had scattered, breaking the line. The river had swelled due to heavy rain that day, and the current was swift. I pushed the lead goat to the Chinese side, as it had already crossed halfway. Then, I turned around, gathered the rest of the goats, and led them safely to the foot of Chinese soil. When I reached the riverbank, dozens of goats had gathered around, their bodies dripping wet.

896)But I didn’t see the lead goat with the long, curved horns. This precious goat had been brought the day before, having traveled hundreds of li from Gilju in North Hamkyong Province. It was the largest goat I had ever traded, weighing 83 kg. Perhaps it was exhausted from swimming in the strong current and drifted away. Goats float well, so I believe it must have crossed the river at some point and reached the shore. I lost my heaviest and largest goat, but I still made a good profit that day.

Goats don’t gain much weight if they’re only fed grass in the forest. I provided them with a special, delicious meal. If you put dried whole corn in a bowl, the goats will rush to eat it with a crunch. If you cut up potatoes, they’ll munch on those as well. I also fed them salt. When I gave them tobacco, they accepted it eagerly. I even made sticky porridge and fed it to them. I usually gave them this special meal an hour before crossing the river so they would weigh more when they reached China. 

At the time, many poor people couldn’t even afford cornmeal porridge or potatoes, yet I had to feed animals with such food to increase profits. Chinese merchants who bought animals from us were aware of this practice to boost the animals’ weight. Still, they didn’t lose out financially, as they purchased from us at low prices and sold the animals with their own markup.

I once traded nearly two tons of metal. There were cadre members from the State Security Department in Pyongyang who arrived in town carrying a large quantity of metal on the train. These officials sold metals to my team, which they had confiscated while cracking down on smuggling. The total amount of metals confiscated from all over the country was enormous. The officials were visiting the Kim Il Sung’s historic sites on Paekdu mountain, and on the way, they brought a portion of the metal so that they could use the profit for their personal expenses.

I was informed that they were looking for a reliable smuggling team with secure routes who could handle transactions quietly and efficiently. They sought a team with enough financial resources to pay for the metals upfront.

Upon receiving the call, I instructed my team members to gather as much money as possible. Unlike common scrap iron, these were expensive rare metals, so we needed significant funds. The metals included copper, nickel, pobedit, molybdenum, cobalt, and manganese. Cobalt was the most expensive, followed by molybdenum, manganese, nickel, pobedit, and copper. Although the combined funds from our roughly 15-member team fell short, we managed to negotiate a slight reduction in the purchase price through bargaining and secured some of the metals on credit.

We delivered the unpaid amount at 11 p.m. that evening in the forest. We mobilized many porters to transport the metals to the riverside, making multiple trips to move the two tons of metals. The Chinese merchant crossed the river using a rubber boat and transported the metals away. The rubber boat was essentially a large rubber tire tube with a diameter of about three meters; by placing wooden boards on it, we could load up to one or two tons.

While we typically earned more when traveling to and from China ourselves, we sometimes opted for one-way transactions due to urgency or safety concerns. The sale of metals acquired from the State Security Department officials that day was one such case, as we had to quickly settle the outstanding payment. Despite this, the business was highly profitable since it involved a large quantity of valuable metals.

One day, around 20 members of my team crossed the river in broad daylight and conducted business at the home of our Chinese partner, Kim Chun-bok, located roughly 200 meters from the riverbank. After weighing and verifying the goods each of us brought and completing our transactions, we decided to rest in the orchard next to his house. It was a hot summer day, so we unfolded cardboard boxes, spread out under the shade of a large apple tree, and enjoyed a drinking party. Although public security officers and border guards occasionally patrolled the area, they generally did not intervene unless local residents filed a report.

As we relaxed, cooling off our sweat and enjoying our food and drinks, gunshots suddenly rang out from the roadside about 100 meters behind the village. Within 2-3 minutes, the entire apple orchard—spanning no more than two football fields—was surrounded by police. Four police trucks pulled up, and dozens of armed public security officers began closing in on us. Then, to our surprise, Gyu-min appeared in front of us.

Jung-cheol was a highly intelligent man who endured great personal tragedy. While in college, he was separated from a woman he loved due to her parents’ disapproval. In despair, they attempted to end their lives together by dousing themselves in gasoline. However, when Jung-cheol lit the flame, the woman pushed him away and fled. He suffered third-degree burns and miraculously survived, but his face and body were severely scarred, leaving him with a haunting appearance.

In Hyesan, nearly everyone knew of Jung-cheol. His resilience and mental strength made him an effective and determined smuggler. On this occasion, he was being pursued by the police after a local resident reported him. In desperation, he stumbled upon our group in the orchard, hoping it would provide a hiding place.

Of the four directions—east, west, north, and south—the only escape route led east, toward the Aprok River, which faced North Korea. In the other three directions, Chinese police were tightening their siege, weapons at the ready. Our group quickly scrambled to their feet and ran for the river. Some were shirtless, others barefoot, all fleeing as fast as they could. By the time I ensured everyone had scattered in the chaos, it was too late for me to follow without drawing the police’s attention, which would have put everyone at risk.

Thinking quickly, I hurled a few beer bottles and bowls in the opposite direction of the Aprok River, creating a diversion. Then, I crawled through the low-hanging fruit trees until I reached the backyard of my Chinese partner’s house and climbed up a four-meter tall chimney.

I climbed about 2.5 meters up the chimney and squeezed into the triangular space between the roof tile supports and the house ceiling. Inside, an electrical cord stretched across the space, and I took care to avoid it as I settled in and hid. Outside, I could hear the police angrily exchanging words with my business partner and then running toward the Aprok River, shouting ‘Stop!’ I didn’t know the Chinese word for ‘stop’ initially, but over time, I picked it up naturally, having been chased by Chinese police so often during my smuggling activities.

That day, all 20 of us, including Jung-cheol, successfully crossed the river unharmed. After about 30 minutes, the police left the scene in four military trucks, having failed to apprehend a single smuggler. Chunbok and his wife were visibly shaken by the sudden commotion. When the police left and I came down the chimney and opened the door of the house, they were very surprised.

Hey, Taekwondo! What’s going on? How on earth are you still here without crossing the river or getting caught? Did you suddenly fly into the sky? Did you sink into the ground? Or did you use some kind of magic to contract space?’

‘Thank goodness no one was caught at my house today! Imagine what could have happened otherwise.’

In cases where smugglers are caught, the Chinese host must pay a hefty fine of 3,000 yuan per person, while the informant receives a reward. The initial commotion that started in the back village spread to my business partner’s residence, but he emerged unscathed.

Feeling relieved, I cracked open a can of beer and drank it with satisfaction before heading back to the river alone. Before leaving, I assured him I’d bring my team members back within a few minutes and asked him to keep watch on the situation back in the village. 

When I crossed back over the river to North Korea, I found all of my team members gathered in the forest along the railroad track, having been intercepted by border guard soldiers on duty. The lower-ranking soldiers had reportedly asked them which smuggling team they belonged to. This was because nearly all smugglers had some sort of arrangement with the guards. If a smuggler caught by low-ranking soldiers happened to be connected to a superior officer, it could lead to serious trouble for the junior soldiers. When my team told them they were part of the ‘Taekwondo team,’ which I was known for at the time, the soldiers chose to keep them on standby.

From a surveillance post hundreds of meters away on the Chinese side, the soldiers had been closely observing the situation, including the gunfire and the intense pursuit by the Chinese police. They awaited further instructions from their superiors while also anticipating my arrival, which they expected to happen soon.

It seemed I had arrived just as the soldiers had expected. I asked the young soldiers for some time while I went up to the platoon to settle the matter, assuring them that no harm would come to them. After climbing the trail for several hundred meters, I requested to meet with Ryu Min-chol, my Kabagun (guaranting serviceman, colluter), from the sentry.

Ryu Min-Chol, the security instructor (보위지도원) of the 3rd Platoon, had been a boxer in his school days and graduated from the National Security University in Gangseo, South Pyongan Province. Members of the Security Department are among the most influential figures at the border guard base.

Ahn, who was the same age as me, lived in a nearby village, and his daughter was about the same age as my son. His wife was gentle, modest, and compassionate. With a passionate, copper-colored complexion, a slightly receding hairline, and distinct features, he had a strong and likable manly presence. 

After a while, Ryu Min-Chol appeared in front of the guard post. He didn’t seem surprised at all. Instead, he smiled confidently and said, ‘Did you get into trouble again? I believe you were the one who caused the commotion earlier today on the other side, right?’

Although Ahn was the ultimate guarantor for the smuggling, he wasn’t aware of my regular crossings, as it was his subordinates who handled the logistics of the border crossings each time. However, he had been briefed on the situation by a subordinate who was monitoring the area through a magnifying telescope. Ahn mentioned that he had expected no one else but the ‘Taekwondo team’ to be bold enough to stride across China in such large numbers and still manage to evade the police.

I explained that the disturbance had been caused by Gyu-min, who was being chased by the police, not by our group. I added that when we crossed the river in a hurry, everyone had left their luggage behind, and so we had to cross again. Ryu Min-Chol stopped me from going further, warning that the Chinese police, who had been dispatched after receiving a report, were likely monitoring the area with cameras installed by the river. He advised me to wait until early evening.

Later, as dusk approached, I went down to the river and shouted across. Back then, if I shouted loudly from the North Korean side, even if my partner couldn’t hear the words clearly, he would still open the window to see who was calling, since his house was only 200 meters from the river. When I signaled for him to come out, he did. I reassured him that all my team members were safe and asked him to immediately send beer, snacks, watermelons, and cigarettes, as I needed to show some gratitude to the soldiers on duty.

About five minutes later, my business partner appeared again on his motorcycle, with the requested food packed in a box. He tied the plastic bag with the food to a rope, attached a rock to the end, and threw it across the river. When I picked up the rock and pulled the rope, the package of food reached us on the North Korean side within a minute or two.

I opened the package right there and shared a few cans of beer and some snacks, like dried octopus, with my team. The rest of the food I gave to the two soldiers. The new recruits, who had only been in the army for a year or two, rarely received any gifts, not even a pack of cigarettes, unlike their superiors who made a lot of money from smugglers. So, when I handed them a row of cigarette packs, it was a huge boon for them. They treated me with great respect in return.

That evening, my team made a quick trip to China and returned within 10 minutes with all of our luggage that had been left behind. My Chinese partner had packed everything and arranged it for easy carrying, just as I had requested.

The luggage I carried that day was women’s stockings, which, though bulky, were very light. I believe I carried around 30,000 pairs that day. Other smugglers typically carried over 40 to 60 kg of cargo, including heavy items like televisions and recorders. My load, however, was only about 20 kg. Throughout my smuggling years, I generally preferred to carry small, numerous items that wouldn’t break or get damaged if thrown during a chase. I also sought items that remained usable even if exposed to water and were in high demand nationwide. The unit cost was low, but the profit margin was high.

One of the people who helped me during my smuggling operations was Kim Song-min, the head of the Border Security Regiment’s security department. On one occasion, I was caught along with about 10 others by undercover soldiers—about 10 of them—just as we were about to climb up the riverbank to cross. We were accompanied by our cover soldier, but the undercover agents were organized by a different company, with personnel I had no connection to.

A dozen bright battery-powered lights shone on us, accompanied by the sound of guns being loaded. We were frozen in place, with no way to escape the scene. The only route of escape was the river. I jumped down a 5-meter slope and plunged into the water. Two soldiers quickly followed me, while the rest of my group knelt, waiting on standby. The remaining soldiers on the bank used their lights to illuminate the path of the soldiers in the water, chasing after me. The distance between us fluctuated, sometimes wide, other times narrow.

In some areas, the water reached my waist, while in others, it was chest-high or even over my head. Fortunately, I was able to navigate the river without issue, having crossed it hundreds of times before and knowing the shallower paths.

I finally reached the foot of the Chinese side. The two soldiers who had been chasing me had crossed past the halfway point, but then their superior shouted at them to stop and called them back to the North Korean side.

I quickly crossed back into North Korea through the Hwajeon Company’s section, about 500 meters up. I was familiar with most of the soldiers in this section, except for a few new enlistees, so I had no trouble.

From a distance, they had seen the chase from the company further down the river, and when I told them I had been running from the pursuit in the lower part of the river, they seemed concerned.

I clambered through a 300-400 meter stretch of sloping thorny forest to reach the village, where I called the families of my members who had been caught. The husbands and wives of my smuggling team gathered together, and I explained the situation to them while preparing for the rescue operation.

It was impossible for all of them to escape from the current company’s barracks because the brigade security department had already been notified after the arrest. I planned the first escape while they were being transported from the Songbong Company’s barracks to the Yeonpung Police Station. If that didn’t work, I would try to get them out after they arrived at the police station.

The captives were scheduled to be sent to the Yeonpung Police Station at 9 am, so the families of my team members were instructed to wait at designated locations, maintaining communication with each other.

Half of our members were eventually released while being transported, their hands tied. This was only possible after paying two armed convoy soldiers large sums of money. I had hoped to rescue all of them, but the convoy soldiers said they couldn’t release everyone. It wasn’t about the money; they explained that they would get in trouble if they returned empty-handed, without any captives. I understood their situation.

Eventually, the remaining five members had to wait until they reached the Yeonpung Police Station, where the convoy soldiers obtained a certificate of offender transfer. After paying a large bribe to the police station’s Party Cell Secretary, the remaining five were finally freed. The items we were carrying when we got caught were mainly copper, and the sum was quite large. Initially confiscated by the Songbong Company, we managed to recover 50% of it.

It is often said that smuggling starts with nothing and ends with nothing. It’s a vicious cycle of futility: we cry and laugh because of the huge sums of money earned, but then we cry again after losing a significant amount. Half or even 80% of the money is confiscated when we get caught, and in cases like this, a large amount of money must be spent to rescue those who are arrested.

We were celebrating the release of all the members, treating the party secretary who allowed the second release to a nice meal, when I received urgent news. It was reported that, after learning about the transfer of the Songbong Company’s smugglers, Colonel (대좌) Kim Song-min, the regiment head of the security department ordered for my search and capture. 

Without hesitation, I visited Kim Song-min’s house around 10 p.m. that night, even though we had never met before. He had two daughters around my children’s ages, and his wife was a slim beauty. She told me that her husband had not yet returned from work. When I explained that I was his friend and would wait outside, she invited me in and offered me a seat.

The house was well-equipped, which wasn’t surprising considering that the head of the regiment’s security department oversaw dozens of security instructors, all of whom would likely pay bribes to him.

About half an hour later, I heard Kim Song-min’s footsteps as he entered the house. Upon seeing me, he asked his wife who I was. She looked at him and then at me, seemingly confused, before responding, “He said he was your friend…” I stood up and apologized for intruding. Kim Song-min paused for a moment, then asked, “Are you Taekwondo, by any chance?

I replied, “Yes, I’m the Taekwondo,” and quickly greeted him by grabbing his hand. I repeatedly thanked his wife, who still looked nervous, for her hospitality.

That day, I went to Kim Song-min’s house empty-handed. He was the one who had ordered my arrest, but I thought to myself, “Surely, he wouldn’t arrest someone who came directly to his house, and not even to the military base?”

Kim Song-min, looking somewhat at ease, asked his wife to prepare some food as we sat down. To my surprise, a large table was soon laid out, brimming with foreign liquor and an array of luxurious dishes. The feast lasted two hours, and by the end of it, we had formed a bond. From that day onward, Kim Song-min began calling me “big brother” and treated me with the respect that implied.

Though he never visited my house—likely due to his position as a high-ranking cadre—I frequently found myself at his home instead.

Whenever I visited Kim Song-min’s house, he made it a point to ensure that his wife and daughters treated me with the utmost respect, addressing me as “Big Uncle.” His beautiful wife, a former member of an art troupe, always brightened the atmosphere with her warm and friendly demeanor. In hindsight, I believe Kim Song-min was impressed by how decisively I handled the situation surrounding his arrest order, which likely contributed to the bond we formed.

One day, a friend from my school days introduced me to an acquaintance—President Kang, who managed a company jointly run with China. Kang came to me with an unusual request. His wife had traveled to China on a three-month visa to visit a relative, but six months had passed, and she had yet to return. Concerned, his mother-in-law wanted to go to China herself to find her daughter. Kang asked for my help in smuggling her across the Aprok River at night, promising substantial compensation in return.

I gave the matter serious thought, knowing the risks involved. Human trafficking and defections were rampant in the border area at the time, and helping someone cross illegally could easily land me in trouble. After hours of contemplation, I decided to help—but I firmly refused to accept any compensation.

Five days later, President Kang brought his mother-in-law to my house. In South Korea, people in their 70s and 80s are often active and independent, but in North Korea, where conditions were much harsher, her mid-70s had left her frail and barely able to walk.

Her appearance made it clear she wasn’t crossing the border for business. This raised the obvious suspicion that her motive for crossing the river was political. Initially, I planned to carry her across at night, thinking it would be safer under the cover of darkness. However, after much deliberation with Ryu Min-chol, I changed my mind. It was too risky—if something went wrong while carrying an elderly woman across the river at night, I would be held entirely responsible. Ultimately, we decided it would be safer to attempt the crossing in daylight.

As I prepared to cross the river, Ryu Min-chol temporarily withdrew the guards from the area to ensure a clear path. Before setting out, I used my Chinese cell phone to contact my business partner, confirming that he was waiting in his car at the riverbank on the Chinese side.

Crossing the 100-meter river against the current while carrying someone weighing around 50–60 kilograms was no easy task. The riverbed was slippery, and the effort required was immense. In hindsight, traveling at night would have been far too dangerous—I could have easily slipped and caused an accident.

When we finally made it across, she was visibly shaken. Her lower body and part of her upper body were soaked, but she managed a smile of relief. My partner drove us to his house, where she could change into dry clothes and regain her composure. I asked him to contact her relative in China, and once I was sure she was safe, I made my way back to North Korea.

Kang’s mother-in-law, who had promised to return after seven days, did not show up at the border on the appointed day. Ten days passed, then fifteen. Finally, on the 20th day, I received word that she had returned to the border.

During those 20 days, Ryu Min-chol and I lived as if we were staring death in the face. No one had seen her cross, but if she had chosen to defect and settled in China, Japan, or South Korea, and later appeared at a press conference, both of us would have faced certain execution.

While we waited, Ryu Min-chol often came to my house after work instead of going home. We would drink together for about an hour, both of us tense with anxiety. A man of few words, Ryu rarely spoke, but I could feel the weight of his unease. All he ever said was, “She should return in time,” before lapsing into silence, nursing his drink.

For me, those 20 days felt like an eternity—each day stretched into what felt like 10 or 20 years. The stress was unbearable, and I lost 7 kilograms in that short period.

When the news finally came that Kang’s mother-in-law had returned, I immediately contacted Ryu Min-chol and crossed the river to meet her. Tears welled up in my eyes as I saw her. She looked as though she had aged backward by a decade—her face bright and her posture more upright, likely thanks to the nourishing meals and the freedom she had experienced in China.

My tears weren’t just for relief—they came from a deep sense of gratitude that she had honored her promise to return to North Korea, not betraying the trust I had placed in her. They were also tears of empathy, imagining her regret at leaving behind the vibrant Chinese metropolis to return to the grim realities of life in North Korea.

On the way back, I placed her on a rubber boat to make the crossing easier. Her daughter, I was told, would return a few days later through the official customs process between China and North Korea.

When I arrived home, I found that President Kang had already driven to my house and was waiting for me. The next day, he invited me to his home. Sitting around a lavishly prepared table of liquor and food, he asked how much he should pay me for my help. I refused any payment, explaining that the stress I had endured over the past 20 days was enough to ensure I would never undertake such a favor again. Instead, I asked him to give a gift to Ryu Min-chol in gratitude for his critical role in making the crossing possible.

Kang purchased two high-end H99 recorders from the Yangsoon Department Store, a Chinese-North Korean joint venture, and had them delivered to Ryu Min-chol’s house. These recorders, which were 7–8 times more expensive than the popular VCD players of the time, likely cost him around 3,000 RMB.

To put it in perspective, 100 yuan was enough for an average North Korean family to live on for 20 to 30 days. With 3,000 yuan, a family could sustain themselves comfortably for a year or two.

When Ryu Min-chol visited my house after work one evening, he remarked, “I only helped because I couldn’t ignore the old woman’s desperate plea. How could I accept payment for helping with a personal favor of yours?” However, after much persuasion and my refusal to take the recorders back, he eventually relented and kept them.

By now, Ryu Min-chol is likely working in a position of responsibility, perhaps at the General Bureau of Border Security in Pyongyang, given his reputable character and the high level of trust he commands. However, I have no way of knowing his exact whereabouts. The passage of time has severed connections with many precious people.

I remember a man named Kim Jin-soo who once joined us on a smuggling trip. He had saved money by raising frogs, which were in high demand in China as a gourmet delicacy. While I haven’t eaten frog dishes since coming to South Korea, I had them many times in North Korea and China.

With the money he earned from frog breeding, Kim Jin-soo purchased 150 grams of gold. At the time, the gold price in China was about 105 yuan per gram. He brought the gold with him on our trip, hoping to sell it at a good price. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find a buyer willing to meet his asking price. It turned out that the gold he had bought from a seller in North Korea wasn’t pure. Disappointed, he returned to North Korea with the unsold gold.

Then, trouble struck as we crossed back into North Korea around midnight. Suddenly, several flashlights lit up the darkness from bushes just 2–3 meters away, and the chilling sound of bullets being loaded reached our ears as we hastily tried to pull our pants back on after our river crossing. Within moments, we were surrounded by about ten fully armed guards and dragged away. It turned out to be a carefully planned, brigade-level operation to capture our team.

We were thrown onto a truck and taken to a military guardhouse equipped with barred cells. Two or three people were confined together in each compartment, but as the leader, I was placed in solitary confinement. It was around 1 or 2 a.m. when I stepped into the cold concrete cell, my wet underwear clinging to me from the river crossing.

However, I wasn’t alone. Inside the cell was a young man in his mid-20s, Kim Hyun-hak, whose family were returnees from Japan. I would later learn of his tragic fate—about a decade later, around 2017, both he and his sister were shot to death by a security guard with a handgun. 

After they threw me into the cell, I could hear the preliminary judge, Roh Sang-hyun, speaking on the phone. During the conversation, Taekwondo was mentioned, which made me think he was discussing my case with someone. All I could do was wait and see what would happen next, so I took a deep breath, calmed myself, and began talking quietly with Hyun-hak.

He told me that the next day would be his father’s memorial day. He had been returning from China after buying food for the ritual when he was caught by the guards on his way back. The two televisions and the food he had purchased were all confiscated. Stripped of everything, his face was swollen and bruised from the severe beating he had received.

About an hour later, I heard the sound of a motorcycle and footsteps echoing down the hallway. Then, I overheard a conversation taking place in the preliminary judge’s room. Around 30 minutes later, the footsteps returned, followed by the sound of the motorcycle leaving.

When dawn broke, I knocked on the bars and called out for the watchman. I was still shivering in my wet clothes. Hearing me, a young soldier, barely out of basic training, appeared. As soon as he saw me, he snapped, “Hey, you bastard! Why are you causing such a fuss this early in the morning?”

I explained that I needed to use the bathroom, and he grumbled as he pulled out a bundle of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. When he ordered me to come out, the young soldier slapped me on the head several times with the key bundle and kicked me hard in the shin. Having been kicked before by hobnailed boots, I felt the sharp pain and soon saw red blood running down my legs.

He kept scolding me, “Hey, bastard, why did you have to show up last night and keep us all awake? And now you’re ordering me around first thing in the morning?!” He then dragged me to the toilet outside. The area was surrounded by a concrete fence over two meters high, and a fully armed sentry stood guard, but the young soldier followed me into the toilet, carrying his gun.

He stood behind me while I urinated, and afterward, he locked me back in the cell. As I was led away, I was so stunned that tears began to roll down my face.

Just over a decade ago, I had been in charge of about 120 young soldiers like him, putting in countless efforts to shape them into “all-around unification soldiers.” The injustice and rage I felt in that moment were overwhelming. The treatment I received was unimaginable, especially given my age, military experience, and the fact that I was being punished for a crime that should never have been considered a crime.

Up until that point, I had been caught several times during my decade-long smuggling career, but each time, I managed to resolve it on the spot and was released. This was the first time I had actually been caught and thrown into a guardhouse.

Around 9 a.m., the lock on my cell door clicked open, and I was called to the preliminary judge’s room. There, I found the preliminary judge, Roh Sang-hyun, who would later become a friend. As I entered, he casually asked in banmal (informal language, which is considered rude), “Hey, are you Taekwondo?”

I was speechless, just staring at him without saying a word. After a long pause, he seemed to reconsider his approach, and his tone shifted as he spoke more formally, “Please sit down. You know why you’re here. I need to fill out this report, so please cooperate. I’ve caught and handled many smugglers, but none of them have been as stiff as you. Anyway, no matter how much flying Taekwondo you’ve mastered, I hope you cooperate well now that you’ve been caught.”

He asked for my name, date of birth, workplace, home address, the details of the contraband, and the name of the border guard collaborator. 

He looked at me and said, “Hey, Taekwondo, how is it that everyone at the guard post is on your side? In particular, the security instructor, Ryu Min-Chol, came on a motorbike in the middle of the night, begging to free you from so far away. And when I went home for a bit this morning, your wife came to my house, insisting she wouldn’t leave until I released you.” He chuckled, then added jokingly, “Isn’t it a waste of a Pyongyang woman to be with a man who smuggles?”

He continued, “I’m curious how she found out about your arrest—let alone my home address—before my own department was even informed. Incredible. I suspect it was probably Ryu Min-Chol who told her.”

He then specifically asked about Kim Jin-soo, inquiring whether he had indeed had gold with him.

The night before, all of my party’s luggage and the Chinese money in our pockets had been confiscated, but Kim Jin-soo was empty-handed. When asked why, he claimed he had gold but had thrown it into the grass while being transferred. Perhaps he had intended to leave it in a specific spot and planned to retrieve it once released.

Roh Sang-hyun pressed the issue, asking if it was true, as he had sent soldiers to search everywhere—from the place where we were caught to the cargo truck we boarded—but no gold was found. I told him I could vouch for Kim Jin-soo’s honesty.

Roh Sang-hyun then said he would release everyone in the afternoon but would transfer me to the city security department. I thanked him multiple times, bowing my head, expressing my gratitude for the release of my members.

Time passed, and it was now around 4 p.m. I was hungry after skipping three meals since the previous evening, but we remained silent, knowing we couldn’t ask for food. Then, I heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway and the cell doors opening one after another before mine. A shout called out to my members. I was relieved, but at the same time, I felt sad and unfairly singled out, as I was the only one being transferred to the city security department.

The footsteps continued toward my door without pausing, and the iron door opened with a clank. The watchman called my name. I hesitated, wondering if he had confused my name with Hyun-hak’s. The young soldier, who could have been my nephew or even my son, grabbed me by the shoulder and shouted, “Hey, bastard, did you go deaf after spending a night behind bars?”

As I stumbled out into the hallway, I was still disoriented. I thought, “Am I the only one being transferred, or are we all being handed over to the security department now?” The young guard then yelled for us to all go into the preliminary judge’s room.

Roh Sang-hyun looked at us from the brown leather couch he was sitting on. “How was the night behind bars?” he asked. “Originally, all of you were supposed to stay locked up for about 10 days before being transferred to the city’s security department. But, well, you guys were lucky. Who would have imagined that a security instructor, someone responsible for catching spies and smugglers, would come forward to guarantee your release? Taekwondo teacher, the guy in your room has already been here for three days, and we have no idea when he’ll be able to get out. He’ll be transferred to the city’s Security Department too. By the way, once you get out of here, you all better watch your tongues. If anything tedious reaches my ears, your smuggling careers will be over for good. And, if I see you back here, you’ll go straight to prison. I’ve never seen a group like this while catching smugglers. But, at least you all have a good Kabagun (guarantor) and Taekwondo (group leader). All the money and goods confiscated will be handed over to the brigade’s security department. Oh, Taekwondo teacher, look who’s out there right now. Your beautiful Pyongyang bride, begging for your release at my house, she eventually followed me all the way here.”

I choked up with tears. She had endured all sorts of shame before marriage because of me, and after we married, she came to the remote mountainous areas, enduring countless hardships. The day before I left for China, we had an argument in the afternoon, but despite all the grief and distress, she spent the night and the following day wondering how to rescue me.

Outside, there were three other women, including Kim Jin-soo’s wife, who must have come after receiving a call from my wife. They hugged each other, sobbing and making a scene. The building next to the security platoon base where we were held was the Hyesan Academy of Arts, and many people passed by, staring at us in our shabby clothes, looking disheveled. Embarrassed, I quickly led my group to a less crowded spot.

I asked my wife to go to the stand across the street and buy cigarettes. At the time, I was more desperate for cigarettes than for food after skipping three meals. When I came to Korea, I completely quit drinking and smoking, but back then, I couldn’t skip smoking even though I could bear the hunger.

Everyone sat around, smoking contentedly. One of us laughed out loud, joking about how their head was spinning. As for me, now that I was safely released, my thoughts were on Ryu Min-Chol.

How much honor and finances must he have sacrificed to secure our release? Roh Sang-hyun was a few ranks higher than Ryu Min-Chol, and I worried about the burden Ryu would continue to bear because of the incident.

The confiscation of the other members’ luggage wasn’t a major issue, as we could always make up for the loss on the next smuggling trip. However, I was worried about Kim Jin-soo, who didn’t have a smuggling fund like the others. The gold I was carrying was his entire asset.

That evening, I met with Ryu Min-Chol. After conveying my apologies for the trouble I caused, I begged him to allow a few hours of searching with Kim Jin-soo on the slope of the guardpost. He agreed to vacate the guards from that section the following morning.

At 8 a.m. the next day, Kim Jin-soo and I spent nearly three hours searching, from the foot of the river to the peak of the guardpost. After much searching, we finally found the lost gold, wrapped in several layers of cigarette foil. Thanks to that, he managed to escape the misfortune of losing everything on the first and last smuggling trip he ever joined.

It wasn’t uncommon to witness tragic deaths along the path of smuggling, but I had been fortunate to always survive, avoiding capture or near-death situations.

One afternoon, at the close of the year, I crossed the Aprok River on ice to visit my Chinese partner, Cheol-ho. This time, I didn’t bring any luggage, just some converted Chinese Renminbi.

When I arrived at Cheol-ho’s house, I found a smuggling group of three women had already arrived. They had come the night before but had stayed overnight because they hadn’t received a signal from their Kabagun. They asked me to cross back into North Korea with them, and I agreed. I helped them pack their two color televisions, which they were carrying to North Korea. Apparently, they had received an order for the expensive televisions, likely for a special occasion in the upcoming New Year.

At 7 p.m., we left the house and made our way toward the river. Just as we were about to cross the road, a commotion erupted in an instant. It was already dark, as winter nights come early. I was walking about 20 meters ahead of the others, carrying two televisions on my back. Suddenly, Chinese police, who had been hiding, swooped in.

Someone must have spotted me entering the village earlier and reported it to the authorities. The police had set up on both sides of the road near the village entrance and ambushed me. They were unaware of the three women who had arrived the evening before, so they thought I was acting alone and captured me.

As soon as I took my first step onto the road to cross, bright flashlights from the north and south shone directly at my face. Before I could even react, I was on the ground, face and chest pressed down, unable to resist.

Around ten police officers, all towering figures in their 20s, quickly subdued me. They twisted my arms behind my back and slammed me to the ground. One officer, likely the commander, stepped on me and kicked me while making a phone call. Moments later, two vehicles approached from either side of the road, their headlights cutting through the night. They were about 100 meters away and rapidly closing in. In just seconds, the convoys would reach me, handcuff me, and I’d be forced onto one of the vehicles.

The officers who had trampled and kicked me were standing about one or two meters away, casually smoking cigarettes, assuming I had fainted since I hadn’t reacted. My head was still spinning from the unexpected blow, but a single thought kept me going: I had to survive. With that determination, I suddenly bolted toward the river.

But I was quickly surrounded again.

As the first officer grabbed my shoulder, I swiftly threw off my jacket, not bothering to unbutton it—just tossing it over my head. When another officer grabbed my undershirt, I yanked it off as well. In the chaos, I was injured in several places, but a few of the officers also got hurt from my desperate struggle.

The apparent commander drew a pistol, gripping the mouth of it with his hand, and struck the back of my head with the handle. I felt no pain, only the deep thud of the blow, and everything went blank. My energy drained, and I felt myself fading. Yet, despite the fading darkness, my will to escape remained strong. I could not let myself be caught.

It was nearly 300 meters from the road to the river, and the path wasn’t flat. I ran across snow-covered rice paddies, unaware that frozen rice stumps lay beneath. As I sprinted, I tripped, falling hard onto the lower paddy, my face scraping against the sharp stumps.

I quickly pushed myself up and kept running. Every now and then, I glanced behind me— the police were still in pursuit, their flashlights cutting through the night, shouting, “Stop!” The sharp crack of gunfire rang out several times, shattering the cold silence of the night.

The sound made me shiver, as though a bullet might hit the back of my head or calf, but I didn’t stop or fall to the ground. Instead, I ran faster. Despite the freezing temperature, somewhere between -25 and -30 degrees Celsius, I didn’t feel the cold at all. My upper body was completely bare, but the drive to escape kept me warm enough.

As I stumbled halfway across the slippery river ice and turned around, I saw the police standing at the foot of the river, their flashlights cutting through the night, but they weren’t stepping onto the ice. Chinese police typically don’t pursue suspects once they’ve entered the river, though North Korean soldiers are known to cross into Chinese territory to chase down smugglers.

I managed to stagger across the ice, then climbed the railroad track at the foot of the river. Just then, two soldiers on night duty approached. Given the gunfire, the fighting, and the chase on the Chinese side, it was clear that the North Korean side was also on high alert.

Two young soldiers blocked my path, looking at me and asking who I was. It was only then that I began to feel the cold. I knew I had to move quickly, so I started looking for their superiors, who were reportedly at the watch cottage.

The watch cottage wasn’t a military post; it was a place where civilian railroad workers were stationed to monitor landslides and the area around the tracks. A woman in her 60s lived there alone, maintaining the house. Her children occasionally stayed for a few days, and smugglers often passed through, sometimes with the help of the guard soldiers who frequented the place.

When I arrived at the cottage, I found two non-commissioned officers drinking on the kitchen floor. The lower room and kitchen were occupied by the house’s landlord, while the upper room was used for food storage for the soldiers. On days of high undercover surveillance, I sometimes stored my luggage from China in the upper room, retrieving it when it was safe.

The two NCOs jumped up in surprise when they saw me walk through the door. “What happened? Were you the one causing the gunshots on the other side?” I scolded them sharply, frustrated by their complacency. “What are you two doing? Someone’s life is at stake, and you’re just sitting here drinking? Shouldn’t you at least assess the situation when you hear gunfire from across the river? How can you be so careless in such an urgent moment, leaving only newbies on sentry?”

Their expressions shifted to shame and regret. Suddenly, they turned me around in shock. That was when I finally realized the extent of my injuries. Blood was pouring from the back of my head, running down my neck and back, soaking into my waistband and legs, until it pooled in my shoes. The blood was so thick that my shoes squelched with every step. The wound on the back of my head, where the pistol had struck me, was about 4-5 cm long, and my hair was matted with blood. The woman who owned the house came out of the kitchen at the soldiers’ shouts, her face filled with horror at the sight of my condition.

As soon as I stepped into the house, the freezing cold began to leave my body, and with it came a wave of discomfort—itchiness, fever, and intense pain. It was as if the relief of reaching safety triggered a pounding headache.

I immediately asked for alcohol to ease the pain. The soldiers brought five 500g packs of liquor from the upper room. I opened two of them and poured the liquid into a red plastic bowl from the kitchen.

After quickly drinking the 1kg liquor, my stomach and body quickly heated up. The pain seemed to subside. But the relief was only for a short moment. 

The woman suggested that I disinfect the wound because tetanus could also infect the wound on the head. We agreed to use Baekdu Mountain liquor, with an alcohol content of 30-35%, to cleanse the wound on my head.

I folded a towel into four layers and placed it on the back of my head, then asked the landlady to slowly pour two bags of alcohol onto the towel. I figured that otherwise, the liquor would just run off.

As soon as the alcohol touched the wound on my head, it felt like my flesh was being torn apart with a knife. To bear the excruciating pain, I bit down on my lips, which were already cracked and bleeding.

After about half an hour of this painful treatment, I stood up to leave. The soldiers stopped me, insisting that I rest until morning. I asked the landlady for a winter scarf, wrapping it around my head over the alcohol-soaked towel to keep the wound from freezing. Then, I put on a borrowed military jacket and headed home.

My younger brother, at the time an accountant at the hospital across from our house, was influential enough to act as an agent for the hospital director. My son, who was not yet 10, went to contact him at the house next to the hospital.

Soon, my brother and the surgeon arrived at my home. I was given two bottles of mannitol intravenously, and the wound was disinfected and sutured.

The following morning, I asked my wife to buy me a winter scarf. After delivering it to the landlady at the watch cottage that afternoon, I crossed the frozen river again around 4 p.m.

When I arrived, my business partner, Kim Chul-ho, and his wife were shocked to see me. They thought I had either been shot dead or captured by the Chinese police. Kim Chul-ho then joked, “Taekwondo truly is the best. If it were anyone else, they’d be in bed for days. What made you come back so quickly? Were you worried I’d get greedy and keep the two televisions?”

From December 31st to the 2nd of the following year, both North Korea and China entered a special security period. I told the three women hiding in the house to pack their belongings quickly.

For the next 10 days, I stayed at home for treatment due to severe symptoms of concussion. Thankfully, the two 500g bottles of mannitol I had been injected with the night of the accident helped prevent the symptoms from worsening.

One day, I met a middle-aged woman with a fairly large build at my Chinese business partner Kim Ki-Jong’s house. She asked me for help.

She said, “I originally lived in Yeonpung-dong but came to China eight years ago. My name is Ri Mi -young. Have you heard of me?” I told her that I hadn’t.

She then asked, “Have you heard of Yeonpung-dong Maldaegari (Horse Head)?” I replied that I had heard of it quite a bit.

She revealed that she was Maldaegari. The nickname was likely given due to her long face.

Many years ago, there was a case of heavy smuggling in Yeonpung-dong, Hyesan. The suspect fled to China, and that very suspect was Ri Mi-young, sitting right next to me.

Ri Mi-young, who had started smuggling long before I did, had fled North Korea to escape the growing investigation. She eventually married a Korean-Chinese man with the surname Hong, and they were now living in Tianjin, about two hours from Beijing. She introduced me to her husband, who was in the upper room. I could immediately tell he was Korean-Chinese, judging by his North Korean accent.

The man gave me a firm handshake, apologizing for the difficult request. He explained that he had traveled thousands of kilometers due to his wife’s persistent insistence.

I sat face to face with them, drinking and listening to her story. Ri Mi-young’s North Korean husband, Kim Jong-nam, had worked as a carpenter at Songbong People’s School, where I had graduated.

Between Ri Mi-young and Kim Jong-nam, they had a son named Ri Gyu-min. She explained that, since the boy was too young to cross the river, she was asking if I could at least bring her husband, Kim Jong-nam, to China.

I felt a deep sense of pity and respect for her—having traveled all the way to the border region to reunite with her former husband after being forcibly separated. Similarly, I admired her husband, who had journeyed thousands of kilometers to the dangerous North Korea-China border for his wife. And thinking about her ex-husband, Kim Jong-nam, who had suddenly lost his wife and was likely struggling to raise their young son, I felt a strong urge to help them.

I returned that day, promising to do my best. The next day, I managed to track down Kim Jong-nam’s whereabouts. He was living with a new woman, while his young son was staying with Ri Mi-young’s younger brother, Ri Hyun-su.

After sharing everything I knew, I asked Kim Jong-nam, “Now that your ex-wife is in Jangbaek, China, would you like to meet her? I believe she came all the way to help you financially.” He immediately agreed to go. I told him to calm down and listen carefully.

I then explained the precautions he needed to take while traveling, particularly how to behave around the Kabagun before crossing the river. I instructed him to move quickly and without distraction to the destination. I also emphasized that he should behave respectfully, given that his ex-wife was now with a new husband. Finally, I warned him to use the money cautiously, ensuring no one would question its source.

Kim Jong-nam and I crossed into China that night. Most of the soldiers working as Kabagun were familiar with my smuggling group and even knew about the personal lives of its members. They quickly noticed when I brought someone new along, particularly when seniors and women were with me. Although they were complicit in smuggling, they understood the serious consequences—not just for themselves, but for their families—if they were found to be involved with foreign fugitives.

I instructed Kim Jong-nam to claim he was simply a porter if questioned by the Kabagun. When we reached the foot of the river, the designated soldier was waiting for us, but he let us pass without issue. I asked him to send me a return signal after two hours by illuminating the river and the sky three times alternately with blue laser light at the same location. If I didn’t return on time, I requested that he send the same signal after an hour.

Kim Jong-nam, who was in his 50s at the time, appeared much older due to a poor diet, resembling a man in his 70s or 80s. He was short and thin, and very nervous since it was his first time crossing the river. The thought of meeting his ex-wife—whom he never expected to see again—was overwhelming for him, and he was anxious about stepping onto foreign soil.

Upon our arrival, Ri Mi-young hugged me, overwhelmed with tears, amazed that we had made it safely. She and Kim Jong-nam held each other, crying for a long time, wiping each other’s tears. After their emotional reunion, a food table was set, and I had a feeling it was already too late to cross the river that day.

Unfortunately, my earnest request quickly fell apart. As we drank, their attitudes shifted. Kim Jong-nam was the first to make a mistake. Drunk, he asked Hong how he could live in happiness with another man’s wife, saying he could never accept it and would take her back to North Korea immediately.

Ri Mi-young was embarrassed, and Hong was taken aback. Considering Hong had come all the way to help Ri Mi-young’s family in North Korea, Kim Jong-nam’s response was harsh and inappropriate.

The situation escalated. The two men grabbed each other by the collar and began to struggle. Hong shouted, “Take her if you have the courage. I’ll contact the police right now and have everyone here dragged away.” It took over two hours to break up the fight.

Eventually, they made up and sat down at the table again.

After a while, Ri Mi-young asked for my understanding and took Kim Jong-nam outside. I knew she wanted to hand him the money privately, likely thinking I shouldn’t see it.

About thirty minutes later, they returned with smiles, and everything seemed to be settled. By then, it was already past midnight, and the time I had arranged with the Kabagun had passed.

I decided to cross the river at a point 4 km further down, near Jangbaekhyeon, and we traveled by car together.

This was an area I had never crossed before, but the water depth was relatively shallow, and the current wasn’t strong, making it appear safe for Kim Jong-nam, who had no experience. The river conditions had to be favorable, and the North Korean riverbank had to be secure for us to climb. This was especially crucial since Kim Jong-nam had a large sum of money wrapped around him.

On the North Korean bank of the section I intended to cross, there was a vertical wall over 5 meters high. On the wall, a staircase was used by North Korean women to come out and do laundry or draw water. However, at night, the iron gate at the top of the stairs was always locked. I assumed that if the door was locked, there was typically no undercover guard posted, making it a potential route for smugglers.

I knew of a 60-70 cm thick concrete sewage pipe lying along the riverbank. If we crawled through the hole, we would end up right in front of the main gate of the Hyesan Glass Bottle Factory in Gangan-dong. I led Kim Jong-nam down to the foot of the river with me. Since it was winter, the river was frozen, and everything appeared to be safe. There were no signs of undercover soldiers. If there were any hiding, there would usually be some clue — a cough, a conversation, or cigarette smoke — but I saw no such signs during the two hours we waited.

After enduring the cold for nearly two hours, we finally climbed onto the icy river. Every crunch of the ice underfoot felt like the sound of handcuffs clinking in my ears. A journey that would usually take only five minutes stretched out to 30 minutes that night.

Kim Jong-nam and I made it through the concrete hole I had scoped out in the past. Taking back roads, we arrived in our village around 4:30 a.m. Once home, I reminded Kim Jong-nam to be cautious and avoid wasting the money carelessly. I woke my wife early to share a drink, which I normally wouldn’t do. I found myself laughing quietly, reflecting on the reckless nature of what I had just done.

I didn’t help Ri Mi-young for any monetary reward, so I had no regrets, but I was disappointed by how unappreciative she seemed of the favor I had done for her. The secretive way she handed money over to her ex-husband, away from my view, felt inappropriate and like a betrayal of trust.

Before crossing the river the night before, Ri Mi-young had asked me how much she should pay me.

I told her, “I brought your ex-husband at great risk. If you want to show gratitude, do it through my Chinese partner.” Ri Mi-young then asked to meet again, explaining there was more to her request. She revealed that her main purpose was to bring her younger brother, Ri Su-hyun, and her son, Jong-min, back. Jong-min was the same age as our son, Young-jin, and she had left him as a newborn baby.

She asked if I could help bring them back to her. At the time, Ri Su-hyun had been sentenced to a nine-year prison term but was out on sick bail due to malnutrition and weakness after serving one year in prison.

Ri Mi-young came to take her brother and son out of North Korea because it was clear that Ri Su-hyun, a big man, would eventually be sent back to prison and could die from hunger. Throughout my smuggling operations, I had helped tens, maybe over a hundred, people cross the river, but this was my first time that I smuggled people across the border. 

On the night I returned to North Korea, Ri Mi-young handed me two gunny bags filled with clothes and underwear, in various sizes for men and women. She told me to keep one for myself and give the other to her brother. She also suggested that I could bring my family when her son and brother escaped, saying that Tianjin, where she lived, was safe, and the route was already secured. If I had gone with them at that time, I would have arrived in South Korea 20 years earlier.

That night, following her instructions, I visited her brother’s house and gave him one of the bags of clothes. His home, which was near the train station, was quiet. Outside, there were tree root stumps piled up, as firewood was as important as food during the long, icy winters of Ryanggang province.

If one couldn’t afford rice, they could still survive by mixing it with cheaper grains or even living on grass porridge. However, no one could endure the cold stone floor without heating during temperatures of -20 to -30 degrees Celsius. During that time, all the mountains had been stripped bare, and even finger-thick shrubs, corn stalks, and grass piles were gathered and used as firewood.

If you dug around the area where a tree had been cut down, the tree roots would emerge from the frozen ground like sweet potato stems. These roots, when used as firewood, would burn intensely and keep the heat for a long time. The tree roots I saw at Ri Su-hyun’s house were likely dug up by his wife, in her 40s, and his two teenage daughters, who had ventured into the mountains to dig through the frozen soil and gather the roots, since the weakened Ri Su-hyun was unable to move.

When I visited his house and explained the situation, Ri Mi-young’s son, Gyu-min, a boy around 10 or 11 years old at the time, expressed how much he missed his mother and how much he wanted to go to her. But Ri Su-hyun’s family seemed more distressed than relieved by my offer.

They welcomed me to take Gyu-min away, as it meant one fewer mouth to feed, and they were struggling to feed themselves. But Su-hyun’s departure meant they would lose their husband and father for good, with no hope of seeing him again. Yet, they also understood that Su-hyun was eventually bound to be taken back to Hamheung Prison, where he would die from starvation. In the end, they decided to let him go, knowing it would be a permanent separation. The decision was made after immense disappointment, shame, and fear, but they felt it was the only way to prevent a death they could no longer avoid.

Ri Su-hyun, overwhelmed with shame for not being able to fulfill his duties as a father and husband, cried uncontrollably when his family offered him the chance to go. The entire family wept, and so did I.

However, the real challenge came with the next step. While I could carry the young boy, Gyu-min, on my back if necessary, I had no idea what to do with Su-hyun, who was 185 cm tall. Malnourished and weak, he could barely walk to the toilet with the support of a wall. It seemed impossible to take such a patient across the border, where any number of emergencies could arise in an instant.

Ri Su-hyun insisted he would rather die on the journey, knowing that death awaited him whether from starvation at home or in prison. I was tempted to give up dozens of times, but each time I found the strength to press on. The final farewell between the couple, the father and daughters, was nothing but tears. With no money of their own, I used the little I had to buy food and drinks for their last meal together.

When darkness fell that evening, I called for a car and brought Su-hyun and Gyu-min to my house. My son, Young-jin, and Gyu-min soon became fast friends, playing together for hours. Around 7 or 8 p.m., I set out on the road with Gyu-min and Su-hyun. I instructed them to follow me at a distance of about 20 meters, and I walked slowly, trying to keep the pace manageable for Su-hyun.

At that time, Su-hyun had nothing left but skin and bones. It was said that his condition was so dire that a fist could be pushed into his anus, a sign that a prisoner was unlikely to survive.

The area where I tried to cross the river was about 500 meters below a chicken factory. Between 7 and 8 p.m., the company soldiers would be eating dinner, leaving the guard post vacant at that critical moment. It was a dangerous time, but I felt it was the right opportunity to make the crossing.

There were about 50 households behind the platoon barracks, some of whom I knew. Before crossing the river, I stopped by Kim Hee-soon’s house at the foot of the river and asked her to vouch for me, should I get caught in the crackdown.

With her guarantee, I crossed the riverbank with Su-hyun and Gyu-min, desperately trying to walk on the slippery ice. I held each of them by the wrist, trying to steady them. When we had reached the middle of the river, two soldiers suddenly appeared, running towards us, shouting “Stop!” and shining two flashlights.

In that moment, I knew we would be caught within a minute or two. My only thought was to get them to the other side. Though they would likely not find my Chinese client’s house, they might find help from a kind stranger once they reached Chinese soil.

I told them to run and find a concrete tunnel below the road, where mountain water flowed down. I pushed them forward, then turned back towards the soldiers. I ran as fast as I could on the slippery ice, hoping to buy time for Su-hyun and Gyu-min.

The soldiers quickly surrounded me, likely aiming to secure at least one fugitive. I soon heard the sound of a gun being loaded, and one of the soldiers stabbed me in the thigh with the 20cm-long knife attached to his gun. He ordered me to kneel down. The other soldier struck my shin with the butt of his rifle.

I crumpled to the icy ground from the unexpected blows. I didn’t feel the stab at first, but the strike to my shin sent a sharp, agonizing pain through my body. Then, the soldier who had hit my shin swung his rifle down from his right shoulder. I knew that if I was struck again—especially in the head—it would be the end. There was no room left for escape. With a desperate resolve, I grabbed the rifle as it fell towards me, pulling it towards myself with all my strength. The soldier, losing his balance, slid in the direction of his own swing and fell onto the ice. The soldier who had stabbed me froze in place, caught off guard by the sudden turn of events.

Only then did the pain from the stab hit me, but I used every ounce of energy to stand up. Pointing the gun at them, I shouted that I would shoot if they moved.

Knowing that the gun I was holding had just been loaded, the soldiers trembled, unable to move. I told them, “Quickly climb back up the bank if you want to live.” They stumbled back a few steps, then muttered, “The gun…”

The cost of failing to capture a smuggler usually meant some reprimands. But losing a gun to one meant they would be forcibly discharged from the military and face several years in prison.

I said, “This gun is useless to me. Go back up the bank as I said. You can collect the gun later.”

When I told them I wouldn’t be taking the gun with me, they backed away, repeating, “Yes, yes,” as if they had just been given a second chance at life.

I turned my head, glancing towards China. As the soldiers retreated further—10 meters, then 20 meters, then 30 meters—I could no longer see Su-hyun and Gyu-min. They must have entered the concrete tunnel I had pointed them to.

When the soldiers were nearly at the bank, I separated the magazine from the gun and threw it toward Samjiyon, uphill. The gun itself I swung downward, sending it sliding about 10 meters down the ice. Then, I ran toward China.

It was not yet fully dark, and the soldiers, distracted by the magazine and gun that had slid away, no longer pursued me. Instead, they began searching for their weapons, which were as precious to them as life itself.

Ri Su-hyun and Gyu-min were trembling in the middle of the concrete tunnel. It wasn’t likely the cold that caused them to shake, but rather the fear from the chase with armed soldiers—an experience they had never encountered before. It was probably also the fear of being lost on Chinese soil, unaware of what awaited them.

After calming them for what felt like an eternity, I guided them through the tunnel. We passed through paddy fields and an orchard, eventually arriving safely at my Chinese partner’s house.

There was one moment, while crossing the road in front of the village, when a car with headlights on suddenly appeared. We froze, like pheasants caught in the snow, hiding in the fields. Fortunately, it wasn’t a border guard or police vehicle.

I entered the house with my companions, dragging my leg, which was still bleeding from the stab wound. My pant was torn, blood dripping from the injury inflicted by the gun’s spear.

In that moment, I felt a numbness wash over me, my heart swelling with pride as if I were an invincible general returning from battle, having safely brought the two people through the danger unscathed.

To my disappointment, however, no one seemed to notice me or the wound on my leg. Mi-young, her son—who had been separated from her as an infant—and her dying brother, barely able to stand, clung to each other and began weeping uncontrollably.

I tried to hush them, warning that the patrolling police might be nearby and could come into the house. After a while, Su-hyun pointed to my wound and explained what had happened at the border. Only then did they finally take notice of my injury.

Of course, decades have passed since that day, and the wound has long since healed physically. But mentally, the scar it left behind would remain with me for the rest of my life.

I had a doctor summoned to stitch the wound, which delayed my departure. The next day, I wrapped my leg to make sure it stayed waterproof and crossed the river back into North Korea.

Soon after I returned home, two unfamiliar soldiers came to visit. When I greeted them and asked who they were, they scanned me up and down before asking, “Are you Taekwondo, by any chance?”

It turned out that the two soldiers were the ones who had struck me with the gun spear and buttstock two days ago at the Yukseong post section. The scene of being attacked by them and then escaping flashed through my mind like a video reel.

At first, I wondered if they had come to arrest me, but then I realized that if they were exposed for losing their weapon, they would face severe punishment. Given that, it was unlikely they would have reported the incident. Looking at them, their faces showed no malice.

I invited them to sit down in the room and said, “I think I went too far that night. What can I do? I had to make a living, and it was inevitable. Please understand.” I then added, “But still, how could you stab me and strike me like that when I’m your fellow citizen? I know I did wrong, but you guys were too aggressive, so I had to respond. I was coming to you to talk and maybe get help, but as soon as I faced you, I was attacked, and I couldn’t just stand there.”

They explained that they had seen me leaving Kim Hee-soon’s house from a distance before I crossed the river. Afterward, they retrieved their gun and magazine, which had been thrown away, and went to Kim Hee-soon’s house. They asked her where I lived and eventually found out that I had been known as Taekwondo.

I asked my wife to prepare some food for them. After a while, I spent time with them, sharing meat and alcohol. Before they left, I gave them 50,000 won. Each received 10 new bills of 5,000 won. They bowed their heads, thanking me for the large amount of money, which was more than they had expected. They also expressed their gratitude for the meal and alcohol, which was a treat they hadn’t anticipated. Before leaving, they told me to let them know if I ever needed help crossing.

At the border, nothing can be resolved peacefully or without a price. There must always be material rewards and risks. This is the way I, and hundreds of thousands of smugglers, have lived. I’ve had to give away about half of my earnings to my collaborators. In fact, I probably gave away more than 70% of my income to those who helped secure my routes and cover the risks of legal punishments.

As I was being seen off at the river, Ri Mi-young and her family expressed their gratitude: “I’m so sorry. We owe you a lot for what you’ve done, but there will be a day when we can repay you. We need a lot of money to pass through multiple checkpoints to Tianjin. Since the money I brought is limited, I will make sure to help you next time. If you ever decide to defect to China with your wife, I will take you to Tianjin safely, free of charge.”

In a way, I felt indignant at their ungrateful attitude, which failed to acknowledge my life-risking sacrifice, even in a modest way. At that time, those who helped others cross the river charged a large amount of money, often demanding payment upfront. Still, I simply wished them safe travels and parted ways.

About two weeks later, I returned to China and spoke with them on the phone for the first and last time. They informed me they were safely back in Tianjin.

Fifteen to twenty years later, after I arrived in South Korea, Mi-young somehow learned of my entry and contacted me. It had only been a few months since I had settled in South Korea when she called. A few days later, Mi-young and Su-hyun visited me, accompanied by a gray-haired pastor whom Mi-young introduced as someone she trusted.

Su-hyun hadn’t changed much, but Mi-young now looked like a grandmother. Perhaps her years of living in China and the journey to South Korea had taken a toll on her.

During our conversation, I realized they had forgotten parts of the past events, moments for which I had risked my life. Only when I reminded them did fragments of their memories resurface. Their lack of recollection left me somewhat disappointed.

My aunt, who also lived in Hyesan, was as dear to me as my own mother. She was a compassionate and empathetic person, always ready to listen and comfort anyone going through difficult times. She would prepare a meal for anyone who visited her house, no matter the time of day, even if they were a stranger. With her, I could share things I couldn’t even tell my mother.

One day, after Su-hyun and Gyu-min had crossed the border, I visited her house to spend time together. During our conversation, she asked what it was like to cross the river these days. Then, she mentioned that she had a favor to ask of me. Tae-jin’s mother, a neighbor of hers, wanted to meet me.

My aunt explained that Tae-jin’s mother was running an unofficial drug store out of her home. Her husband was a returnee from Japan, and most of his family still lived there.

My aunt asked me to help Tae-jin’s parents make a phone call to their relatives in Japan through China since overseas calls were banned in North Korea. She explained that their business was struggling, and, to make matters worse, a recent house search had led to a large quantity of drugs being confiscated, along with a hefty fine.

I cautioned my aunt against getting involved. Making a phone call to hostile countries like the United States, Japan, or South Korea was considered an act of espionage, punishable by execution. However, she insisted that this wasn’t spying. She argued that the couple simply wanted to seek financial help from their relatives in Japan to alleviate their difficulties.

Being a close friend of Tae-jin’s mother, my aunt said she couldn’t turn a blind eye to their plight. Reluctantly, and only after her persistent urging, I agreed to meet with them.

My aunt immediately ran out and brought in Tae-jin’s mother. She appeared to be an ordinary woman in her early 50s, slightly overweight. She expressed her urgency in resolving the matter, explaining that her husband’s prolonged absence might raise suspicion at his workplace. She also asked if my Chinese partner could be trusted. I assured her that my partners were reliable and would willingly assist if I asked for their help.

Without any prompting, she offered me 30 percent of the money that would be transferred from Japan. Internally, I thought that if I received any compensation, I could share it with my aunt, who was also going through a tough time, unlike me, who was living comfortably thanks to smuggling.

Feeling hopeful, I cautiously asked about the financial situation of the relatives in Japan and how much support they might be able to provide. Tae-jin’s mother explained that the relatives were fairly well-off and, since her husband was the only one living in North Korea, they would likely be willing to help.

Encouraged by the potential financial gain and the opportunity to assist my aunt, I took Tae-jin’s father—who had no money of his own—across the river at my own expense.

Tae-jin’s phone call with Japan lasted for several hours, and I grew increasingly uneasy as the conversation dragged on. I knew that if no money came through from Japan, I would have to shoulder the expenses I had paid to the military collaborators myself.

My worst fear became reality. No bank transfer was made, despite the hours of incomprehensible phone conversations. It turned out that their discussion wasn’t about receiving financial help but rather about smuggling Tae-jin’s father to Japan.

Tae-jin’s parents had deceived both my aunt and me. His mother had approached me with a fabricated story, concealing their true plan of stowing away to a Japanese port. Anxiety overtook me as I realized I would now have to explain to the North Korean soldiers—the collaborators I had worked with—why the person I had helped cross the river was missing.

After staying in China for one night, I crossed back into North Korea. I wished Tae-jin’s father well and hoped that, if things went smoothly, I could express some gratitude to my Chinese partner for their help.

Upon my return, I immediately headed to Tae-jin’s house, which was located at the entrance of the marketplace. The memory of that day remains vivid in my mind even after more than a decade—likely because I was so indignant at having been deceived.

I explained what had happened and expressed my feelings of betrayal and disappointment to her. Overwhelmed with sorrow, the woman, who was grieving the loss of her beloved husband, finally broke down in tears.

She wept openly and apologized, explaining that they hadn’t told me the truth because they believed I wouldn’t have helped them otherwise. She shared how agonizing the decision had been, knowing it meant that Tae-jin would grow up fatherless after completing his decade-long military service.

She went on to explain the hardships they had faced. Tae-jin’s father had been monitored and ostracized, making life unbearable for the family. After much deliberation, the couple had decided that her husband should go to Japan first, hoping the rest of the family could join him later.

As I listened to her story, I found myself wondering how many people would remain in North Korea if life continued like this. My initial feelings of indignation gradually softened into sympathy for her—a woman who had cherished her relationship with her husband yet was forced into a life of deliberate separation, depriving her son of his father.

Through her sobs, I asked if she didn’t feel resentment toward her husband, who would never return, and how she planned to live her life moving forward. She replied that if not for her son, who was soon to enlist in the military, she would have followed her husband to Japan. She explained that she couldn’t bear the thought of her son returning home after his decade-long service to find an empty house and be left utterly alone.

After taking Tae-jin’s father to China, I avoided visiting their house again to elude the security department’s growing surveillance, which had intensified after his disappearance.

Years later, more than a decade after these events, I was passing by their house and noticed it had a new owner. Curious, I asked my aunt what had happened. She told me that the mother and son had disappeared without a trace. It seemed that after completing his military service, Tae-jin and his mother had managed to leave for Japan.

Among the people I truly wish to meet again is Taejin’s family. Although I spent only half a day with Taejin’s father and cannot clearly remember him, I believe I would recognize Taejin and his mother instantly.

It is true that I have felt disappointment when reuniting with some of those I had helped in the past, like Mi-young and Ri Hyun-su, who did not fully acknowledge the sacrifices I made for them. Yet, despite these feelings, the people connected to my past in North Korea remain incredibly precious to me.

I feel that if I could see those who shared life-threatening experiences with me, relying on one another for survival, I would have no regrets, even if my life were to end afterward.

I have two nephews who are now in South Korea, Park Chul-joon and Park Mun-ok. They arrived a few years before me. They are the children of my eldest brother, Park Sang-chul, who served as the secretary of public affairs at the Bog Blueberry Factory in Hyesan. Their eldest sibling, Park Chul-ho, still lives in North Korea.

Chul-joon reached South Korea in just one day, flying with the assistance of the South Korean government. In contrast, his older sister, Mun-ok, endured a far more arduous journey. She spent over a decade in China and passed through several countries before finally entering South Korea.

Mun-ok, tall and striking like her parents, once enjoyed a comfortable life while working at Pyongyang’s Mansumugang Institute during her military service. However, upon returning to her hometown of Hyesan, she faced overwhelming hardships. Eventually, she fled to China without informing her family, but her escape was cut short when Chinese police apprehended her and sent her back to North Korea.

Through a bribe, Mun-ok avoided imprisonment and was allowed to recover at home instead. One day, her parents—my brother and sister-in-law—came to visit me.

They explained that it was clear their daughter would try to return to China, given the dire situation at home, where even feeding one person was already a challenge. They asked me to send her to a trusted Chinese household so that she wouldn’t wander into dangerous areas.

I advised them to keep her inside and focus on her recovery while I figured out a plan for her escape. The next day, in the quiet of the evening, I visited their house to speak with my niece in more detail. To my surprise, there was another woman in her mid- to late 20s present. She turned out to be Eun-hee, a friend Mun-ok had made during her time at the detention center in Sinuiju after being sent back from China. Eun-hee insisted on accompanying my niece. I remember Eun-hee wearing high heels that were over 10 cm high, something rare in Hyesan at the time.

It was dangerous for Eun-hee to stay with Mun-ok, who was under surveillance and could be arrested at any moment. After discussing the situation, I decided to take Eun-hee to China first.

The following evening, I met Eun-hee at the agreed-upon spot, and we crossed the river using a safe route to arrive at my Chinese partner’s house. Eun-hee made a call from the homeowner’s phone, and her expression soon brightened. My Chinese partner, Ki-jong, and his wife, who had been listening to her, were also smiling.

I couldn’t understand the specifics because she spoke in Chinese, but it seemed that she had called the husband she had been living with before her arrest. The man would come to pick her up and bring enough compensation for our Chinese host, Ki-jong.

Ki-jong assured me that everything was arranged saying that Eun-hee would leave the following day. I was pleased to hear this, and even more so because Eun-hee was clearly overjoyed. How could she not be? She had no one to rely on in North Korea and no money to cross the river, but now she had made it safely to China, and the man she had been living with was coming to pick her up. 

About 15 days after sending Eun-hee, Mun-ok also left. We crossed the river in the same way and contacted her Chinese husband using Ki-Jong’s cell phone. Her husband also agreed to pick her up immediately.

I was overjoyed, and since Mun-ok was my niece and her parents had asked me to help her, I stayed one more night to see her off. We stayed up late into the night, drinking and listening to her story. She had lived in China for about two years, and her husband, who was the same age as me, owned a large ginseng field. I asked with a chuckle, amazed by the big age gap, “Hey, how much older is he than you if he’s the same age as me?” 

As promised, the next day around 3 p.m., Mun-ok’s husband arrived with his brother. Since they were Han Chinese, I couldn’t communicate with them at all. Mun-ok introduced me as her uncle to her husband, and I shook his hand. This was the first and last time I would meet her husband. We sat around a drinking table, spent some time together, and then they took her back to their region.

Before leaving, having seen firsthand that her parents didn’t even have enough rice to eat, Mun-ok said something to her husband, received 360 yuan, and handed it to me in tears. “Uncle, I’m sorry. They should have brought more money, but this is all they have in their pockets because they were in such a hurry.”

Then, she whispered to me, “They actually have more money, but they say they should give it to the owner of the house. They’re concerned that if they give no money or the amount isn’t enough, the owner might report me to the police. I’m sorry that it’s not much. Please keep half of it and pass the other half to my parents. I feel really sorry for them, especially since my father went to work this morning without having breakfast. I will make sure to send more once I arrive safely. Please trust me and wait.”

I assured her I would pass all the money to her parents, joking that I would never expect money from her when I helped even strangers for free. I begged her not to get caught by the police. With tears in her eyes, we parted ways.

A few years passed, and Mun-ok, whom I thought I would never see again, was repatriated to North Korea.

By this time, however, the situation at her parents’ home had improved. Their eldest son, Cheol-ho, had finished his military service and was home, maintaining contact with Mun-ok. Thanks to her financial support from China, her parents, who once had nothing, now had a color television, a voice recorder, a video recorder, and a fan. They even served meat when I occasionally visited.

The local police officer, Kyung-pal, said that Mun-ok had been caught once again and was currently in the Sinuiju detention center. He mentioned that he needed to transfer her to Hyesan, where her residence was registered, but since he didn’t have the travel expenses at the time, he couldn’t go to get her right away. He reportedly told her parents that if they wanted him to bring their daughter quickly, they needed to provide him with the necessary funds.

Her parents gave him the requested money, and to have Mun-ok treated at home, they gave him an extra kickback for a few days. Letting her stay at home posed a risk for Kyung-pal, but given her poor health, it was unlikely that she could escape again for the time being. He agreed to their request under the condition that her parents would bear full responsibility in case of her escape.

Mun-ok was in no condition to move due to acute diarrhea and swelling. Her entire body and face were itching and covered in red spots, though no one knew exactly where she had contracted the infection. Since she had been caught a second time, her surveillance was more intense.

Tearfully, Mun-ok told her story. She had been arrested after a neighbor, who had an argument with her Chinese family, reported her to the police, accusing her of being a North Korean defector.

When I asked Mun-ok about her future plans, she said she would ask her husband for money and stay at home to recover from her illness. At an opportune moment, she planned to leave again for China. I warned her to be cautious, as every move she made was being closely watched.

She expressed her gratitude, saying, “Thank you for everything you did for me in the past. Thanks to the money you sent to my parents, they didn’t starve and were able to live.”

Mun-ok also mentioned that she had met Eun-hee again while in China. Eun-hee reportedly asked Mun-ok to thank me on her behalf. Laughing, Mun-ok added, “Uncle, she said that if she could ever meet you again, she would like to marry you.”

Though I couldn’t even remember what Eun-hee looked like since I had only spent a few hours with her, her compliment brought me a bliss that made the countless crossings of the icy river over the years seemed worthwhile.