15. Life as a Soldier’s Spouse
A week after settling into the military residence, I found myself longing to visit my parents. Though it had only been a week since we parted, I deeply missed my father, mother, and two younger siblings. I decided to take the train to their house and began preparing for the trip after tidying up my home.
However, just as I was finishing up, my husband’s liaison soldier arrived with a message summoning me to the company’s food warehouse.
When I arrived, I learned that the company’s sanitation instructor, responsible for ration distribution, had purchased dozens of kilograms of jawbreaker candy to celebrate the anniversary of the Party’s foundation on October 10. Each military household was allotted 5 kilograms of candy as a gift. To my surprise, I was given an additional 35 kilograms!
A soldier typically receives 24 kilograms of rice per month, equating to 800 grams a day, while each family member is allotted 300 grams daily, or 9 kilograms a month. However, I was given 2 kilograms more than the usual ration.
After returning home, I sat quietly for a long time, staring at the rice and candy I had received. The economic situation had grown so dire that once-common sweets had become a rare luxury. It felt surreal to have such a large quantity of them before me.
When I was younger, grocery stores were brimming with sweets. Back then, I could buy 500 grams of candy with just 10 jon. Those days are long gone. Now, sweets only make an appearance in stores during special holidays.
On some holidays, there weren’t any sweets at all. Children had to wait for Kim Il Sung’s and Kim Jong Il’s birthdays to enjoy them. On those occasions, a “Gift Ceremony of Love” was held, distributing bags of sweets to daycare centers, kindergartens, and people’s schools, each containing 1 kilogram of candy.
When my siblings and I were young, we rarely ate the candy produced by the Hyesan grocery factory—it didn’t taste good. Our house always had high-quality candies and snacks wrapped in cellophane paper, sent by my uncle and aunt in Pyongyang. But as the situation in North Korea worsened, those gifts from Pyongyang became fewer and fewer.
Now, with so many candies in my possession, I couldn’t stop thinking about my younger siblings. I decided to split the candies I had received from the unit, putting a portion in a bag to take to my parents and siblings.
When I shared the plan with my husband during dinner, he praised the idea. After we finished eating, he returned to the company, leaving me to prepare for the trip.
I was washing the dishes and mopping the floor when the door suddenly opened. My husband, who had gone back to the company, walked in carrying a large box. I quickly stood up to take it from him—it was surprisingly heavy.
“It’s candy,” he said. “The vice-platoon leader told me to bring it home.”
I felt a surge of gratitude toward the vice-platoon leader. He was the same age as my husband, and they had joined the military in the same year. Although my husband was an officer of higher rank, the two of them were quite close.
My husband suggested we keep a small portion of the candy at home and take the rest to my parents’ house. His thoughtfulness moved me, and I thanked him repeatedly.
The next day, I took the afternoon train from Unheung Station to my parents’ house. When I arrived, the house was empty—my two younger siblings were likely still at school. I found the key, unlocked the door, set down the backpack containing the candy I had brought, and headed to my father’s factory, where my mother also worked.
At that time, my father’s factory was running a policy that allowed people to exchange used cloth for shoes. Since goods were scarce in stores and shoes could only be purchased with a special slip, the policy was extremely popular.
My father had once been elected as the representative of Ryanggang Province to attend the 6th Congress of the Workers’ Party of Korea. However, during the mandatory medical examination for participants, he was diagnosed with liver cirrhosis and was unable to attend the event.
He later applied to the Yanggang Provincial Party to return to his hometown of Pyongyang for treatment. Unfortunately, the provincial Party rejected his request, arguing that no one could replace him due to his exceptional skills and competence.
Instead of approving his request to return to Pyongyang, the provincial Party arranged for my father to receive treatment in a special room at the Hepatitis Prevention Center on the outskirts of Hyesan City. After two months of care, he was discharged.
Following his recovery, my father resigned from his demanding managerial position, which required frequent business trips, and took on the role of head engineer for three years. However, when his hepatitis relapsed, he stepped down again and renewed his request to return to Pyongyang. Once more, the provincial Party refused. Eventually, my father settled into a position as an adviser in the factory’s laboratory.
Despite his illness, my father’s contributions remained invaluable. Even during periods when he couldn’t work for months, he continued to receive full rations and salary. When technical problems arose, engineers from the factory would come to our home to seek his advice.
During this time, my father invented an additive that significantly reduced the gasoline needed to produce raw rubber by utilizing a by-product from the steelworks. His innovation saved 5,000 liters of gasoline annually. Throughout his career, he developed 21 inventions and earned considerable prize money for his contributions.
In North Korea, rice and gasoline were among the most precious resources. The worsening economic conditions had caused severe gasoline shortages, threatening shoe production. However, thanks to my father’s invention, the factory could continue producing shoe soles, sustaining operations despite the crisis.
When the factory ran out of cloth for making the upper part of the shoe, my father devised a barter-based system where people could exchange old fabric for shoes. This ingenious solution kept the factory running and proved so effective that the practice expanded beyond Ryanggang Province to other regions. While many factories in the province ceased production due to raw material shortages, my father’s shoe factory continued to meet its national production targets.
The system also brought unexpected benefits to the female employees in the so-called Order Department, which managed the processing of used textiles. For every 10 pairs of shoes sold at the retail price, the factory collected enough fabric to produce 20 pairs of new shoes. Employees could then pay the factory for the fabric equivalent of 10 pairs of shoes, effectively doubling their output.
This process allowed employees to accumulate shoes quickly—10 pairs could become 20, 20 could become 40, and so on. Many workers profited significantly by diligently participating in this system. Beginning in 1986, this fabric-for-shoes exchange became a vital lifeline for Hyesan residents, sustaining them through difficult times for more than a decade, until 1998.
However, in November 1997, the system came under scrutiny during a government inspection following reports that some of the factory’s shoes had reached South Korea, partly due to the widespread fabric trade. The factory’s Primary Party Secretary was executed as a result of the investigation, and the barter system was abolished the following year.
At that time, my mother, who had also started working at the factory, earned a substantial amount of money by collecting fabric and selling shoes. She managed to save up to 300,000 won—a remarkable sum, considering that a kilogram of rice cost just 3 won at the time. This meant her savings could buy tens of tons of rice.
My father, who had always lived a principled and modest life, deeply appreciated my mother’s thriftiness and her ability to manage the household finances so well. Later, when my father fell gravely ill after I was married, my mother selflessly offered to use her entire savings to pay for his treatment.
Upon arriving at my father’s factory, I passed through the main gate and made my way to the laboratory where he worked. Taking a piece of candy from the plastic bag in my pocket, I gently placed it in his mouth. My father laughed, savoring the treat, and told me to go find my mother in the Order Department.
When I opened the door to the custom-made production room, I found my mother seated with her head bent, diligently working with her hands. She looked up, startled to see me, and immediately asked how I had gotten there and whether I had come with Geum-cheol. I told her I had come alone and asked when she could leave work.
My mother informed her team leader that she wanted to leave early because I was visiting, and her colleagues warmly encouraged her to go home, saying it wasn’t every day her married daughter came by.
That evening, as we returned home together, my mother was surprised when I pulled out a large package of candy from my backpack.
“Misun, how did you manage to bring so much candy? Where on earth did it all come from?” she asked, astonished.
She was in awe as she carefully opened the candy package. I explained that I had received 5 kilograms from the unit and that Geum-chol’s vice platoon leader had given him an additional 5 kilograms. I added that Geum-chol had suggested I bring it all to my parents’ house, leaving only a small portion at home for ourselves.
The candy I brought was white and delicious, a rare treat at the time. Hyesan had two food factories, but they only produced yellow candy made from starch syrup. Even that was a luxury most households couldn’t afford due to North Korea’s inability to produce enough confectionery to meet the population’s needs.
That evening, I invited my father to visit my house, mentioning that the hill behind it was full of medicinal herbs like hwanggi and jjilgwangi. I suggested he come to relax and enjoy digging for herbs, an activity he loved. My father, delighted by the idea, said he would visit if there were no urgent matters at the factory.
Later that night, I boarded the 10 p.m. train to return home. Without a travel certificate, I couldn’t enter the train car and had to stand outside on the boarding ramp. My backpack, filled with dishes my mother had lovingly packed for me, rested on the floor by my feet.
Shortly after the train departed from Wiyeon Station, the conductor began checking travel certificates and tickets. As I stood there anxiously, a soldier nearby, smoking a cigarette, noticed my unease. Gathering my courage, I explained my situation and asked for his help.
The soldier introduced himself as a member of the 312th Brigade of the command unit stationed in Unheung County. He assured me not to worry and promised to tell the conductor that I was traveling with him. True to his word, the soldier’s intervention allowed me to travel without issue.
When we arrived at Unheung Station, I thanked him sincerely and invited him to visit my house someday before we parted ways.
Walking through the valley alone at night was both difficult and frightening. The weight of the backpack on my shoulders only added to my unease, but I pressed on, drawing strength from the thought of my husband waiting for me at home. The chill of the dark night seemed to lift slightly when I spotted the faint glow of lights from the military housing in the distance. By the time I crossed the creek bridge and reached our home, I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
However, as I reached for the door, I noticed it was locked. It appeared that Geum-chol hadn’t come down from the company since I wasn’t home. Leaving my backpack by the door, I turned back and started up the path toward the company to look for him. As I walked, I noticed someone descending from the direction of the company. The silhouette and familiar gait told me it was my husband.
“Who’s there?” he called out as he approached, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.
“It’s me,” I replied. “Why are you coming home now? Have you eaten?”
Recognizing my voice, he quickened his pace, nearly running to me. “Oh, you’re already here! I was just heading to meet you at the train station.”
He wrapped his arm around my shoulders protectively and asked gently, “Were you safe at your parents’ house?”
The warmth in his voice immediately dispelled the tension I had felt walking through the dark valley. I smiled silently, feeling a deep happiness, and wrapped my arms around his waist in a quiet embrace.
He told me he had eaten at the company’s cafeteria, and as he embraced my shoulder, he warmly asked if I had had a good trip. The warmth in his voice melted away all the tension I had felt walking through the dark valley. I smiled happily without saying a word and wrapped my arms around his waist.
A few days later, my father visited our newlywed home for the first time. My husband treated him with all the respect he deserved. The day after his arrival, my father went up the mountain behind our house to dig for Hwanggi (milk vetch roots). For his snack, I prepared a special treat—nurungji (crispy rice crust) sprayed with sugar, pressed down so it would absorb it, and packed it in a plastic bag for him to take. Sugar-coated nurungji from the cauldron was my father’s favorite snack.
Geum-chol also arranged for several kilograms of beef to be given to my father from the sanitation instructor. In addition, a soldier from his platoon brought freshly squeezed goat milk in a basin for my father upon hearing that he was visiting. The other women from the company housing also contributed by bringing delicious dishes to share with him. They were truly wonderful neighbors.
My father stayed for three days at our house, enjoying his time picking herbs before he returned to Hyesan. Geum-chol called one of his platoon soldiers to accompany my father, ensuring he had company on his way home. As a result, my father had a large backpack full of herbs when he left.
I did everything I could to make his visit comfortable, ensuring he felt at ease while staying with us. On the day of his departure, my husband and I saw him off at the train station, placing his backpack carefully inside the train car.
My father later shared with my mother how kind and respectful everyone had been during his visit to our home. He expressed how relieved he was to know I was living among such good-hearted people. Over time, he frequently mentioned the hospitality he had received at our house.
I lived a very comfortable life in the company housing, free from the life reflection sessions I had to attend every weekend when I was single.
Unlike the dependents of civilians who were part of the Socialist Women’s Union of Korea (SWUK), the wives of servicemen were part of the General Federation of Trade Unions of Korea (GFTUK). The chairperson of the battalion’s GFTUK often forced us to participate in the organizational life, especially since my husband’s company was one hour away by train from the battalion. However, I was not called to attend any meetings, nor did I receive any interference.
Each battalion had a family platoon, whose duties included supporting military spouses, producing up to 80 kilograms of pork a year for submission to the base, farming, and taking care of miscellaneous tasks. This is why we were part of the GFTUK.
One day, I received a call from the military store in the upper unit to pick up soybean paste. I went up to the meeting point in the upper unit with the neighboring ladies to collect it.
Among those receiving goods from the military store were also civilian workers from the gas supply station. The families of the civilian workers were often upset because the pork and fish distributed by the base didn’t go to them. The store manager explained regretfully that there was no choice in the matter, as the goods were distributed based on the exact number of servicemen. However, she tried to assign extra portions to the families of civilian workers when the division was up to the military store.
When I entered the military store, the family members of the upper base greeted me warmly, as I was a new family member. Feeling embarrassed, I stuck close to the wife of the 1st platoon commander, my next-door neighbor, and awkwardly returned their greetings. I was about to leave the store after picking up the soybean paste when the manager called me.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Yes…?” I replied.
I put down the bowl containing the soybean paste and asked the 1st platoon commander’s wife to come with me. Shy and nervous, I linked my arm with hers and walked toward the manager.
The manager said, “Ah, I just wanted to ask you something.”
She explained that she had heard my father had worked for a long time as the manager at the shoe factory in Hyesan and asked if she could buy shoes. I told her that my mother could help, since she worked in the Order Department.
The husband of the military store manager, a lieutenant colonel, was the chief planning staff for the gas supply station. He specialized in military welfare and was assigned only to bases that had a gas supply station. The military store manager, originally from Songchon, South Pyongan Province, had been a middle school math teacher before marriage. She was a generous and outgoing person, always trying to give as much as possible to the military and working families. She also asked if the Order Department could sell shoes in exchange for grain instead of fabric.
On my way back to our housing, carrying the supplied soybean paste, I also offered my neighbor, the wife of the 1st platoon commander, to let me know if she needed shoes, since I was planning to visit my mother the following day.
She said she would look for fabric at home to buy shoes for her siblings. The next day, my husband and I took the train down to Hyesan. Geum-chol went for work, and I went to meet my mother at the factory. I got off the train and went straight to the factory to find her.
I told my mom that the ladies at the company wanted to buy a lot of shoes. Mom thought for a moment, then said, “I have some shoes set aside to sell later. Why don’t you take them first and exchange them for fabric? You can then exchange the leftover for grain. But how are you going to carry them all by yourself?”
“I can take them with Geum-chol,” I quickly answered, overjoyed that I could keep my word with the military families. “He’s here, too, but he went to run an errand for work.”
That evening, my husband and I returned to the company’s residence, carrying 60 pairs of shoes that my mother had saved up to sell. It was at that point that I truly stepped into the economic battlefield in North Korea, a country in decline.
As life in North Korea grew increasingly difficult, people began to engage in small-scale businesses. In downtown Hyesan, a large marketplace was established, and the same was happening in Wiyeon district, where my parents lived.
I exchanged 30 pairs of shoes for fabric and the other 30 pairs for 60 kilograms of wheat-rice. An oil tanker ran every Thursday between the upper base and the People’s Army Exploration Squad next to my father’s factory.
The military store manager introduced my husband and me to the gas maintenance manager so we could load the fabric and grain we had exchanged for shoes onto the oil tanker. I climbed aboard the truck, and once we arrived, I unloaded the goods next to the sentry of the People’s Army Expedition. I then ran to the shoe factory’s main gate and called my mother from the intercom.
She soon came out to meet me when I returned to my luggage and was waiting for her. She was very pleased and praised me for the hard work. From that point on, I continued to bring shoes little by little, trading some for fabric and others for grain. That was how I became a truly helpful daughter to my parents.
Unlike other military family members, who occasionally cooked meals for the soldiers with farm produce they had grown, I couldn’t do that at the time because we were only receiving rations. And since we were planning a wedding in January the following year at my husband’s parents’ place, I was saving as much as I could from the rations we received.
I also had some money that my mother had given me upon my marriage, but I was keeping it for emergencies. My husband’s eldest sister was getting married, so we needed to save everything for her wedding gift as well. I used the wheat-rice I had exchanged for shoes to pull noodles and flour from the mill at the upper base.
With the flour and noodles, I made bread and noodle soup to feed my husband’s platoon soldiers when they visited our home. The company’s cafeteria only served rice with salted radish and soup boiled with salted cabbage three times a day, so when the soldiers visited the officer’s residence, they could finally enjoy a decent meal.
The company was stationed in a deep valley surrounded by high mountains. Civilians weren’t prohibited from entering the area, so soldiers also took responsibility for maintaining the dense forest. For the firewood needed at the military residence, three platoon soldiers would transport the logs piled in the company yard to my yard and cut them all day.
One day, I was chopping firewood with an ax and stacking it in the storehouse. I had been working all day alone, sweating, when I saw my husband crossing the creek and heading to the company, chatting with the vice platoon leader.
As I watched him pass by, even though he had clearly seen me wielding the ax and chopping wood, I suddenly felt a wave of sadness and frustration. It seemed as though he was saying, “The soldiers brought the logs and cut them up in front of the house, so the rest of the work is yours.” But then, my disappointment faded as I reminded myself that it was my job to support my husband, a military officer, in a way that relieved him of household worries so he could focus on his military duties. From that point on, my husband never held an ax, assuming that chopping and piling the wood was my responsibility.
By the end of November, two months into living in the company’s residence, my husband was dispatched to a bridge construction site in Pyeongwon-gun along with all the platoon members. In exchange, the 3rd platoon commander and his men returned to the base. In January of the following year, we had another wedding at my husband’s hometown in North Pyongan Province, where my mother, third sister, and youngest sister attended.
After the wedding, my husband returned to the bridge construction in Pyeongwon, and I moved back to Hyesan with my mother. Every two months since then, my husband would return home for a 10-day vacation. I stayed at my parents’ house when he was away because I didn’t want to be alone at the company residence.
Even when I became pregnant in February and gave birth on October 30, he wasn’t around. He came to my parents’ house on vacation 15 days after I gave birth to our daughter. Upon hearing my delivery date, he turned to the side to block my view and started counting the months of my pregnancy on his fingers.
My mother, noticing that he was counting with his fingers, slapped the back of his hand and laughed loudly. “What’s this? Are you worried she’s not your daughter? What’s the point of counting when it’s obvious she’s yours just by looking at her?!”
He muttered, blushing, “No, it’s not like that. She was due in mid-November, but the baby was born 15 days earlier.”
My mother laughed again, saying that baby girls sometimes arrive early, even up to 15 days. After spending 10 days in Hyesan, he left again for the base in a different province. He briefly returned to Hyesan for three days to search for a deserter and then rejoined his unit. The following year, he came to Hyesan again briefly to catch a deserter before returning to the Plain Unit three days later.
Then, my husband’s battalion got into a fight with the 19th Brigade, resulting in casualties, and the vacation for all officers was canceled. That year, I marked the days on the calendar when my husband would be home. When I counted the days before the New Year of 1990, the total number I had circled was just 13 days.
Even on my eldest daughter’s first birthday, he couldn’t make it to Hyesan. So, I took my daughter to his parents’ home in Pyeongbuk-do and held a birthday party there. During that year without him, I grew vegetables and potatoes in the front and backyard of our house. I planted garlic and potatoes, then went back to my parents’ house. When it was time for weeding, I returned home to work, and after that, I’d go back to my parents’ house again.
Unlike my sisters, who gave birth at their in-laws’ homes, I gave birth at my parents’ house.
When I was giving birth, my father rolled up paper and plugged his ears, saying he didn’t like hearing the groaning. But afterward, he named my daughter and adored her so much that he became ill when he couldn’t see her for even a few days.
Whenever a soldier visited the main base and then returned to my husband’s construction site, I would draw my daughter’s dainty hands and feet on paper and have it delivered to him. This way, he could see how our daughter was growing little by little every time he received one of my letters.
On April 6, 1990, my husband’s 43rd Brigade withdrew from the construction site and returned home.
While I was staying at my parents’ house, the 1st platoon commander was promoted, and his family moved to another base. In their place, the family of the 2nd platoon commander moved into the house next door.
Over the course of the year I spent in the company’s residence, three families, including the 1st platoon commander’s, moved out, and new families arrived.
The wives of the 1st platoon commander and the company commander were the same age as I was, and their children were also the same age as my daughter.
My husband’s company had now permanently returned to their home base from the construction site, and life settled into a more regular routine. But none of the company’s political instructors, who had been rotated every few months, attempted to involve our military families in political life.
As I led a mundane life, Geum-chol was called by the cadre department of the command and went to Hyesan. I was anxious about the reason, so I stayed awake all night, waiting for his return. The next day, when my husband returned on the oil tanker that routinely visited the upper base to load oil, he had two stars on his shoulder. He had become a second lieutenant at the age of 22, and five years later, he was promoted to first lieutenant. This meant he was being reassigned to the 3rd company of the 2nd battalion of the 310th Brigade, where he had originally belonged.
I never got the chance to see the families who were my neighbors again. It was only later that I realized that once separated from neighboring military families, you rarely get to meet them again. I still miss the families who helped me during my early married life.
The 2nd Battalion of the 310th Brigade was stationed under the Aprok River in Hyehwa-dong, Hyesan. Since my husband was a graduate of Kim Chul-ju Artillery School, he was reassigned to the artillery brigade. The 310th Brigade was the only artillery brigade in the 10th district command.
With my husband’s new assignment, I moved to Hyesan. From that point on, until my husband took off his military uniform, I lived as a military family member within the confines of that freedomless existence.
In mid-March 1991, I moved to Hyehwa-dong, Hyesan-si, where my husband had been dispatched. When I first started my marriage, I only had simple kitchenware and bedding. But over time, my household items accumulated, and when I added the potatoes I had farmed and the grain, I had a truckload of luggage.
There was no room in the second battalion’s military residence, so we ended up moving into the military residence of the Party’s Training Center with the help of my youngest uncle. It was a one-story house shared by two households. My next-door neighbor was the family of the President of the Party’s Training Center.
His wife, a middle-aged woman with two sons and a daughter, managed the military store. I still remember her arrogant attitude when we arrived.
Once an officer reaches the rank of sangjwa (between lieutenant colonel and colonel), he is treated as a high-ranking officer with immense influence, one whom ordinary officers would be wary of facing directly. Her condescending attitude felt to me like an unspoken message: “I hold great power, so you better conduct yourself properly.”
Thanks to the backing of my youngest uncle, she couldn’t mistreat me, but I was still upset and annoyed by her behavior. It was the first time I had encountered someone who belittled me in such a way. When I told my husband how I felt, he smiled and said, “Don’t sweat it. We’re not going to live in this house for long anyway.”
I tried to avoid encountering the woman next door, even though we shared the same yard. I would even stop my playful daughter from playing outside. On the positive side, I liked that my parents’ house was now close, so I often took my daughter there.
To get to my parents’ house, I had to take a train, and on foot, it took me about an hour. On the 15th day after I moved to the Party Training Center’s residence, the wife of Geum-chol’s company commander visited my house. She explained in detail the lifestyle of the battalion families:
Every Saturday, I was supposed to attend the life reflection session. I had to participate in the base’s farm work and raise a pig to produce 80 kilograms of pork a year. Listening to her about the strict organizational life, I felt suffocated and annoyed, especially after having lived so comfortably until then in the remote company residence from the start of my marriage. She mentioned that she was the chairperson of the GFTUK for the battalion families and suggested that we set an example for other companies.
No matter how much one disliked it, organizational life was unavoidable. Moreover, if an officer’s wife didn’t adapt well to this life, it was considered harmful to the officer and could lead to criticism. In some cases, it could even prevent the officer from being promoted or could result in their discharge from the military due to their wife’s poor conduct. As a result, I attended the life reflection meetings every Saturday after she visited me.
The content of the meetings was always the same: the wives were falling short in supporting their husbands, and they needed to improve themselves, especially when it came to producing pork. Most people would repeat the content of their three-page life reflection essays throughout the year. The discussions weren’t based on any real flaws; they were held out of formality. Attending was mandatory, just for the sake of attendance.
Military farming and pork production were slightly different. If I missed even one day of farm work, the produce I received was reduced. As for raising the pig, if I failed to produce enough pork in a given year, I would lose three months’ worth of rations. That wasn’t the worst of it; when the battalion’s military officers, soldiers, and families gathered, the family that failed to produce pork would be called out and criticized. While I didn’t enjoy farm work, I participated actively and raised a pig for the sake of my husband’s future.
The battalion supplied the piglet. I dug up the ground in the backyard and made a small cage to raise it.
Since I had never raised a pig before, I asked families from other units for advice and took the task seriously. I used the water left over from washing the grain to make pig feed, but it wasn’t enough. So, I brewed wine from the corn I had exchanged for shoes, added grass to the wine, and boiled it to feed the pig. I gave half of the wine I made to my husband, who loved alcohol, and sold the other half for money.
Military families were often criticized for engaging in business, but as the country’s economy struggled and food became scarce, more and more families secretly ventured into liquor production. The military’s political department turned a blind eye to it, well aware of the reasons behind it.
A year later, I fermented 150 kilograms of beans I earned from farming in the military fields, making boiled soybean lump, tofu, and using the residue as pig feed.
For the first time in my life, I made my own liquor, tofu, starch, and yeot (malt candy). My comfortable life was behind me, and I toiled like a farmworker under the sun. Since moving to Hyesan, I had been so busy that time seemed to slip away unnoticed. My parents praised me for being diligent, managing all the household tasks while raising my daughter and supporting my husband.
My brother, who had been in the military, was discharged and married. He started working in the engineering department of my father’s shoe factory while attending night classes at an engineering college. My youngest sister graduated from middle school and passed the entrance exams for a chemical college, but she decided to give it up and prepare to join the military instead.
One day, after completing her physical examination and receiving her uniform, my sister had some extra time before the uniform distribution, so she went with her classmates to see a new art film.
When she returned to the military mobilization department afterward, she discovered that her name had already been called and, since she wasn’t there, her application was canceled, and her uniform had been given to someone else.
With her missed opportunities to attend college or join the military, my sister started working at my father’s factory. Meanwhile, my youngest brother, after graduating from middle school, joined the army.
At my parents’ house, my brother, his wife, and my sister lived with my parents. My brother’s wife was a younger classmate of mine, known for her talent in basketball. Both my younger sister and I strongly opposed their marriage, but in the end, my parents accepted her as their daughter-in-law. However, my mother later regretted her decision, often beating her chest in sorrow.
In April 1992, I introduced my sister to Jeon Yong-soo, who was serving as a platoon commander in my husband’s company. On April 25, 1992, the government commemorated the 60th anniversary of the founding of the Korean People’s Army by giving all soldiers a gift: a box of food and a wristwatch engraved with “Baekdu Mountain.”
On that special day, Yong-soo, wearing his new wristwatch, and my husband visited my parents. Yong-soo had graduated from the military academy with the highest honors, joined the military, and six months later, entered an officer’s military school. He became a lieutenant upon graduation. Tall and thin, with a reserved personality, he was well-regarded by Geum-chol, who explained to my parents that Yong-soo was a responsible person who led his subordinates effectively and faithfully carried out his duties.
A few days after meeting my parents, Yong-soo visited his hometown and, after a month of discussions, married my sister.
My husband’s unit moved beyond the Hyesan Airfield, and we followed them. My sister’s family then moved into the house I had been living in. My parents were incredibly proud and happy, boasting about their two sons-in-law, both military officers.
Since 1990, rations for civilians had ceased, and the price of rice, which had once been 3 won, surged tenfold. My parents, along with the rest of the people in North Korea, were suffering from severe food shortages due to the lack of rations. However, as a soldier’s family, we faced fewer hardships. We were still receiving food supplies, and I had also harvested beans and corn from the military farm. Meanwhile, my mother worked hard, trading shoes for food to support our family.
Whenever I had the chance, my third elder sister and I would wear backpacks full of shoes and go around selling them. On those days, my mother would care for my younger sibling, taking her to the factory.
The economic crisis, which had been creeping in, eventually overwhelmed the entire nation. In an effort to address the crisis, the government conducted a currency exchange in September 1992. Each household was allowed to exchange up to 5,000 won. At that time, the price of rice in North Korea had risen to 28 won and 50 jon.
1,000 won was considered a significant sum for an average family, and many households didn’t even have that much. Those who had kept money at home found themselves with worthless paper, as the old currency could no longer be used. People who held large amounts of cash would sometimes approach poorer individuals, asking them to exchange money on their behalf, offering 1,000 won in return (because the old money could only be exchanged for the new currency up to a limit of 5,000 won).
Thankfully, my mother had deposited all her savings in the bank, which spared us from the crisis. However, she was deeply upset when she learned that 30% of her savings would be taken by the state, and only 70% would be accessible. Her savings in the bank amounted to nearly 500,000 won.
I invited my brother, who was attending evening college, to stop by for dinner at my house after class. I also asked my father to visit whenever he had errands in downtown Hyesan. Every time they came by, I treated them to a good meal.
My mother, who had been saving money solely for my father’s medical treatment, started buying grain. She bought so much rice that the stored rice in the underground kimchi storage began to gather bugs. I had to spread out the affected rice, which weighed up to 350 kilograms, on the ground. For several days, I painstakingly picked the rice worms out of the rice. I gave the rice I had received from the base to my mother and kept the rice that had been eaten by the bugs. After cleaning it thoroughly, I mixed it with other grains and cooked it.
As the struggle for survival grew more intense, more people began to gather in the marketplace, and train cars became increasingly crowded with travelers carrying mountains of luggage.
I worked diligently in the army’s fields, and when I had time, I tied a cloth around my waist like an apron to collect pig grass, which I brought home. The grass was mixed with wine and boiled to feed the pigs.
The year after my husband moved to the new base, I dedicated an 80-kilogram pig to the unit, reaching 80% of that year’s meat production goal. Each military family was required to produce 80 kilograms of pork, based on the dressed carcass weight. This meant the pig needed to weigh over 100 kilograms in total to meet the goal.
The pig I provided to the unit weighed 80 kilograms, which yielded about 60 kilograms of fat (dressed carcass). When a soldier’s family successfully raises a pig and dedicates it to the unit, they receive a new piglet within 10 days.
While I was busy with pig-raising, winter passed, and spring arrived. I had some extra time before I had to begin plowing, planting, and weeding, so I washed the blankets and clothes we had worn during winter, tidied up the house, and made snacks for my daughter. I worked tirelessly.
When it was time for weed removal, we, the wives, worked until evening, moving to different fields every few days. During the weeding season, the battalion families took turns caring for the children.
In autumn, the well-ripe soybeans were slashed with a sickle, grouped together, and then transported to the yard of the military unit. We would commute to the base for several days to dry the beans. Once dried, we spread them on a large tent fabric and hit them with a stick to filter out the beans.
The more beans we collected, the wider our smiles became. Half of the harvested beans were stored in the troop warehouse, and the rest was distributed to the military families. The chairman of the General Federation of Trade Unions (GFTUK) calculated the attendance rates of the wives for the farm work and handed the report to the battalion warehouse manager, who then distributed the beans accordingly.
The wife with perfect attendance received 200 kilograms, while the one with the least received 80 kilograms. I received 150 kilograms the first year, 180 kilograms the second year, and 150 kilograms the third year.
My husband Geum-chol smiled from ear to ear as he loaded the gunny bags full of beans into the car. He patted my back and complimented my hard work in front of the other family members. Those who were watching teased him about how excited he was over the beans.
I gave 20 kilograms of the grain I received to my mother and another 20 kilograms to my second sister so that they could make fermented soybean lumps. My second sister lived in a rural area, so I always felt a special sympathy for her.
After the fall harvest, it was time to prepare for winter. Every year, the unit supplied 200 kilograms of cabbage and 80 kilograms of radish for kimchi.
The military car, loaded with cabbages and radishes, delivered them door to door. Three drivers from our battalion received 100 kilograms of cabbage—half of what the officers received. They were content, as they understood that they were getting this because of their status as military laborers. Meanwhile, the factory workers no longer received cabbage, as they had in the past. Now, civilians had to buy cabbage and radish at a high price in the marketplace to make kimchi.
I trimmed the cabbages I had piled in the warehouse next to the house, sprinkled salt on the crocks and wooden barrels, and packed them in one after another with my daughter, who was clingy and troublesome, by my side. After pickling the cabbage and trimming the radishes, I changed my clothes and went to the marketplace near the train station, carrying my daughter on my back. I had to buy peppers and garlic since the base only provided cabbage, radish, and salt. It was exhausting to walk around the marketplace with my four-year-old daughter on my back.
Afterward, I hailed a truck to take me to my parents’ house and asked my mom for help. The next day, my mother and third sister, as requested, came to my house with red pepper powder, garlic, ginger, and salted shrimp.
My mother always said that to make delicious kimchi, the pickled cabbage should not be left for more than a day to preserve the sweetness of the cabbage. Following her advice, I took out the cabbage that had been salted the day before and washed it with a hose in the yard, with my sister assisting me.
In the meantime, my mother stayed inside the house, making kimchi sauce while keeping an eye on my daughter. We were busy all day, eventually placing the completed kimchi in jars in the underground kimchi storage. By the time I finished making radish kimchi with the pollack I had bought at the marketplace, the sun had set.
After getting married, I didn’t receive any help from my husband’s family, but it was truly comforting to have the full support of my original family, who lived nearby.
I then made a delicious soup with the tofu I had made from the beans I received from the base after farming them. While we were eating, my mom said,
“You live a life of abundance because you’re married to Geum-chol. Other people don’t even dream of preparing winter kimchi because they’re not receiving rations. I don’t know why time is becoming so pitiless.”
Indeed, people were flustered, not knowing how to cope with the new reality. My parents, however, were managing a decent life, thanks to my mother’s ability to exchange shoes for fabric and sell them for grain.
My sisters were also doing well, benefiting from my father’s status at the shoe factory and my mother’s resourcefulness.
In March 1993, as the snow started to melt after New Year’s Day, our unit’s rations suddenly stopped. It was said that the base could no longer distribute food because there was no supply in the warehouse of the food policy office downtown. I was stunned. If soldiers didn’t get food rations, didn’t that mean the country was finished?
I couldn’t stay still. So, I went to my mother with the fabric I had previously collected in exchange for shoes. I submitted the fabric to the factory and received 100 pairs of shoes in various sizes and for both sexes. The price I had to pay for the shoes was large, but it was possible because I had saved up some money from selling liquor.
A few days later, I boarded the train to go to my parents-in-law in North Pyongsang Province with my daughter. My husband got me a travel certificate from his unit, saw me off, and even picked a seat for me. The shoes were checked in as luggage. I had saved enough grain to get by for now, but I thought we could end up starving if the rationing ceased for too long. That’s why I decided to go to my in-laws’ house to exchange the shoes for food.
I made some dishes for my husband to eat while I was gone. On the train, with my four-year-old daughter by my side, my mind wandered in all directions. Is this what life is supposed to look like?
I felt conflicted, facing a reality where no matter how tirelessly I worked year-round, it didn’t seem enough. Why is life becoming so pitiless when it was going smoothly without chaos when I was growing up? Is my country being affected by the collapse of socialist countries in Eastern Europe? Until that moment, I had never thought much about politics. I felt sorry for those who were struggling while I stayed afloat thanks to my parents and my husband’s position.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with fear for the future, realizing that my country couldn’t even provide rations for the soldiers. I fell asleep holding my daughter, who had finally drifted off after whining for a while. I’m not sure how long I slept, but I woke up to a loud noise. When I looked out, the train had arrived at Ganggye Station in Jagang Province.
The train was packed with people trying to get on and off. Shouts filled the air as passengers yelled at a woman, whose backpack was taller than she was, to move out of the way in the narrow train corridor. She had dark skin and was dressed in worn-out work clothes, struggling to navigate the tight space because of her large luggage.
The commotion continued as the train moved forward. There was a train attendant in each car, but she had clearly been absent for a while and hadn’t noticed the woman boarding with such bulky baggage. The attendant, frustrated, pushed her toward the exit, telling her to leave.
The woman, burdened with the oversized luggage, was shoved toward the boarding ramp by the attendant. I couldn’t help but sigh, feeling a sense of relief that I wasn’t living the same way, being treated so dismissively.
Before my daughter could walk, my father had made her cute little baby shoes in his workshop, and I received many baby clothes that had been worn by my sisters’ children when they were babies. Additionally, my husband’s friends gave her outfits as gifts, so my daughter was well-dressed and never lacked anything.
When my husband received meal coupons from the command, he would use them to buy hardtack (dry bread). I would fry the hardtack in oil, sprinkle sugar on it, and serve it as a snack for my daughter.
Around that time, smuggling with China was thriving, and many Chinese goods were brought into the country. I would buy a 4-kilogram bag of candy in exchange for two pairs of shoes. However, I spoiled my oldest daughter with too many sweets, and her teeth began to decay. She eventually had to have all of her molars pulled when she was still very young.
After a long train journey, I finally arrived at Sinanju Station with my daughter. It seemed that Geum-chol had called his parents in advance, because when I got off the train, my father-in-law was already waiting for me. I retrieved my luggage from the cargo compartment and climbed onto the horse cart that my father-in-law was pulling. My daughter, excited by the new experience, clapped her hands and shouted joyfully in her own words, her excitement contagious.
My mother-in-law exchanged the shoes I had brought for 200 kilograms of corn by traveling to nearby rural houses, and then traded 100 kilograms of the corn for rice.
Although there were no rations, many people in Pyeongan Province, a breadbasket region, exchanged shoes for corn. This was likely because many households had some extra grain stored from farming. Up until that point, the southern part of the country had been less affected by food shortages compared to Ryanggang Province.
Shoes were in high demand, especially among farmers, and 100 pairs were sold out in just a few days. People continued to visit my in-laws’ house to buy more. I told my mother-in-law I would send more shoes once I returned to Hyesan, so she could continue trading them for food.
I wanted to stay a little longer at my in-laws’, but I couldn’t forget my husband, who was likely eating alone, so I decided to leave. I boarded the train to Hyesan with 100 kilograms of rice and several kilograms of red beans that my mother-in-law had given me.
My sisters-in-law whispered behind my back, calling me greedy, but I chose to ignore them. I was content, thinking it didn’t matter what they said, as long as I had plenty to eat at home.
Due to frequent electricity shortages, trains were often delayed. Three days after leaving Sinanju Station, I finally arrived at Hyesan Station in the late afternoon. I had sweat pouring down my face several times, struggling with my restless daughter, who felt uncomfortable in the stifling train and kept trying to move around. I got off the train and made my way to my husband’s unit, not far from the station.
I was worried my husband had already left work, but thankfully, he was just coming out of his company unit to head home. As soon as my daughter saw him, she immediately tried to get off my back. I quickly put her down, as my shoulders were sore from carrying her.
I laughed as I watched my husband and daughter joyfully embrace each other. I teased him, saying it looked like he hadn’t seen her in years. We went back to the station, collected our luggage from the baggage claim, loaded it onto a porter’s cart, and made our way home. It was already dark by the time we arrived.
He unpacked the luggage with such delight that his smile reached from ear to ear. Fifteen days after I returned home, I asked my mother to send 50 pairs of shoes to my in-laws’ house. My husband thanked my mother several times for helping his parents, saying the shoes would be a great help to them.
Whenever my husband saw the rice bags in the upper room, he would remind me that we should be frugal with it, commenting on how other families were going without food due to the missing rations. The military base had not provided food to officers and their families for five months, from March to July that year. Despite this, we soldiers still had to participate in weekly reflection sessions and farm work as usual.
The family members often discussed when the rations would finally be released, lamenting that not only the husbands, but even the children, were starving while we spent our days weeding. In August, the unit finally distributed the long-awaited rations.
Having lived in Korea, I was used to a wide variety of dining options, so I didn’t cook much at home and often ate out. However, in North Korea, eating out is almost impossible. The country offers very few options other than the rations provided by the government, and eating out once could cost as much as 10 days’ worth of meals.
The monthly ration for an officer was 21 kilograms, or 700 grams a day, while dependents received 300 grams a day, totaling 8 kilograms per month. So, my family’s monthly ration amounted to 39 kilograms. Soldiers on active duty were allotted 800 grams a day, while those in the training division received 700 grams.
The Ministry of the People’s Armed Forces launched a campaign for the Patriotic Rice Movement, urging people to donate rice to civilians, claiming they were starving. My unit also instructed my family to donate two months’ worth of the six-month ration. As a result, we ended up receiving a four-month supply. Despite this, I was still thankful to receive 150 kilograms of grain, especially after six months of scarcity.
Around the time we received the delayed rations and harvested the beans I had grown in the unit’s field, my husband was promoted to company commander of the 312th Brigade’s 3rd Battalion. He moved first to Yongpo-ri, Unheung-gun, in Yanggang Province, where the new battalion was located.
My husband was 30 at the time. After his move to the new unit, I took my daughter and spent two days at my parents’ house because I didn’t want to be alone. I then took the train back home in the evening.
As I neared our house, I felt an inexplicable sense of anxiety. It seemed that the window was open, and the reflection of the light from a nearby streetlamp made it look unusual.
At that time, the family living next door at the Party’s Training Center had moved away, and the new tenant was hospitalized in Pyongyang for a brain tumor. As a result, both units in our building were unoccupied. Our neighborhood was home only to military officers, with civilians rarely visiting. This gave me a sense of ease about staying at my parents’ house while leaving my unit unattended.
When I opened the entrance gate and approached my unit’s door, I noticed that the lock was undone. My heart pounded as I stepped inside and turned on the light. I was shocked to see footprints and clothes scattered across the room. I froze in place. The door to the upper room was open, the rice container was left ajar, and all the bags of rice that had been stacked under the window were gone.
Only about half of the noodles I had made with corn remained. When I opened the closet in a panic, I saw that all the clothes were missing—my husband’s new uniform, my daughter’s outfits—everything had vanished. It was clear that a thief had broken in while I was away. All the food and valuable clothing were gone, and the house was left in complete disarray.
I was so overwhelmed with fear and anxiety that I couldn’t even cry. I stood there, paralyzed, repeatedly muttering, “What should I do?” as I rubbed my thighs with trembling hands.