Author: Park, Sangil

I did not always go by the book. Either in my third or fourth grade, I led twenty-something students to play truant. We hid our school bags inside a stone mound and traveled to Bochoun county (보천군), which is a few kilometers from Hyesan.  

While I excelled as the Class President, I occasionally didn’t mind engaging in spontaneous misdeeds. I proposed to my close friends, who were always by my side through thick and thin, that we embark on an adventure to discover life on our own terms. The idea seemed to ignite a strong curiosity in our young minds. Those friends then convinced more students to join us, leading to a significant unauthorized absence for two days. 

The day before our departure, we gathered around the soccer goal post. I briefed everyone, setting the rendezvous for 7 am the next day in front of Songbong Clinic (송봉진료소). I instructed them to bring food for two days, an extra jacket or cover for the night, and at least two wons.

I figured two won would be enough to sustain us over two days since some snacks were available for as little as five or ten Jon (전).

The following day, I found them at the meeting point, and I led the group to the hill behind the school, near the Blueberry Processing Factory (들쭉가공공장) where my mother worked.

The mountain was strewn with numerous rocks and holes, some as sizable as water buckets. Local farmers had constructed rocky mounds sporadically, creating clear spaces for cultivating crops.

We selected a mound three times the size of a grave, dug it up, hid everyone’s bags, and then covered it with the rocks. 

Our destination was Uiyon Station (위연역), the terminal station beyond Hyesan Station in the north. While the primary railway line between Hyesan and Pyongyang operated electronically, the sub-line connecting Uiyon to Sanjoyon (위연-삼지연) ran on steam powered by brown coal. This so-called “train” crawled at a pace no faster than a person’s steps on steep inclines.

We rode for three stops, got off at Gonjangdok Station (곤장덕역) at around 11 am, and began browsing downtown. Bochonbo County offered a wealth of sights and experiences.

Renowned for Kim Il Sung’s anti-Japanese struggle, Bochonbo is the starting point of the revolutionary history tour of Mt Paektu district. It stood as a crucial landmark in disseminating Kim Il Sung’s legacy of anti-Japanese resistance, attracting both adults and curious kids like us. 

We wandered the vicinity, exploring the old Japanese police substation building. Fascinated, we touched a long sword akin to those worn by the police in that era and traced our fingers over the bullet marks etched into the building walls.

Time flew by and darkness began to fall. We decided to split into smaller groups, each seeking its own lodging for the night, with plans to reconvene at 8 am the following day. Some opted to retreat to the wooden benches of the train station’s waiting room, while my group chose a rather unconventional spot—a pig pen.

Earlier in the day, we had spotted the pen, a newly constructed enclosure framed with stacks of logs. With the summer night retaining a chilly edge, we needed something insulating and soft for the ground. Rice sheaves would have been ideal, but they were nonexistent in this cold region.

In their place, heaps of millet sheaves had been laid out, seemingly prepared for the imminent arrival of its intended residents. However, we ended up utilizing the space and the millet carpet before the designated animals made their way in.

The distance between the farmhouse and the pigpen was about ten meters, so we had to stay quiet to avoid getting caught. Once the house lights dimmed past 11 pm, we felt more at ease, engaging in spirited chatter and hearty laughter. No one knew when we fell asleep.  

We did not go hungry because we could buy foods like bread, candy or steamed potatoes. However, one of the boys, Choljin, carried about 1.5kg of rice since his mother adamantly refused to provide the requested two won for the trip. Sadly, lacking a pot or matches, we found ourselves unable to cook the rice. 

This raised a discussion on where rice comes from. Never having seen rice plants in person, we thought that rice grew on trees. Some speculated that rice grew on large trees, while others argued it sprouted on shrubs, leading to a lively debate.

Unable to reach a conclusion, Choljin proposed that we plant the rice in the ground and come back after ten days or a month to see what happens. 

Laughing and chatting aloud, we started digging the moist ground with wood sticks and buried tens of rice grains per hole. None of us knew that the polished grains without their protective husks were incapable of sprouting.

Years later, as adults, my friends and I would reunite for drinks on different occasions, and reminisce about the incident and laugh our heads off. 

As the second day transitioned into early evening, we boarded the train for our return journey. Reclaiming our bags from the rock mound, we dispersed toward our respective homes. Some of the kids, gripped by fear, lingered in the area until their concerned parents eventually found them. 

The school and the homes of missing children were in a frenzy for two days. Reports surfaced of some students allegedly taking money from their parents’ purses, while others emptied their younger siblings’ snack supplies before disappearing.

By the third day, parents brought all the troubled students back to school. Some bore visible signs of being beaten harshly.

I was not exempt from this scrutiny. Both the school and my parents concluded that I was the instigator of the incident. Consequently, I faced a few harsh slaps from my father. Strangely, they didn’t sting. Tears streamed down my face, yet amidst the confusion, laughter bubbled up. Surprisingly, my parents found themselves laughing too, bewildered by the unexpected turn of emotions.

After a few days, the anger of the parents subsided as none of us ended up injured or falling ill.

As my punishment, I was tasked with standing at the back of the classroom for an hour. Standing in that spot for the designated time, I began to empathize with the teacher who tirelessly lectured and wrote on the blackboard all day long. It wasn’t remorse for my past actions but rather a growing sense of compassion toward the teacher that filled my young heart. From then until my graduation from People’s School, I never caused any trouble for my teachers.

In addition to my other penalties, I was stripped of my role as Class President for a week. While grappling with feelings of shame and embarrassment, my teacher summoned me to the teachers’ room. With a heavy heart and a sense of defeat, I stood before her. She asked if I had reflected on my actions, expressing that she bore a greater responsibility for my regrettable escapade as a young student of the People’s School. Consequently, she too faced criticism and was put on probation.

She was an exceptional teacher. Instead of directing her frustration towards me for the punishment, she showed genuine concern for my dwindling spirit. Her encouragement echoed in my mind—she said that I had potential to become someone heroic if I rise above my mistakes. Her kind words struck a chord within me, bringing forth tears, a rare display of emotion even in front of my parents.

From that moment, I transformed into an entirely exemplary student. I committed myself to rectifying my wrongs and moving forward positively. My efforts were recognized, culminating in the receipt of an award certificate upon my graduation.

The five-year tenure at the upper-middle school (고등중학교) took place at Yonpung Boys’ Middle School (연풍남자중학교), a mere ten-minute walk from my home. While some students regretfully transferred schools for various reasons, I remained in my originally assigned class.

With the exception of a three-month suspension from my position, I served as the Class President for the entirety of my five years in middle school.

5. Poor, yet, Class President

On the first of September, 1975, I began my journey as a student. I recall briefly attending kindergarten a year prior, but the resignation of our teacher led to the abrupt return home of all the kindergarteners, myself included. Consequently, I entered Songbong People’s School (송봉인민학교) in Hyesan, without any prior formal education.

Accompanied by my mother, who held my hand like the other parents, I embarked on this new chapter. My sister kindly wrapped my textbooks and notebooks. Additionally, I was equipped with essentials such as pencils, an eraser, a cutter, and scissors. The People’s School curriculum spanned four years, with the first-year homeroom teacher guiding us until graduation.

My homeroom teacher, Kim Chun Ok(김춘옥), was in her early twenties and still holds an indelible place in my memory, probably because she was my first teacher. She had freshly graduated from Hyesan Teachers’ School(혜산교원학교) with a degree in Korean when she took charge of our class.

The first month was when everyone and the teacher got to know one another. As I grasped the consonants and vowels, I could spell words like child (아이), cucumber (오이), eggplant (가지), and radish (무우). My enthusiasm for learning blossomed, by the time I could read “Chosun” (Korea, 조선).

We also delved into mathematics, reciting aloud phrases like “one plus one” or “two plus one.” I’ve heard that North Korea now introduces English education in elementary school (People’s School), but during that time, it only commenced after middle school.

After approximately a month, my teacher handed out handwritten letters to be delivered to our parents, requesting their presence at a meeting. By personally writing these notes, she likely aimed to ensure they reached their intended recipients.

The following day, my mother and I attended the scheduled parental meeting at 7 p.m. Due to limited space, students remained outside while only parents were permitted inside, seated at their respective children’s desks.

The meeting lasted about an hour. Strangely, the topic seemed to revolve around one question: “Who is this boy, Sangil?” It appeared that during the meeting, my teacher had singled me out as a potential class representative for the soon-to-be-formed student cadre, sparking curiosity among the attendees.

The student cadre, known as enthusiasts (열성자), typically included key roles such as the Chairperson of the Union Division (분단위원장), Class President (학급장), Ideology Vice Chairperson (사상부위원장), Board Members of the Union Division (분단위원, approximately three students), and Union Sub-group Leads (소년단 반장, around five-six students), totaling about ten students in a class of fifty students. 

Enthusiasts distinguished themselves by wearing a 4cm * 5cm rectangular badge on their upper left arm, adhering to governmental regulations. For instance, the top-ranking Chairperson’s badge featured two red horizontal lines adorned with three red pentagonal stars above them. Both the Class President and Ideology Vice Chairperson sported a badge with two bars and two stars. Board members of the Union Division in the fourth position showcased a badge with two lines and one star, while the Union Sub-group Leads had a badge with one line and three stars.

Among the higher cadre members representing the school were the Chairperson of the Youth Union (소년단 위원장), Vice Chairperson (부위원장), and the Board Members (소년단 위원).

The Chairperson of the Union Division, a politically inclined role, typically was held by someone with strong academic performance and a respectable family background. Meanwhile, the Class President required organizational prowess, leadership skills, and a commendable academic record, serving as the primary support for the homeroom teacher in overseeing the entire class.

Ranked third, the Ideology Vice Chairperson was entrusted with overseeing the weekly revolutionary ideology research room. Their responsibility lay in ensuring that all students deeply absorbed the revolutionary ideals of Kim Il Sung.

The Board Members of the Union primarily undertook the collection of various items mandated monthly by the school. These items ranged from rabbit skins to scrap iron, glass, and copper.

Lastly, Union Group Leads made certain that five to six students of their group members had completed each day’s homework. The meeting place could vary, with each student taking turns hosting, or occasionally, more affluent parents with spare rooms volunteered as permanent hosts. 

I served as the Class President throughout the four years of People’s School (인민학교/소학교) and five years of middle school (중학교/고등중학교).

Reflecting back, North Koreans absorb the country’s ideology and learn about contributing to political funds from a very young age. The rabbits we raised at home served a dual purpose: while we predominantly consumed the meat, the primary reason for raising them was to submit the skins to the school. Although we benefited from the meat, the skins were mandatory contributions. Remarkably, one piece of rabbit skin was worth 1.5-2kg of rice, so it was pretty valuable. The school mandated 10-20 pieces be submitted per year, so those who lived in an apartment and thus could not raise rabbits or those who were well-off purchased the skin from the market and met the school requirements. 

It’s interesting how the collected rabbit skins had a life of their own. Every month, the school discreetly sold high-quality pieces right after the initial collection. Once the sellers had these items, the homeroom teachers hurried the remaining students to meet the deadline. Consequently, the sellers could resell the skins purchased the day before at prices fluctuating between half to twice the original amount.

The sense of obligation to contribute, ingrained in us during elementary school, persisted into our later years in various factories and enterprises. These obligations often took the form of groups like the Loyal Foreign Currency Earning Team (충성의 외화벌이조) or Loyal Gold Producing Team (충성의 금생산조).

We were told to bring items like scrap iron, glass, or paper directly to a purchasing center (수매소) and collect a receipt. However, copper was handled differently—it was brought directly to the school. Scrap copper held a value 5-10 times higher than scrap iron. The government mandated its donation due to its essential role in producing bullets and shells, deemed crucial for achieving the reunification of the two Koreas.

During a visit to the Gapsan Copper Mine (갑산 동광산), former Leader Kim Jong Il remarked, “Copper is more valuable than gold in constructing socialism (사회주의 건설에서 동은 금보다 더 귀하다).” I recall significant amounts of scrap copper being smuggled to China in trucks during the period of the Arduous March (고난의 행군). This indicates that copper must have various uses beyond military applications.

It’s intriguing how the nuances of copper played out in those circumstances. Red copper held greater favor as it was twice as valuable as the yellow variant. The teacher responsible for the collection often sold it clandestinely to a merchant. I recall a particular incident when a student submitted his father’s cherished copper ashtray, weighing 500-600g, to the school. Surprisingly, it reappeared in the market a few days later, repurchased by his desk partner.

In North Korea, the first-year homeroom teacher served as the sole instructor across all courses for four years, except for the PE class. The PE teacher, typically a graduate from a physical education college, not only conducted physical education classes but also coached the soccer team.

Each class ran for 45 minutes with a 15-minute break in between. Due to the insufficient classrooms, two classes shared one classroom and students studied for 5-6 periods either in the morning or afternoon, and had to adapt to the shared space.

A memorable time from elementary school is when we played in the Oshichon River(오시천강) by the school either in the PE class or during extra-curricular hours on Saturday afternoons. The water levels varied, sometimes reaching as high as my height at its deepest points, but for the most part, it was shallow, barely covering my belly button or chest. Those times were immensely enjoyable.

In our pool hierarchy, a luxury item was the inner tube from a car’s tire. It was something that only affluent kids could acquire by persuading their fathers. As for me, I improvised by using a five or ten-liter red plastic tank originally meant for holding oil or soy sauce. Clutching onto it, I managed to stay afloat. There were mischievous moments too; some kids would playfully pull at the legs of those swimming.

After our swim, we’d stretch out on the sand, letting the sun dry out our water-soaked underwear, which we’d carefully squeezed and placed on a round, gray stone. Remarkably, they dried in no time under the sun’s warmth.

Those carefree moments of wallowing in the sand, completely free, seem like they happened just yesterday. It’s astonishing how 50 years have swiftly passed. Now, as a North Korean defector, returning to that same serene bank is an impossibility.