8. Lunar New Year Performance
October 10th, the anniversary of the Party’s founding, is a national holiday. The school announced a two-day break to commemorate the occasion, with classes resuming the following day.
After the holiday, I began preparing for school at home. I organized my textbooks and study materials into my school bag, and sorted out the candles and rags needed for cleaning. That’s when Kyung-sook, who lives nearby, came by to deliver some news. She informed me that the school would be distributing bog bilberry concentrate to students who were affected by the fire during the bog bilberry picking mobilization.
The contact I was in charge of was Oksun, who lives just down the street from mine. I reached out to her, and together with some friends from the neighborhood, we headed to school with buckets in hand.
During that time, North Korean families commonly used large tin buckets capable of holding about 15 liters of water. Even when the children went bog bilberry picking in the mountains, they carried these buckets to collect the bilberries. So, when they heard about the distribution of bog bilberry concentrate, all the children arrived at school carrying these large buckets.
As we entered the school playground, we chatted excitedly, saying, “After working hard in the mountains for a month, we deserve to receive plenty of what they give us.” In front of the school building, there were wooden barrels filled with bog bilberry concentrate from the Bog Bilberry Processing Factory.
Bog bilberry concentrate is made by adding sugar to bog bilberries, which are also used to make bog wine and jelly. It’s quite tasty. Just adding a spoonful of concentrate to cold water turns it into a refreshing and delicious drink.
Having returned home, I carefully filled each glass bottle with the precious bog bilberry concentrate I had brought with me. When my father embarked on a business trip to Pyongyang, I took great care in packaging the concentrate to ensure it reached my uncle and aunt’s house safely. Bog bilberry concentrate, a specialty of Baekdu Mountain, was a rare treat for the people of Pyongyang. So, whenever my father traveled there, he made sure to acquire it and bring it to my relatives’ home.
The following day, we resumed our classes. The routine of quiet, everyday life—studying, cleaning the classroom, and returning home—passed by swiftly. Now, it was time for the end-of-semester exams for fourth grade, with winter vacation just around the corner.
Despite the impending exams, my mind couldn’t shake off the memories of the Baekdusan Mountain mobilization. I had never been fond of studying, but now, I found it even more challenging to concentrate. As each subject teacher entered the classroom, diligently writing on the blackboard and explaining the lessons, my thoughts wandered back to the forest barracks of Baekdusan Mountain and the flames that lit up the night sky, refusing to fade from my mind’s eye.
The memories of jumping barefoot out of the burning window haunted me even as I sat at my desk studying. At times, the recollection was so vivid that I would instinctively curl my toes in fear. The image of the blazing barracks often invaded my dreams at night, causing me to scream in terror, startling my sister who slept beside me.
My parents grew increasingly concerned each time I experienced these nightmares. When I confided in my friends about my distressing dreams, they revealed that they too had been plagued by similar nightmares. They recounted how the flames seemed to dance before their eyes, a constant reminder of the harrowing experience we endured during our month-long excursion in the mountains picking bog bilberries. The memory of the barracks catching fire on our final night haunted us relentlessly, refusing to fade with time.
When we eventually learned the cause of the fire, we were left speechless and incredulous. It was revealed that on the last day of our withdrawal from Baekdusan Mountain, the teachers and security guard had organized a farewell party at the restaurant barracks, grilling pork to celebrate. Tragically, the festivities took a disastrous turn when the fire broke out.
It was said that the restaurant barracks had spread soil on the floor and laid boards on top to provide warmth when cooking in the kitchen. That evening, after tucking the students into bed, the teachers and security guard ignited a fire with an excessive amount of firewood, resulting in the boards on the floor catching ablaze. However, what should have been a simple meal turned into a calamity as they indulged in food, drink, and slumber, oblivious to the impending danger.
The cause of the fire incident at Mt. Baekdu, initially told by those students who were on duty at the restaurant barracks, spread throughout the school, passed from one child to another. However, only the security guard responsible for our school’s barracks was discharged with no teacher facing repercussions.
Despite time passing after the accident, many children remained deeply shaken. There were reports among the school staff that the fourth-grade students were struggling to focus on their studies and appeared distracted in class.
Upon being briefed on the status of the students, the principal suggested organizing a New Year’s performance for the students after the end-of-semester exams. Collaborating with the teachers in charge of Children’s Union (소년단) and the Sarochong, the principal aimed to uplift the school atmosphere and provide students with an opportunity to shake off their anxiety and welcome the New Year with joy.
After finishing our day’s studies and cleaning the classroom, our homeroom teacher gathered us for reflection time and delivered the school’s instructions. Throughout my People’s School and Middle School, we never performed for Lunar New Year, but now all of a sudden we were told to hold such performances. The homeroom teacher assigned Sunsuk, a member in charge of literary arts, the task of brainstorming ideas for our class’s performance.
When we transitioned to the 3rd year of middle school, we already removed our red ties and joined Sarochong. Previously, in the third grade of People’s School, students joined the Children’s Union. It was mandatory that we join the two organizations in accordance with our school grade.
Upon becoming a member of Sarochong, we felt like we entered adulthood. Shedding our ties signified that we were no longer treated as children, and upon completing one more grade, we would graduate. Consequently, teachers found it challenging to handle students in the fourth and fifth grades, as they were no longer very compliant. In such an environment, not many students were enthusiastic about participating in performances. Personally, I was passionate about sports but had no interest in performances.
However, Sunsuk, the literary commissioner, was very excited about the upcoming performance. Despite her role as literary commissioner, she had never organized an event centered around herself. Regardless of her efforts, I opted to head to the sports department after class.
During the exam period, we, as usual, lit the oil lamp and studied until midnight. I struggled with the words that just wouldn’t stick in my head, merely going through the motions. When it came time to take the exam, I would discreetly glance under my desk to copy down answers.
During exams, some kids would sneak glances at the teacher’s face and signal answers to each other by poking their classmates’ sides. After the test, they’d complain, “You gave me the wrong answer, so I wrote the wrong answer.” Looking back, those were quite amusing school days.
All the subject tests were over, and it was just 15 days before the Lunar New Year. The homeroom teacher and Sunsook were eager to start practicing for the Lunar New Year performance. Sunsook optimistically declared, “If we practice for 12 days, we’ll do great!” suggesting that our class should prepare a dance. The reaction from the class was incredulous, with everyone questioning her decision and staring at her in disbelief.
Despite the skepticism, Sunsook began calling out the names of students who would participate in the performance, including mine. I looked at her frowning and murmurs of discontent spread among those whose names were called. After studying late into the night for exams, no one was thrilled about being held back for some peculiar performance practice.
As we sat exchanging glances of frustration, the homeroom teacher’s stern words filled us with dread. None of us wanted to face the wrath of our formidable teacher. We knew that if we didn’t participate in the performance practice, our homeroom teacher wouldn’t hesitate to wield her baton and administer punishment. She was notorious for her erratic behavior, not hesitating to brandish her baton even at taller students when she felt provoked.
On the first day of practice, our homeroom teacher sternly warned, “Don’t even think about running away,” before dismissing us, having only decided on the names of the participating students.
Grumbling, I walked home with Sunsook, questioning her decision. “Hey, Sunsook, I’m in the sports department. Why did you put my name down for this?” I asked, grumbling.
“Hey, even though you’re in the sports department, there’s no competition now. Our teacher told me to include your name no matter what because you’re great at dancing,” She explained, urging me to participate. It seemed that our homeroom teacher had noticed my talent during the school’s group rhythmic gymnastics.
Sunsook was my closest friend, and her words made me think that our homeroom teacher had deliberately included my name to keep me away from the physical education department and force me to stay late at school.
Our homeroom teacher always seemed to harbor resentment towards me, perhaps because she thought I was spoiled because of my family background. I felt that her disdainful gaze never left me. She announced that we would begin preparing for the performance the next day, right after our regular classes ended.
I attempted to escape from practice, but grabbing my bag would surely alert our vigilant homeroom teacher. So, I enlisted Kisook’s help, who sat beside me, to pass my bag down through the window.
I dashed outside and positioned myself under our classroom window, calling out, “Kisook, I’m here! Drop my bag down!”
When she heard me, Kisook leaned out of the window to throw the bag, but hesitated and pulled back into the classroom. “What’s taking so long? Hurry up!” I yelled up towards the second-floor classroom.
It seemed like an eternity before my bag finally descended. It swung down like a fish on a line, tied to several school uniform waistbands strung together. The children at the window erupted into laughter, waving goodbye as I made my escape.
I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw my makeshift bag descent. My friends had sacrificed their uniform waistbands to help me flee. I grabbed my bag and bolted straight home.
Once there, I lay on my stomach engrossed in a book my father had lent me when I heard my name being called from outside. “Who’s there?” I called out, finding my friends at the door.
“The teacher told us to fetch you. She won’t let us go home unless you come,” they explained, pleading with me to return.
I was in a dilemma. My friends were trapped at school because of me, and I felt responsible. Reluctantly, I agreed to return, despite my aversion to school and the impending performance.
After 40 minutes of evading capture, I was escorted back to school. Thus, I found myself reluctantly participating in the Lunar New Year performance alongside my classmates, hoping to lift the spirits of our school community.
Our class put on a performance titled “Snow Falling,” depicting female soldiers of Kim Il Sung’s anti-Japanese fighters battling with red flags in the windy plains of Manchuria. To accurately portray the characters, we had to don red ties and leather boots worn by the fighters. Luckily, I had easy access to these items thanks to my sister’s military discharge.
Whether it was to prevent me from fleeing again or not, the homeroom teacher positioned Sun-sook and me at the front of the performance. As the saying goes, those skilled in sports often excel in dance, and I proved this true.
Before my mother met my father, she was a vocalist in a band in Pyongyang. Among my siblings, only the oldest resembled my mother and had a talent for singing. While I inherited my mother’s love for dance, singing was not my forte.
However, during the Lunar New Year performance, Sun-sook and I received praise for our dancing and were selected as a duo in the school’s music department until we graduated middle school. As such, I found myself busy with sports events, which I enjoyed, and events of the music department, which I attended grudgingly. Nevertheless, I cherished the time spent with my friends, making the most of my final years in middle school.