14. Marriage
Our team climbed Baekdu Mountain, took pictures with the lake in the background, and then returned by bus to the athletic team’s building at the factory. After an early dinner, prepared by the cafeteria lady, we dispersed to our respective homes. We were given a two-day break before heading to Baekam for another game.
This time the games were among the forestry enterprises (림산사업소) under the Forest General Bureau in Yanggang Province. The annual games were organized to boost the morale of the laborers in the forestry sector, which is the largest in Yanggang Province due to its dense forests, the thickest in North Korea. Although we were the only team from a factory, we were part of the bureau because our factory produced various accessories needed for forest work, such as machine saws and saw blades.
When I came home from the Baekdu Mountain relay race, my mother informed me that Geum-chol had gone to collect wild greens as part of a mobilization effort by the base. She knew this because he had stopped by our house before heading out to collect the greens.
Every year in North Korea, the Central Party sends instructions to each provincial party to carry out the Foreign Currency Earning Task (외화벌이과제). The military is no exception. From universities to people’s schools, once a task is assigned, the entire country must mobilize as one to fulfill the party’s mission. Many people complain about such mandatory mobilization these days, but when Kim Il Sung was in power, everyone participated with pride, believing they were contributing to the nation’s well-being.
The Foreign Currency Earning Task occurs twice a year: collecting mountain greens in the summer and rabbit or dog skins in the winter. During the summer harvest, colleges and universities grant students a month-long vacation. Students then flock to the mountains, where they are accommodated and tasked with gathering wild vegetables like bracken. (고사리). If one fails to meet the set quota, they must compensate with money. Students from well-off families often opt to pay the financial penalty instead.
For Factory workers, the portion is deducted from their monthly wages. People’s office (인민반) that consists of a certain number of households also collect money to the same cause.
The task was also imposed on Geum-chol’s base. Every summer, the forests in various mountains across the province were bustling with people in backpacks and aprons, gathering wild greens.
After two days off, I boarded the train from Hyesan Station with my athletic team, unable to see Geum-chol. We took the Hyesan-Gilju train to Baekam Station, where we transferred to a narrow-gauge train heading to Yugok in Paek-am County. Yugok is situated on the border with Daehongdan, near where the Tumen River flows.
All the directors of the forestry enterprises, along with their athletes, flocked to Yugok. My team occupied the only inn in the Yugok Laborers District, while other teams settled in a nearby residents’ village.
We rested on the day we arrived and began playing the next day. The forestry enterprise (림산사업소) in this district is the largest in Yanggang, with the highest number of cutting and logging workers. The playground in the Yugok Laborers District was quite spacious and well-designed.
Situated in a deep mountain valley high in the mountains, the event venue quickly filled with a festive atmosphere as numerous players from different parts of the province arrived.
I’m not sure how, but news of Jeong-nam’s and my participation in the Pyongyang games had spread. Given our history, other players seemed reluctant to challenge us.
My team won first place overall, but we remained calm at the venue, showing little excitement. It was likely because the competition didn’t involve professional athletes.
This time, our team’s cafeteria lady accompanied us to the venue. After the event, she and the inn’s chef prepared a delightful, hearty dinner for us.
For three months, we diligently participated in various competitions, including the May 1 games, the relay race to Mount Paektu, and the games in Yugok. After returning to Hyesan on an early train the next day, we went to our respective homes for a two-day rest before returning to work.
The door was locked when I arrived home. My parents were likely at work, and my siblings must have been at school. Even though I had been away for only five days, it felt as if I had been gone much longer. I looked around, searching for any signs of Geum-chol, wondering if he had come and gone while I was away.
There were no indications that he had visited. The clothes set aside for him to change into remained untouched. It seemed he had not returned from the mountains yet. “Now that the harvest season has passed, why is he still not back at the base?” I wondered aloud as I carried a basket of laundry to the river.
On this warm June day, several women were washing clothes by the river, their laundry bats rhythmically tapping against the fabric. I washed my hair, dipped my feet into the cool water, and did my laundry. The serene atmosphere made me completely forget the exhausting training I had endured.
Nearby, little children were playing in the water, their laughter filling the air. One of the women yelled at them to get out of the river because the water was becoming muddy. Startled, the children quickly scrambled out and moved to the upper part of the river to escape the women’s scolding.
When they were scolded again, the children emerged with pouts, settling on the gravel by the river to play with stones.
“Poor kids, there’s nowhere else for them to play,” I thought to myself, smiling at the sight of the children, who had been chased from the water.
The area where I live is filled only with houses, and parks where children can play are unthinkable. So, during the hot summer, the river in front of my house turns into a playground for kids. After school, the river is nearly overflowing with children.
It was such a nice and peaceful day. After finishing the laundry, I sat under the warm sun, gazing at the distant mountains in China, letting my thoughts drift away. Then, I heard someone calling my name. It was my sister, back from school. It must be past lunchtime.
My sister will also graduate from middle school next year. Once my younger brother finishes school, there will be no students left in our household. I imagine that all the notebooks I’ve been transporting from my second uncle’s house could fill a truck. Among the children, my older brother excelled the most academically.
I carried my laundry basket up to the riverbank. When I asked my sister how she knew I had returned, she mentioned that she saw my gym bag in the inner room.
She told me that Hak-nam, Geum-chol’s friend, was at our house. Hak-nam had come by on his way back to the base from the brigade to deliver a message to us.
I left the laundry hanging on the line in the yard and went inside, wondering why only Hak-nam had come home without Geum-chol.
My father, mother, and younger brother were eating when I arrived. I looked in the room and asked my mother where Hak-nam was. She replied, “He went back to the base. I was wondering why Geum-chol hadn’t come to visit since you were away, but Hak-nam just informed us that he’s been hospitalized.”
I was taken aback. “What happened?”
She explained that Geum-chol had collapsed from pneumonia and was admitted to Hospital 67 in Chundong. He had developed a fever while coming down from the mountain a few days earlier, and he collapsed upon arriving at the unit. An ambulance then took him to the hospital.
She suggested that I visit him at the hospital. Since I was off the next day, I went to Hospital 67 with a bag where gimbap and several side dishes that my mother made. Hospital 67 is a military command’s hospital in Chun-dong, where the 10th District Command is stationed. From my house to the Chun-dong bus stop, it is 20 ri and 10 ri from the bus stop to the hospital.
The journey involved going further up past the military command building, which is situated in a valley. Adjacent to Hospital 67, the residences for 10th district command cadre members are lined up. Later on, my youngest uncle also moved to one of these residences with his family. The military cadre members’ residences are not accessible to civilians.
When I reached the second floor of the hospital where Geum-chol was located, I found him standing in the hallway talking with a military officer I had never seen before. Geum-chol said that he had been waiting for me in the hallway after receiving a call from the reception.
He offered to let me into his ward, but I declined, simply handing him the bag of food. Although I wanted to stay longer and chat with him, I felt awkward being around unfamiliar soldiers.
His face looked very thin, reflecting the suffering he had endured over the past days. I told him to come home once he was released from the hospital. He was discharged in early July and returned to his base.
During the summer, I focused on training for the provincial workers’ games on August 15. One day at lunchtime, while my parents were at work and my younger siblings were playing outside, my youngest uncle visited. I was busy cleaning up the room before heading out for the athletic team’s training..
He asked me to sit down for a moment. He mentioned that on the day my third sister got married, my father had gathered with his brothers and discussed Geum-chol. My father then asked my third uncle to look into Geum-chol’s situation.
My uncle, who remembered his eldest brother’s request, paid attention to Geum-chol when he visited the command for an interview regarding the Party membership. He asked Geum-chol some tough questions during the process.
My uncle didn’t like the fact that Geum-chol, a young officer who had just graduated from military academy, was already thinking of getting married when he has earned just one star (소위). He tried to dissuade me from the relationship with Geum-chol offering that there are many cool bachelors in the command who are serving as company commanders or political instructors with the rank of two or three stars (중위, 상위). Telling me to give it serious thoughts and end the relationship, he went back to his unit.
I was stunned. I had known Geum-chol for 9 months and had developed a strong attachment to him. I thought my uncle’s suggestion was ridiculous. Feeling deeply frustrated, I didn’t even go to the athletic team that afternoon and stayed at home.
When my mother returned from work, I told her about what the uncle had said. She stared at me for a long time and finally said, “He must have given you that advice for a good reason, but ultimately, you’re the one who needs to make the decision. Your uncle, your father, and I all hope you find a good person to marry. But Geum-chol has also grown on me, so I wouldn’t simply ask you to end the relationship.”
That evening, I also heard from my father who had returned home late from work that uncle had called him in the office and suggested the same thing. My uncle said that Geum-chol’s family background was not very satisfactory and that there is a company commander with three star (상위) rank, and whose family background is similar to ours. He suggested to my father that I marry him instead. My father, however, let me make a decision after sharing what he had heard from my uncle.
I didn’t know at the time, but my uncle had access to Geum-chol’s personal and parental information, which is why he believed he was not a good match for my family.
I often wonder how my life might have been different if I had listened to my father and uncle. Would I have had a happier life, free from sudden, unexpected challenges at a young age and spared from life’s bitterness? Back then, all I could see was Geum-chol, and I stubbornly insisted on continuing our relationship. The whirlwind my uncle caused subsided within a day.
Unaware of the situation at my house, Geum-chol had been mobilized to work in the dense forest of Paek-du Mountain, constructing a cable car. Counting the days until his return, I spent October working in the casting department rather than with the athletic team.
When Geum-chol finally returned just before the annual winter training in December, I updated him on everything that had transpired and subtly mentioned what my uncle had said. I just told him that my uncle was worried about his young age and suggested instead that I marry a company commander with three stars instead. I was so happy to see him and also wanted to see his response while teasing him.
“Okay, go if you like him more than you do me,” he blurted out, laughing.
“It was nonsense. I was just joking because I was so glad to see you,” I replied.
“I know. Where would Misun go apart from me?!” We both laughed, facing each other. He continued commuting from my house except when he was dispatched elsewhere.
At that time, life was becoming increasingly difficult, and hunger was becoming a frequent concern at the dining table. With the collapse of Poland in 1986 and the subsequent downfall of other Eastern European socialist countries, the socialist market was disappearing. Intellectuals who were aware of the global situation knew that the North Korean people would face significant hardships, but they couldn’t speak openly about it.
My father was among those who sensed the looming crisis, deeply concerned about the future hardships his children might face if the country’s economic situation deteriorated. He recorded these fears in his daily journal, almost like a will.
The drought and irregular rainy seasons, combined with insufficient fertilizer, severely impacted agriculture. This problem extended to the military as well, where soldiers’ meals were often limited to corn-rice and pickled radish. Although Kim Il Sung was the head of the country at that time, the real authority had been transferred to Kim Jong Il. It was rumored that Kim Jong Il kept the food shortages completely secret from Kim Il Sung.
It was rumored nationwide that Kim Il Sung was only made aware of the dire economic situation a few years later, on July 5, 1994, which reportedly led to his shock and subsequent death. The food quality in Geum-chol’s unit was poor, and many unmarried officers, struggling with the conditions on base, commuted from their partners’ homes as opposed to staying in their military residences.
As time passed, it was already the New Year, 1987. Geum-chol mentioned that he had sent a letter to his parents in early February to inform them about me and my family. He also mentioned that his parents were planning to visit soon. I advised him not to rush things. Given that I had just turned 23 and he had not yet been promoted, I thought it would be better for his parents to take their time with the visit.
I wanted to wait until Geum-chol earn another star in his rank before tying the knot, considering what my youngest uncle had advised earlier.
At that time, I was taking a break from my job at the casting department due to an injury and was receiving treatment at home. I had hurt my shoulder during summer training and had been hospitalized for treatment, but the injury seemed to have flared up again.
One day, while an oriental doctor was visiting to treat my shoulders and arms, Geum-chol came to see me. The doctor complimented me on how well I was handling the pain.
When I returned after seeing off the doctor, Geum-chol informed me that his parents had arrived from North Pyongan Province. I tried to hide my shock and said, “Why didn’t you let me know before bringing your parents?”
“I’ll speak to your mother about it. There’s not much I can do now that they’re already here. You should meet them,” he replied.
I was taken aback by their unexpected visit. It had been less than a year since my third sister’s wedding. I worried that having another major event so soon might be too much of a burden for my parents, especially given the deteriorating economic conditions. They had gone all out for her wedding, and I knew they would want to do the same for me.
He acted as if he didn’t notice my panic and calmly sat on the floor, flipping through my younger brother’s textbook. Then, my brother burst in, covered in snow, likely from playing around in the icy river for a while. I scolded him, “Hey, shake off the snow before coming in! It’s everywhere in the room!”
As I was cleaning up the mess, my mother came home from work. Geum-chol greeted her and let her know that his parents were in town. He explained that he telegraphed his parents to come, not only because he didn’t like being alone on the base, but also because he was afraid of losing me.
Around that time, I was being approached by matchmakers frequently, and Geum-chol was aware of it since he had visited my house often.
My mother was initially puzzled but then suggested inviting his parents over, since we already had ingredients for a big celebration in preparation for Kim Jong Il’s birthday, which was the next day, February 16.
So, it was decided with my parents that we would hold the engagement ceremony on February 17. They agreed to accept Geum-chol as their son-in-law. At that moment, I felt like I had everything in the world.
My mother gave my parents-in-law 100 pairs of shoes in various sizes as they were heading back home. I later learned that they traded these shoes for 200 kilos of corn, which was a significant help given the food shortage at the time.
After our engagement on February 17, 1987, Geum-chol and I got married on July 9 of that year. I was the only one of my seven siblings who had a “love marriage” rather than an arranged marriage. Additionally, Geum-chol’s parents were the only in-laws of my parents who had no notable social status or wealth.
Before our marriage, I was unaware that my in-laws were in the lowest social and economic standing among the in-laws of my siblings. It was only after our marriage that I discovered my father-in-law was a horse cart carrier. Geum-chol had previously told me his father was a pharmacist. He had lied because he feared that our different family backgrounds—my father being a manager of a well-known factory—might prevent us from marrying.
My youngest uncle had already been aware of Geum-chol’s true background when he reviewed his documents, which is why he initially tried to end our relationship. Despite this, my uncle attended our engagement ceremony and later managed to transfer Geum-chol to the active-duty 43-Ski Brigade in May.
Moving from a reserve brigade to an active-duty one was no small feat, but my uncle’s position in the political department of the command made it possible. Geum-chol’s colleagues envied him for this achievement.
At that time, I was lost in dreams of a bright future, blissfully unaware of the challenges that lay ahead.
In May 1987, Geum-cheol was transferred to the 43rd Ski Brigade, which was assigned to a bridge construction project in Pyeongwon County, South Pyongan Province. Pyeongwon County borders Pyongyang’s Sunan District, where Sunan Airfield can be seen in the distance.
The youngest uncle who used to work in the 6th Corps, graduated from Kim Il Sung University of Military and Political Science (김일성군사정치대학) and was appointed as brigade notification officer (여단통보지도원) for the 43rd Brigade’s political department, while stationing in Gapsan. His job was to report directly on the conducts of the brigade’s commander, political commissars, and the brigadier to the Notification Department of the Ministry of the People’s Armed Forces.(인민무력부 통보과). This position intimidated all military officers and soldiers alike. The youngest uncle, who diligently carried out his duties in the 43rd Brigade, was soon recognized for his competence and promoted to the political department of the command. (상좌).
Just a few days before my wedding, the rainy season began. My mother lamented that my father had chosen July for the wedding despite it being a rainy season. She seemed worried because of a local saying that if you marry on a rainy day, you’ll cry for the rest of your life. My father defended his choice, explaining that the seventh of July was the day when Gyeonwoo and Jiknyeo (the Herdsman and the Weaver) met, so he hoped my marriage to Geum-cheol would be a happy one.
On July 6, my parents-in-law from Pyeongbuk Province arrived in Hyesan to attend the wedding. My eldest sister, second sister, and their husbands also came from far away. Only Geum-cheol had yet to arrive. The rain continued to fall without stopping.
At dawn on July 7, the day of the wedding, the rain gradually lightened, and by morning, it had stopped completely. The sun came out, and the weather cleared up. I went to the train station at 9 a.m., the time the express train from Pyongyang was due to arrive, to pick up Geum-cheol. The station was bustling with people—some there to meet arriving passengers, and others ready to depart.
I checked the notification board, which read, “The arrival time of the Pyongyang-Hyesan express train is currently undecided.” With a sigh, I found a crowded seat in the station’s waiting room and sat for a long time.
Around me, people were grumbling irritably: “What’s wrong with the train that used to run on time? It’s always delayed these days. It’s so exhausting.”
As I left the station’s waiting room and walked alongside the wet road, my thoughts turned to Geum-cheol, who must have been enduring a difficult journey on the delayed train. Above, the rainy sky was scattered with clouds drifting quickly. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself as I watched passersby on the rain-soaked sidewalk, darting away from the puddles splashed up by passing vehicles.
“How bored and hungry must the people on the train be?” I wondered. Geum-cheol must be starving by now, with no food left. It was one of those moments when I realized, once again, how the times I was living in were gradually changing—and not for the better.
When I was younger, meals were sold on the train during my trips to my second uncle’s house to pick up notebooks. But that service no longer existed. The sales office for such packed meals was abolished probably due to the nationwide food shortages.
Sometimes, larger stations in Gimchaek or Hamheung would sell meals, but the quantities were often insufficient to meet the demand of train passengers. It became common for travelers to board with their own food to eat until they reached their destination. While one or two meals could be prepared, making multiple portions risked spoilage, leaving passengers unable to eat them.
This made long train delays particularly painful, as all passengers were left waiting, hungry, throughout the duration.
When my mother heard that the arrival of the train was uncertain, she sighed. She glanced at the prepared food and informed everyone helping with the arrangements that the food would be served to the guests now, even if the wedding had to take place later.
My mother busily served food to guests from both families, and I helped her carry dishes with diligence. Amid all the commotion, I returned to the station three times to check on the train’s status, but each time was in vain.
After feeding all the guests, I had a late dinner with my relatives and parents-in-law. Everyone was exhausted and soon went to bed. I slept on the bed prepared in the storage room.
The next morning, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I told my mother, who was busy preparing breakfast, that I would go to the station to check the train’s arrival time. Upon entering the waiting room, I looked at the notification board, only to find it unchanged from the day before. With a heavy heart, I turned around and headed home.
At home, the kitchen was bustling with preparations for the wedding guests on the second day, but I was so exhausted that I went to my bed in the storage room, lay down, and fell asleep. An hour later, I was jolted awake by the noise outside. When I stepped outside, I was overjoyed to see Geum-chol, wearing a backpack and a combat bag, being greeted with shouts of joy. I was so surprised and happy that I couldn’t find the words. I helped him take off the backpack he was still carrying. I couldn’t stop laughing, realizing that the train station’s notification board had likely not been updated.
He went to the river to wash up, grabbing a towel and soap, and I followed him with a basket of laundry. While he washed his hair, I kneaded the clothes and asked him a flurry of questions.
“What was it like to move from a reserve unit to an active duty unit? What did you eat on the train? How did you feel when the train was delayed and stopped for a long time?”
At my relentless questioning, Geum-chol smiled and asked me to slow down. I told him how happy I was to see him, and we both laughed, facing each other.
We couldn’t get married on the seventh of July and instead tied the knot two days later, on July 9. Unlike my third sister, I didn’t move into a married home immediately after the wedding, so the ceremony concluded without needing to carry any prepared luggage.
After the wedding, all the relatives boarded the train to return home, and my house was once again filled with quiet.
Geum-chol was on a 10-day vacation and had to return to his base after a week. The marriage still didn’t feel real to me. On our wedding night, Geum-chol drank heavily, consuming all the drinks poured by my uncles, and soon became drunk. Disliking his drunken state, I chose to sleep alone in the storage room, leaving him in the bridal room.
Geum-chol was assigned to the 2nd Company, 2nd Battalion of the 43rd Brigade in Unheung County, which is about an hour away from Hyesan. The tall mountain visible right in front of Unheung County Station is called Bokgaebong Peak (복개봉), where a vast forest unfolds.
In the high mountain village, there were more immigrants than native residents. The military residence we had to live in was a shared building housing four households, with doors connecting each unit. Our compartment was the second one, with doors on both walls leading to the first and third households. Until then, I had never seen a house like this in my life, and the thought of how we would manage living here filled me with apprehension.
Before my husband returned to bridge construction work in Pyeongwon County, he took me to his company in Unheung County. We got off at Unheung Station and walked a long way along the uneven gravel path. The villagers, lounging nearby, stared at us—me in my city clothes and him in his military uniform.
After nearly 40 minutes of walking into the valley, we came across a reservoir. A little further up, across a brook, we found two residences. Geum-chol pointed to the first one and said that would be our home.
He stood in front of the house and called out to the open door. A woman emerged from the nearby warehouse and greeted us; she was the wife of the 1st platoon commander. She ushered us into the room, but Geum-chol stepped out to check on his company.
The wife of the 1st platoon commander mentioned that her two sons were at the kindergarten in the upper unit.
“I’m from Pyongsong,” she said. “Having lived in a big city, adjusting to life in a mountain valley like this—farming—has been quite frustrating. Still, being able to send farm produce to my family is rewarding; it’s probably my only joy.” She laughed as she spoke, clearly delighted to meet someone new for the first time in a long while, especially a young woman who would soon be moving into the residence.
That evening, Geum-chol and I enjoyed dinner that she had prepared before returning home on a late train to Hyesan.
Two days later, I boarded the train with Geum-chol as he was returning to his unit at the construction site. We were traveling together because he was going to visit his parents’ house in Bakcheon at their request. I was simply thrilled to travel by train with my husband for the first time.
We settled into a military compartment on the train. Shortly after departure, the train police officer (경무원) came around to inspect ID cards. He instructed me to move to the civilian compartment, but Geum-chol handed over his ID card and explained that we had just gotten married and were visiting his home. The officer nodded, saluted, and wished us a nice trip before moving on. I felt a surge of pride at being a soldier’s wife; my heart fluttered, and I couldn’t stop smiling.
In those days, marrying a military officer was considered a mark of high social status. When I dated and married Geum-chol, my friends and those around me would jealously remark, “Her father is a cadre member. That’s why the military officer is marrying her.”
Later, I learned that nearly 80% of the officers’ wives were women who had previously worked as teachers or doctors. I also overheard people whispering, “How did such a handsome man choose her? She must come from a wealthy family!”
Given this context, I often thought during my marriage that Geum-chol chose me, a sports athlete, largely because of my father’s and youngest uncle’s positions. Whenever I heard such whispers, I would feel insecure and sometimes take it out on him, which seems ridiculous in hindsight.
The in-laws’ house was a standalone structure with two rooms and a kitchen. A small fence surrounded a vegetable garden, and there was a storage shed in front of the house. Attached to the outside of the kitchen was a small guest room.
As soon as I arrived at his parents’ house, I sneaked a glance at the upper room. During our courtship, Geum-chol had mentioned that one wall of the room was filled with a medicine cabinet, and I was eager to see it. However, no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find the medicine cabinet anywhere.
After we arrived, my sisters-in-law came home from work. The first sister-in-law, still single, is my husband’s older sister, while the second is his younger sister. The third sister-in-law is the same age as my youngest brother, who is a middle school student. Geum-chol’s younger brother was serving in the military.
My mother-in-law, knowing we were coming, had bought a basket of freshly picked peaches. She also prepared our bed in the guest room, which was cooler than the other rooms. It was my first time sleeping inside a mosquito net, and I felt excited. I pushed the bowl of peaches inside the net and crawled in quickly.
Geum-chol, who was smoking outside, joined me in the mosquito net. We chatted comfortably as I enjoyed the peaches. While listening to him talk, I suddenly asked, “You mentioned that the medicine cabinet filled one wall at your house. Where is it?”
He chuckled and replied, “There was never such a thing. Your family was so well off that I just embellished the story.”
“Oh, how funny! And I heard from your mother today that your father pulls a horse cart. Did you also lie about him being a pharmacist?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s right! He pulls a horse cart for the Parkcheon Pharmacy. Were you upset because I lied? I’m sorry. I said that out of fear I might not be able to marry you,” he admitted, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Still curious, I asked, “Speaking of which, how did you get into military school?” At this, he sat up from lying on his stomach and, looking serious, replied, “Why? Do you think that might be a lie, too?”
Feeling a bit nervous at his serious expression, I replied, “No, it’s not that. I mean, to be admitted to a military school, you need a good family background and strong academic performance. I know candidates must excel in every way to receive a recommendation…”
Geum-chol laughed after glancing at me as I stammered.
“I was recommended to military school because of my good family background. My father pulls a horse cart now, but he wore a military uniform during the Korean War, even though he enlisted toward the end. My father and mother served in the same unit.”
Geum-chol continued, saying that his parents had worked hard to raise their children and send them proudly into society, even though they weren’t cadre members or as well-off as my family. He also asked for forgiveness for the lies he had told, explaining they were meant to help him win my heart.
“I don’t think otherwise. After all, we’re married now. I also know you’re only a year older than me, not four. Your mother mentioned it at the wedding. What matters is that we like each other and that we’re together now.”
My husband was 24, and I was 23 when we married. It wasn’t until the wedding that I learned his age and understood why my youngest uncle thought Geum-chol was too young to marry.
That night, I nearly finished off the entire basket of peaches while reading a novel. Geum-chol, surprised by my constant crunching, said with concern, “You won’t be able to eat breakfast tomorrow if you keep that up!” Sure enough, the next morning, I struggled to chew rice. I had eaten too many peaches, and my teeth felt so sour.
Coming from Yanggang Province, where fruits were precious and expensive, I indulged in peaches like a glutton. Still, I felt happy. After one night’s sleep, Geum-chol returned to his military unit.
I stayed at his parents’ house for a few more days, getting to know my in-laws through many conversations. A few days later, I boarded the train to Hyesan and returned home.
Once home, I rested for a few days before going to my village office (분주소) to register for marriage on my own. Geum-chol had prepared the necessary documents in advance so that I could handle the paperwork alone. In North Korea, a wife can register for marriage by herself if she has a military service certificate confirming her husband is a soldier.
Before the wedding, I resigned from my factory job and gathered all the necessary documents. I also said my goodbyes to sports team members, Jeongnam, Instructor Eo Jonggil, and the soccer players. My last match was on June 25, just before my wedding in July.
After registering my status as “serviceperson support” in the occupation section of my resident card at the village office (분주소), I needed to go to the military safety department in Unheung county to register my residence. I requested my father for a travel certificate, which was needed to visit the county. Given that it was a border town with many revolutionary historic sites, traveling within the same province required a travel certificate to purchase a train ticket. The control was particularly strict. I could get away with it if my husband, a soldier, accompanied me, but without him, I risked being fined or even jailed for lacking the proper paperwork.
The administrator at my father’s factory, responsible for applying for travel certificates with the city people’s committee, had held her position since she was single and was well acquainted with my family. She attended my wedding and had offered her help if I ever needed anything.
She issued a certificate for my trip to my husband’s parents, and this time, after two days of requesting it from my father, I received the necessary certificate. Only after registering my residence and submitting the food suspension documents to my husband’s company could I receive rations as the spouse of a serviceperson. The morning after my father handed me the document, I traveled to Unheung County to complete the registration.
It had been 20 days since I returned from my in-laws in Pyeongbuk Province. While running around dealing with paperwork, I had been scratching mosquito bites that turned into blisters. Those spots on my legs became inflamed, and I developed a fever that caused significant pain. After a few days, my entire legs swelled up from the pelvis down, making it difficult to stand or walk properly.
“Oh, what kind of mosquitoes are these in the South? They’re so scary and strong! Mom, it hurts so much!” I cried out to my mother in tears, overwhelmed by the fever and unbearable leg pain. Without going to work, she took me to the doctor.
Fortunately, it wasn’t malaria. The doctor prescribed me medication and ointment, explaining that I had a fever due to an infection from the mosquito bite wounds. I barely made it back home with my mother’s assistance. As a result, I was bedridden for over a month. My parents were very worried, but I couldn’t get up.
While Yanggang Province has many mosquitoes, the itchiness typically subsides after a few days. However, the bites from mosquitoes in hotter areas seemed to be different.
During my long illness, I recalled a history book I had read. It described how slaves thousands of years ago were tied up by a water hole, covered in honey, and killed by mosquito toxins. “It’s already unbearable to deal with just a few mosquito bites like this. If those slaves suffered and lost their lives overnight from mosquito bites, how terrible their pain must have been,” I thought, suddenly feeling a chill run down my spine.
In early September, my fever gradually decreased, and the pain began to subside. I was eventually able to walk little by little.
Until then, there had been no news from Geum-chol. I often lay in the empty room, grumbling to myself about not receiving a single letter from him.
One day, I stood against a fence in front of my house, counting the cars passing along the road on a ridge in Jangbaek County, China. It felt good to be outside after such a long time. As I turned my head casually, I noticed a military officer walking in the distance, carrying a backpack and luggage in both hands.
I had no idea who he was until the officer came almost right in front of me. My eyesight might have worsened from lying in the room for over a month. When I finally realized it was Geum-chol standing before me, he exclaimed, “How have you been? Why can’t you recognize me? What’s wrong with your face? Have you been ill?”
As I took the luggage from his hands, I couldn’t help but sob. It was a moment of unexpected joy, and I found myself laughing and crying as I entered the house with him. I helped him unload his luggage and backpack and then sat down on the gudeul (the flat stone used for floor heating).
I asked, “How did you get out? Are you on vacation?”
“No,” he replied, “we are switching with Platoon 1. This time, Platoon 1 is going to the construction site.”
It was good news. His battalion had reportedly arranged for a shift with the 1st platoon, taking into consideration the newly married Geum-chol. That evening, my house felt like a holiday. My mother prepared a feast of delicious dishes for her son-in-law, and Geum-chol eagerly devoured everything without hesitation.
A few days later, I accompanied him to check out his company’s vacant residence. The 2nd platoon commander had been discharged and had moved out all the household items except for the iron kiln. It was said that they had asked the 1st platoon commander’s wife to sell it to the new family moving in.
We paid 50 won for the iron kiln. Since it was already installed, there was no need to bring the aluminum kiln that my mother had bought for me; we only needed to transport bedding and household items.
My husband had previously asked my mother not to buy any furniture for us, as military families have to move frequently. I agreed with him, wanting to avoid burdening my parents, especially after their significant expenses for my older sister the previous year. So, on the day we moved to our company residence, we only loaded blankets and some kitchenware onto the train.
My mother gave me 500 won as an allowance when I left. At that time, rice cost 3 won per kilogram, so 500 won was a significant amount of money.
The day after moving into the company residence, I used the money my mother gave me to buy a cupboard, dresser, and cabinet at the military store. Other families in the residence were surprised to see all the furniture we had, especially since we were a new household. Thus, my life as a military spouse began at the end of September 1987.