8. Days of Growth
The initial train destined for Pyongyang began its departure at 10 p.m., accompanied by a clattering noise. This marks the inaugural convoy of military recruits who commenced their service in the spring of 1983. Both the waiting room and the station platform are teeming with individuals. Among them, some are seen shedding tears while others laugh, expressing wishes such as, ‘Return as a soldier for unification!’
In those days, taking the initial stride into military service, once deemed the epitome of patriotism, now evokes a blend of pride and disillusionment, akin to the bitter taste of half-ripe persimmons.
As I watched the fleeting images of my parents, relatives, and friends receding from the train window, a surge of hope and ambition engulfed me. Oblivious to the train’s comings and goings at each station, tears often welled up, unbidden, tracing silent paths down my cheeks.
At the final interview, following my successful completion of the physical examination, my father and mother presented me with a pig they had raised at home, weighing approximately 60 kilograms, and prepared a bucket filled with around 200 eggs. Having faced greater challenges in birthing and raising seven children than most families, the anguish my parents felt in bidding farewell to their fourth son, who brought both joy and trouble, resonated deeply within me.
Right up until the final moment, my father and mother bid me farewell with unwavering strength and optimism. Among our seven siblings, excluding the youngest, all six of us—three older brothers and two older sisters—independently served in the military. Given the mandatory service period of 10 years for men and 6-7 years for women, collectively, we dedicated approximately 55 years to safeguarding our nation.
Our family boasts a remarkable military legacy, spanning back to my father’s service during the 1950s Korean War. In total, it has been over 60 years since members of our family stood on the front lines, defending the North Korean regime with guns in hand.
Upon entering the military, the echoes of “unification soldiers”—symbols of reunification and the return of South Korea—resounded in my ears. Similarly, the scenic oak forests of South Korea’s Dadohae were adorned with numerous artworks and slogans promoting unification, often featuring Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il in the South Korean landmarks.
During that era, entities like North Korea’s Mansudae Art Studio (만수대창작사) and the Korean People’s Army Publication (조선인민군출판사) spared no effort in fostering combative political fervor and instilling hostile ideologies within the People’s Army. They achieved this through widespread mass production, distribution, and propagation of such works.
During the 1980s, particularly around the 6th Congress of the Workers’ Party of Korea, North Korea boasted superiority over South Korea in terms of political solidarity and economic performance. However, following the death of Kim Il-sung, North Korea embarked on a challenging political journey known as the ‘Arduous March’. This period was marked by widespread electricity shortages throughout North Korea, resulting in significant disruptions such as severe delays in transportation, notably the Hyesan-Pyongyang train route, which stretched from 15 days to over 2 months.
However, on May 23, 1983, when I was enlisted, I managed to reach Pyongyang Station in just two days, thanks to favorable electrical conditions. To be precise, it took us approximately one day and nine hours, totaling 33 hours, to arrive at Pyongyang Station. Boarding a military train concealed under a defense-colored tarpaulin, we departed into the darkness. The magnitude and splendor of Pyongyang Station, where we arrived around 5 a.m. on the 25th, were unparalleled compared to Hyesan Station. At dawn, we reached the new soldiers’ training center, underwent inspections of our backpacks and belongings, and gathered for breakfast after a brief respite.
Approximately 80 individuals who had arrived together on the train dispersed, leaving only about 20 members to proceed separately.
When they conducted the inspection of our belongings, the conduct of the squad leaders (분대장) baffled us. My initial squad leader was Sergeant First Class Kim Bong-cheol.
Personal items belonging not only to myself but also to the recruits who enlisted alongside me were being confiscated for various reasons during the censorship process. Among them, in the backpack of a recruit named Ro Kwang-cheol, a finely wrapped object in red cloth was discovered. Inside was an epaulette indicating a military rank. The backstory revealed that his father, a former officer, had urged him to remain in the military, graduate from military school, and pursue a career as a professional soldier, aiming to attain the rank of colonel, just like his father. Despite this, the epaulette was confiscated from him during the inspection.
I also had to surrender a few items during the inspection. Back then in North Korea, the 50th, 60th, and 70th birthdays of Kim Il Sung were particularly celebrated every decade. Among the cherished possessions at that time was a teaching notebook, distinguished by its cover adorned with gold leaf on a red background, inscribed with “Great Leader Comrade Kim Il Sung’s Instructions.” I possessed two such notebooks, acquired through various connections, but unfortunately, they were confiscated.
The teaching notebook serves as a repository for the teachings and instructions of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il, diligently recorded by all members of the organization, including the Party and labor associations. These teachings, received annually and during significant periods, are meticulously transcribed and stored for study and implementation. The purpose is to imbue every moment of life with the profound ideas contained within these teachings and words.
To ease my distress over the confiscation of the precious books, squad leader Kim Bong-chul offered some consolation. “Hey, new recruit Park,” he said, “I’ll be discharged from the military in two months, and I’d like to have a quality book like this to write in once I return to civilian life. As for the other book, it will be needed by the company political commissar (중대정치지도원), so let’s hand it over to him. You’ll receive a political notebook and other necessary items once you complete your boot camp, so you can make use of those.” With that, he took the books without waiting for my consent.
Looking back on it now, it may not seem like a significant event, but at the time, it deeply affected me. Those books were rare treasures, typically carried in the prestigious three-sided leather bags of high-ranking officials of North Korea’s party and government agencies, displayed almost as badges of honor. After graduating from school, I had embarked on a solitary journey for over a decade, and those books symbolized to me a means to arm myself with revolutionary ideas and commit to becoming a dedicated soldier for the cause of unification, thinking, “All I need is the guidance of a great leader.” Suddenly losing them left me feeling hollow and adrift.
Beside me, my friends had various personal items confiscated, ranging from underwear and socks to a high-end Japanese wristwatch. It was likely that the owner of the watch came from a family of high-ranking officials or affluent individuals. At that time, Seiko watches were renowned as the most prestigious brand in North Korea.
After breakfast, approximately 20 recruits assembled on the school grounds. Following a brief congratulatory speech from the training center’s director, the recruits were allocated to their respective squads and platoons, and were introduced to their squad leaders, platoon leaders, and company commanders.
Thus commenced the first day of the official six-month boot camp. While other regular troops typically underwent training for just one or two months, my unit adhered to a rigorous six-month program. Enduring this period was essential for me to be assigned to the main unit six months later, take the soldier’s oath in front of the military flag, and officially become a soldier. Thus, endurance became imperative.
The day’s training regimen commences with the morning wake-up call. During the summer months, recruits rise one hour earlier than in winter and retire to bed correspondingly earlier. Depending on the season, wake-up times range from 5 a.m. to 6 a.m., with bedtime set between 9 p.m. and 10 p.m.
At ten minutes to 5 a.m., the company’s orderlies, one stationed outside the entrance and the other seated within, wake up the orderly of higher rank, who holds the position of squad commander, as well as the head of non-commissioned officers (중대사관장).
The head of non-commissioned officers oversees the awakening of about 12 non-commissioned officers (사관). During this process, he occasionally kicks the buttocks of those who oversleep. Once all the officers are awake and gathered in front of the relevant section with bunk beds, a signal bell rings from the unit’s office.
I recall the humorous tradition of singing songs to accompany the wake-up call, a practice we joked about for over a decade. Just as the Korean War erupted at 5 a.m., the North Korean People’s Army placed significant emphasis on dawn. The communist army favored night raids, often catching enemies off guard and setting traps. This tactic proved effective even in the Vietnam War, where North Korean military and Vietkong showcased similar strategies of night raids and ambushes.
Emergency call-up drills, typically conducted once or twice a month, often take place during the early morning hours. These call-ups are commonly referred to as the ‘storm (폭풍)’ command. When the commander issues the ‘storm’ command simultaneously with the morning bugle, soldiers spring into action like a storm, quickly rising from their blankets.
Within just 5 or 10 minutes, soldiers must don their full military uniforms and gear, including weapons and military hats, and assemble at the first gathering point, usually their bunker, to report their arrival.
Sometimes, soldiers were late for the drills more often than they arrived on time. Some soldiers, not fully awake, rush out wearing only their military tops, forgetting military pants and footwraps (white cotton cloth worn in the place of socks). But most manage to grab their gear.
Each soldier lugs around 30 kilograms of equipment, including a helmet, backpack, rifle, bayonet, magazines, magazine pouches, gas mask, and shovel. The gathering place may vary, but if they assemble within 5 or 10 minutes, you can smell the husk-burning in your throat.
The drills typically last for about four hours in the morning and three hours in the afternoon. In the mornings, training sessions often focus on political education, delving into the revolutionary ideas of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. In the afternoons, there are sessions on military regulations, weapon handling, and combat technology, including parade drills.
After the day’s training wraps up, there’s usually an hour-long ‘crowd culture recreational time (군중문화오락시간)’ after dinner. During this time, soldiers gather to enjoy entertainment, which may include singing new military songs or praising the leaders, Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. It’s a lively atmosphere, filled with laughter, chatter, applause, and various entertainment events.
We’re permitted to write letters home to our parents, but they’re censored by political commissars (중대정치지도원)or the propaganda department (대대선전부) before being sent. They say it’s to prevent leaks of military secrets, but it’s likely to hide issues like poor treatment, abuse from superiors, and command bureaucracy from getting out.
On weekday evenings or Saturday afternoons, after training, we clean both inside and outside the military quarters. Sometimes, we play ball games like football, volleyball, or basketball for fun.
One of the toughest parts of training was practicing special sports, like martial arts, for 1-2 hours each day. For men, especially those who were stiff, mastering the flexibility needed for exercises like sitting with legs apart was really challenging.
I managed to complete the sitting-apart exercise in a month, achieving a full 180-degree front and back split, as well as left and right splits. Maybe because I learned it well during my teens, I can still do it easily even now, at almost 60 years old. Out of over 200 people at the boot camp, I was the first to pass this test. More than half of them couldn’t pass, and many didn’t achieve the splits even after 10 years of military service.
We also did intense hand-knife hitting drills, striking log-mounted targets covered in rice straw ropes, 1,000 to 2,000 times a day. Our fists often swelled and bled. Additionally, we practiced fist-bumping drills and various kicking techniques on sandbags weighing between 20 and 80 kilograms, suspended in the air.
Training for new soldiers was tough, but it got even harder when assigned to the main unit. The most grueling part of boot camp was the 4-kilometer forced training, usually held on Saturday evenings. Soldiers carried all sorts of weapons and ran with 15-20 kilograms of sand in their backpacks. While sand was heavy, it molded to your back, but bricks or cement blocks were excruciatingly painful.
In summer, we could gather sand from the riverside to fill our backpacks, but in freezing winter, sand wasn’t available. So, we had to add 10-15 bricks or 1-2 cement blocks, depending on their size, to reach the required 20-kilogram weight.
Some friends who struggled with the intense training resorted to cutting the underside of their backpacks with a hand knife to let sand out and reduce weight. However, to prevent this, bricks and blocks were used, not just in winter but also in summer when sand was plentiful.
During training, the bricks and blocks in the backpacks would collide, causing friction against the soldiers’ lower backs. This friction often led to the backpacks breaking and wearing down. After the march, soldiers would sometimes find red bruises or even skin abrasions and bleeding when removing their tops.
One of the toughest challenges was running with gas masks on. This training simulated passing through areas with toxic gasses. I recall encountering chemical gasses like hydrocyanic acid and sarin.
Upon reaching the area, blue smoke would spread, obscuring visibility. We had to quickly close our eyes, hold our breath, put on the gas mask, seal it with a helmet, exhale deeply, and then open our eyes. If you breathed in before sealing the mask properly due to breathlessness, it felt like your lungs were burning, and your throat and eyes would ache terribly. Tears streamed down like rainwater.
Quickly putting on a gas mask in less than 10 seconds in a gas-emitting area, especially after running kilometers with a heart rate exceeding 180-200, is incredibly challenging. One mistake could lead to severe respiratory and eye discomfort, making it hard to proceed. Shortness of breath and eye irritation were the most difficult to endure.
The gas masks provided included the new type 1010 and the old type ‘elephant.’ While the new type 1010 was smaller and easier to wear, it tended to leak more gas compared to the heavier and bulkier old gas mask.
While nuclear strikes target tanks, armaments, and military facilities, it’s crucial to also consider biochemical weapons, which can incapacitate combat power by attacking the body’s life-sustaining functions.
My friend from the National Defense University in Kanggye, Jagang Province (자강도 강계) said that biochemical gasses can disable not just people and animals, but also engines like those in tanks and trucks. Once, at a base in Gangwon Province, all engine-operated vehicles stopped working after exposure to biochemical gas bullets according to an anecdote I heard.
While running with tears stinging my eyes and nose, I hear the commanding officer’s instructions over the broadcast. When a ‘red light (or blue flash) in the western sky’ is announced, the running team immediately halts and lies prone in the opposite of the indicated direction. We lie with our toes touching the ground, arms and knees bent, and our stomach and chest elevated more than 5 cm from the ground. This position helps protect internal organs from intense light radiation and nuclear storms. We extend our arms from raised elbows, thumbs up, covering our ears, while the other four fingers shield our eyes. These drills aim to safeguard ears, eyes, and internal organs from damage caused by storm vibrations, noise, and light.
Breathing is difficult even with a regular mask, so learning combat tactics in a much stuffier gas mask was tough. My experience with running events in high school helped me cope. Still, the armored training, lasting about 30 minutes, was the hardest.
In each company, about five to six soldiers drop out. Though some friends and I help carry their guns out of friendship, they are eventually drawn to the battalion’s training ground by their comrades’ arms, unable to stand on their own feet.
When we reach the playground, we put down our weapons and engage in a dance routine for about 10 minutes. It’s a unique sword dance performed exclusively in the military, and I still vividly remember the 18 dances from that time.
One of the songs starts with the lyrics ‘Our Company standing before the ideological revolution are in one mind and one goal’. The dance involves moving forward eight steps with clenched fists, then swaying back and forth for eight steps while shaking arms to the side. During the chorus, pairs of dancers push each other’s shoulders left and right in a circular motion.
Another memorable song, the 7th or 8th in the lineup, is called ‘Mt Namsan’s Blue Pine.’ It was written and sung by Kim Hyungjik, Kim Il-sung’s father, during his time at Pyongyang Sungsil School, a school run by American missionaries, in the 1910s. The song symbolizes the spirit of protest against Japanese imperialism and the longing for independence and is widely spread across North Korea.
After the dance session, each squad or platoon does bar or parallel bar training. Surprisingly, moves that were difficult before become easier now. This is because we sweat a lot, making our bodies feel lighter, and we’re mentally and physically stimulated.
On days with armed marching army training, there’s not much to do except for cold water friction or a bath, inspection, and bedtime. Sometimes, after dinner, there’s about an hour of regulation study time. Some friends dislike this, but I did not mind it as I had a good memory.
During the military regulation study class, we learned about the four major regulations and the 10 compliance requirements for People’s Army personnel. I worked hard to memorize these rules, often staying up all night, and even had nosebleeds from the effort.
Thanks to this dedication, I was honored with a military rank six months after joining the army, awarded according to regulations. After completing boot camp, on December 24th of that year, a commemoration day for the birthday of Kim Il Sung’s wife, Kim Jong Suk. The Early Award of Military Title (기간 전 군사칭호 수여) ceremony was held at the division’s cultural center. Soldiers and non-commissioned officers (사관) who excelled in combat, political training, and military life were awarded a military title prior to the deadline.
I excelled on the assessment of the new recruits (200 in total), but I stood out by winning the first prize in the four-point military regulation recitation competition(4대 군사규정통달 경연) held for each unit after deployment to the main unit. This achievement was reported to the division through the battalion, earning positive recognition.
Out of the 46 recruits deployed in my battalion, I was the only one chosen to go to the division headquarters in Chohyeon-ri, Chunghwa County, Pyongyang (평양시 중화군 초현리), about 10 kilometers away the next day. The division headquarters housed the Korean People’s Army Air Command, with many underground buildings, especially for communication equipment.
At the 9 a.m. award ceremony, I experienced another moment of joy when I ran into Yang Geum-hee, who I hadn’t seen since we traveled together by train from Hyesan Station in our hometown six months earlier. Yang Geum-hee had completed her one-month boot camp elsewhere and was now working as a nurse at the division’s military clinic. She had also excelled in learning military regulations, which didn’t surprise me given her background. Back in elementary and middle school, she had always been a top student, coming from a family of educators.
During a time when relationships between men and women were forbidden, we were unable to meet and catch up. However, after the award ceremony, we had a brief moment to exchange greetings.
Six months earlier, we boarded the same train with the highest pride of ‘joining the Guard Command(호위사령부).’ However, back then, there were no warm words of consolation or congratulations exchanged between us. On the day of the ceremony, we seemed more mature, filled with unfamiliar emotions.
“Kum-hee, let’s see who can become an honorable member of the Workers’ Party of Korea sooner,” I suggested as we parted ways.
“Yes, comrade Sangil! Take care of yourself and stay healthy,” she replied, echoing my sentiments.
I still can’t forget the Early Award of Military Title Ceremony to this day, which everyone envied, where a fellow female soldier from my hometown and I were promoted from soldiers to corporals.
Four to five years later, I crossed paths with Yang Geum-hee once again. This time, we both held the title of a Sergeant Major (특무상사). Yang Geum-hee had risen to become the general nursing director of the divisional military (사단군의소 총간호장).
Her role involved overseeing several departments within the divisional military clinic, including internal medicine and surgery. As the general nursing director, she managed the nursing chiefs of each department and around 40-50 nurses.
The third time I encountered Yang Geum-hee was unexpectedly, as I crossed Yeonpung Bridge after returning from military service. After 6-7 years of military service, she had been discharged and had married, and now she was carrying a child on her back.
Although I was happy to see her, I couldn’t help feeling a bit awkward. We exchanged brief greetings before parting ways. It seemed she had married someone from a different province, not her hometown of Hyesan, as she had returned there to give birth.
Seeing her no longer in her military uniform, but with tired eyes and a weary appearance, left me feeling empty. I couldn’t tell if it was due to the demands of caring for a young baby, the responsibilities of being a wife and mother, or perhaps struggles with her in-laws.
After our brief encounter, I cautiously inquired about Yang Geum-hee’s discharge from the military. She revealed that she had been discharged after joining the Party, albeit as a ‘candidate,’ not yet an official member. In North Korea, those who are in this mandatory stage are called ‘candidates’ until they pass the party membership probation period, which involves monitoring, control, and guidance at the party cell for a year.
While I was discharged as a full party member, Yang Geum-hee ended her military career as a candidate since she left before me. Seeing her journey to becoming a party member, overcoming challenges at the National Security Post, stirred up deep respect within me, surpassing mere sympathy.
On the other hand, some regular men finish their military service without ever joining the Workers’ Party, even after ten years. Looking at it this way, Yang Geum-hee might be seen as lucky. As I thought about the transformation from yesterday’s confident female soldier to a mother, I remained a soldier, still holding onto big dreams in my military uniform.