11.Photos Taken with Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il at Head Non-Commissioned Officers Conference
After returning to my original unit and completing the arrival report, I spent two days off with my friends at the company and battalion, whom I had missed. However, on the third day, I received a summons from the division’s rank department.
On the day I returned to the company, Park Kwang-mo, the head NCO and a native of Pyongyang, was discharged, leaving his position empty. I was assigned to his role and promoted to Special Sergeant (특무상사).
I wasn’t sure why the department called me again, as I thought everything had been decided. But after getting permission to go out, I headed to the division. I asked a friend who worked in the rank department if he knew what was going on, but he had no idea either.
When I arrived, still puzzled, I saluted and reported in. The head of the office looked at me for a long moment with a weary expression before finally speaking.
“Sangil, your company and battalion commanders were so eager to have you back, and our division felt the same way. But in the end, headquarters—the military academy—had the final say and took you. Before you even returned from training, your company pushed us to issue your appointment letter, so we did. But yesterday, headquarters issued a new order for you. There’s nothing I can do. You know how it is—orders from above have to be followed.”
“We argued with the head of headquarters for over an hour, but in the end, their decision stood, and our appointment was canceled. I know this must be disappointing for you, but there’s a silver lining. Educational institutions under headquarters are ranked higher than those under a division’s jurisdiction, and you’ll have priority for central universities when you retire,” he said, expressing his regret.
Ultimately, I was assigned to the military academy, a place I quickly grew to dread. In fact, 20 days before graduation, I was already so desperate to leave that I counted down the number of meals I had left. In life, good and bad often come hand in hand. If I wanted to stay comfortable in my main unit until the end of my service, I shouldn’t have excelled or drawn attention to myself. I had no idea that my hard work would lead to this outcome. Instead, I believed that honing my skills and graduating with top grades was the best way to repay the commanders and friends who had given me the opportunity to receive this education.
In the end, my strong passion—or maybe my arrogance—led me to completely fulfill the expectations of the school and the high command. This resulted in me becoming an educator at the military academy, a role that all North Korean trainees viewed with anger and disgust.
Though I missed a few people on the school staff, most of me—more than 90%—didn’t want to go. But I had to. It was a trust and an order from the party, requiring me to live a strict, disciplined life just like the trainees, from dawn until late at night.
“I will serve the Supreme Leader and Dear Leader Comrade!” I recited the command as I left the rank department.
With heavy steps, I made my way to the military academy, knowing the challenges ahead. I spent one last week in my unit before finally moving to the academy.
The commanders and faculty welcomed me when I arrived at the military academy. Everyone said their premonitions were accurate and that they had guessed that I would be appointed as a head NCO and come back.
Head NCOs were chosen based on recommendations from the school’s rank department to the headquarters’ rank department. Yun Il, the deputy director of the headquarters’ rank department, played a key role in my appointment, while An Young-su, the political commissar of the school, and his wife provided strong support.
At the military academy, each head NCO is assigned to the company where their expertise lies. My previous unit, the 11th Company, was a light infantry unit. Light infantry units are known for being challenging to manage due to their nature. The soldiers, selected for their excellence, often have rough and combative personalities. In this unit, promotions and military ranks are based on performance in martial arts, unlike other units where years of service and enlistment are more important. As a result, the unit is highly competitive, with soldiers who tend to be more prideful and unruly.
Half of my 10 years of military service were spent in my main unit, while the other half was at the military academy. My greatest achievement during this time was earning membership in the Korean Workers’ Party at the young age of 21, which was nearly unthinkable at that time.
I was awarded a luxury watch during the construction of the Pyongyang-Gyeongseong Expressway. I was also featured in a video for Chosun Central TV, which was broadcast across North Korea at 9 p.m. After my discharge, I learned from my parents and brothers that they had watched the broadcast too.
Shortly after that, in mid-June, my party membership came into question. I was placed on the candidate list and eventually became a formal member a year later. As the youngest Party member in the entire command, I was celebrated as a hero within the base, since Party membership was considered the highest honor and achievement for North Koreans.
However, I experienced a tragic loss during that time. My martial arts training partner and closest friend, Kim Jong-guk, passed away. We were the same age and had served the same number of years in the military. He consistently ranked first or second in martial arts competitions within the division and command throughout his service.
The accident happened during a summer flood. A friend from his reconnaissance company said that Kim Jong-guk went to a residential area 5 kilometers from their training camp to drink. He was upset because he had heard that the military commanders and the party were delaying his Party membership, fearing he might become unruly if he was admitted too soon.
As he tried to return to the camp heavily drunk, he faced a dangerous situation. The floodwaters had completely covered the stepping stones and were rushing high with debris, including rocks and tree roots. Sadly, the strong current swept him away.
Kim Jong-guk had won the annual martial arts competition every year and was truly deserving of Party membership. He was also expected to be recommended for admission to Apnokgang University, which trains reconnaissance professionals.
Allegedly, Kim Jong-guk’s division commander and the political committee members who opposed his Party membership felt deeply remorseful and reflected on their actions. However, they decided to label the incident as a suicide, which is considered an act of rebellion in North Korea.
His body was wrapped in an old rice bag and buried at the foot of a mountain near a female base. Even the corpses of the prisoners who perished in prison, many of which I carried in later days, were covered in white cotton cloth before being buried. It was announced that anyone who attended his funeral would be treated as a traitor. Despite this warning, more than 50 friends came to mourn at his funeral, even though the Security Department had stationed personnel to monitor every corner of the mountain.
I was present from start to finish at Kim Jong-guk’s funeral, and I offered comfort to his father and younger brother who attended. Three days after the funeral, I visited Kim Jong-guk’s home with three friends. I didn’t have official approval for this visit, so I had to use another reason to get permission to leave.
Visiting Kim Jong-guk’s house was a heavy experience. His father, who worked as a conductor at Pyongyang Station, was still too distraught to return to work. Many relatives were there, and I met his sister and mother. His mother had fainted from the shock and couldn’t attend the funeral. After that, I made sure to visit his parents whenever I had the chance.
More than 40 years have passed, but I still feel like I could visit Kim Jong-guk’s house behind Pyongyang Station anytime. The shock from that time remains vivid in my mind. I joined the Party earlier than my peers and was promoted to head NCO at the military academy, but the fact that my dear friend Kim Jong-guk, who excelled in every way, died so young still fills me with deep regret.
What’s even more painful is how his military unit covered up the incident, dishonoring a soldier who had faithfully served his country. In nearly 60 years of life, I’ve witnessed many sacrifices and deaths, but Kim Jong-guk’s death in my early 20s is unforgettable. My friends and I often remember his remarkable achievements, both during my time at the military academy and even after my retirement.
One day, when I am able to freely visit North Korea, I hope to bring Kim Jong-guk’s remains back and bury them in my neighborhood. I believe this would be a way to honor my duty as his old friend and to fulfil my promise to his parents that I would serve them on Jong-guk’s behalf.
There was a guy called Kim Kwang-chul, sub-platoon leader under the the 9th Company’s head NCO Ri Ki-ho. He was from Changgwang-dong in Jung-gu district, Pyongyang. His father was the head of the Propaganda and Agitation Department (선전선동부) of the Workers’ Party of Korea, and their apartment was heavily guarded with armed security standing watch day and night.
In the summer of 1990, Kim Kwang-chul and I were selected as applicants for admission to the Political College of the Ministry of Social Security (안전부 정치대학). We spent two months together taking various tests. While we awaited the admission letter, another opportunity arose. Under the direction of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il, the Guard Command (호위사령부) and the 91st Military Academy, where I was stationed, were instructed to recommend 2-3 outstanding students each year for admission to the University of National Economy (인민경제대학). Kim Kwang-chul and I were chosen again, so we continued our exams at the University of National Economy in the Daedong River district of Pyongyang. One day, I even visited his home. Given his background and demeanor, I imagine he would be holding an important position within the Central Party by now.
Luck can sometimes follow luck, but when multiple lucky breaks come at once, they can lead to trouble. I found this out myself towards the end of my military service. Similarly, trying to avoid one problem might lead to an even worse situation, and chasing after a bigger reward might cause you to lose a whole lot including those we took for granted.
Between December 1990 and January 1991, I had several phone conversations with Kim Won-il, the deputy director of the organization department at headquarters. Given the strict hierarchy of the military command system, this should have been impossible, but he treated me like a close brother.
He told me that the conference of head NCOs, a major event where Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Ill would be present, was coming up, though the exact date was uncertain. He asked if I wanted to attend. He already recommended me for university admission. While getting one university recommendation is rare for most people, he recommended me for the Political College of the Ministry of Social Security, the University of National Economy, and even considered the School for Political Workers (정치일꾼강습소) as a third option.
At that time, he thought I might be more useful in the party and political roles than in the military. In North Korea, the top schools are the Kim Il Sung High-level Party School (김일성고급당학교), followed by the University of National Economy (인민경제대학), and then Kim Il Sung University (김일성대학교).
I was lucky to be recommended for the University of National Economy, which is the second most prestigious, and for the Political College of the Ministry of Social Security, an important institution for political clout in North Korea. Unfortunately, I later ended up losing all these opportunities through my own missteps.
My thoughts became tangled when I learned that the major event, the highest-level conference, would indeed take place in the fall of that year (1991). By then, I had already informed my parents in my hometown that I would be attending a top university in Pyongyang.
At that time, joining the Labor Party was the highest honor, but participating in an event with the supreme leaders was even more prestigious and a photo taken with them was considered a family treasure. According to Deputy Director Kim Won-il, because of Kim Il Sung’s advanced age, this upcoming conference might be the last opportunity to take a commemorative photo with him. So, I decided to change my plans and sent a new letter to my hometown.
Leaving with a commemorative photo with Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il at the end of my military service would be the highest honor for my family, relatives, and the thousands of graduates from Yeonpung Boys’ High School in Hyesan, I concluded. In my hometown of Yeonpung-dong, there are about five houses proudly displaying a red sign that says, “The House that Great Leader Kim Il Sung Visited.”
Meeting the two Leaders in person and taking a photo with them was a rare opportunity, almost as if I were trying to grab a star from the sky. In the end, I chose to participate in the conference rather than accept admission to the Political College of the Ministry of Social Security and the University of National Economy, a qualification that cannot have been earned even with the high bribes. I decided that being part of the conference was more important, even though it meant giving up a university admission and leaving me with a heavy heart.
The paperwork for participants began in September, and by early October, participants were assigned to various lodgings. The military academy where I was stationed was one of these locations. During this time, our own trainees were relocated to other bases or training sites.
The authorities instructed that the participants be treated with the utmost respect, similar to how foreign dignitaries are treated. For the nine days of the conference, we received exceptional treatment.
On October 16, 1991, the conference of head NCOs(전군사관장대회) was held with a great ceremony at Pyongyang Stadium. Top Party and military officials entered the stadium simultaneously from the north and south.
The photo session with Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il, known as the “No. 1 picture,” took place at the February 8 Culture Hall (2.8문화회관). Getting into the venue alone took between 3 to 5 hours. Once everyone was in position, waiting on about 15 rows of stairs, the two leaders finally appeared to thunderous cheers and applause. After a lengthy process of calming the crowd, the photo was taken.
For the rest of the conference, our schedule was very tight. We woke up at 4 a.m., washed up, received a briefing on the day’s agenda, had breakfast, and boarded the event bus. We arrived at the stadium, the venue, by 7:40 a.m. It took about an hour for everyone to be admitted after their attendance was checked by unit.
Each day began with a morning meeting from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m., followed by lunch from 12 p.m. to 1 p.m. After lunch, we returned by bus and completed entry by 1:30 p.m., attended the event from 2 p.m. to 6 or 7 p.m., had dinner from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m., and participated in observation activities at the People’s Cultural Palace (인민문화궁전) or the 4.25 Cultural Center (4.25 문화회관) until 10 or 11 p.m. We arrived at our accommodation between 11 p.m. and midnight, then underwent a harsh self-reflection session for 30 minutes to an hour before going to bed between midnight and 1 a.m. We slept for 4 to 5 hours and woke up again at 4 a.m., repeating this grueling schedule daily from October 16 to October 24.
Many people were criticized for dozing off during the self-reflection session because the intense daily schedule left little time for rest aside from bathroom breaks and sleep. To be honest, I also dozed off almost every day and would wake up startled by the sound of applause.
On the first day, the meeting started with congratulatory messages from the great leaders, followed by reports and discussions from the armed forces. From the second to the fourth day, head NCOs gave presentations on enhancing combat power and military service based on their experiences. I was nominated as the third speaker on the morning of the second day. Despite having spoken on various stages before, I was particularly nervous at this conference due to the presence of many top military officials and skilled head NCOs from across the country.
Out of the six medals I earned during my 10 years of military service, two were awarded at the conference. While some participants received only one medal or medals of a lower level, I was honored with two—one at the beginning and one at the end of the conference. Because of the high level and number of my medals, I was already entitled to a state award pension upon turning 60 known as “600*60.”