12. Time of Agony and Tribulaton
On October 24, 1991, during the closing ceremony of the nine-day conference, we took a pledge of loyalty to Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il. It declared, “I will not take off the uniform of revolution given by the party until the reunification of the motherland.” Many who were supposed to be discharged that year, like me, decided to extend their service for another year. I had planned to leave the military and attend a university depending on which acceptance letter came first. But after the conference, I felt I had to follow the prevailing sentiment and chose to stay in the military for another year instead of going to university.
After the conference, all the students who had temporarily moved their residences were brought back to the military academy, and training resumed.
One day, I bought a thick, durable white cotton cloth to have a training uniform made for martial arts sessions. I took the cloth to the Soryong Tailor Shop, located in the Daedong River area across the railroad track from my school.
Although I frequently visited the area for photo sessions, it was my first time going to this tailor shop. Unlike stores that display finished clothes, this shop functioned more like a factory, where they measured bodies to make or repair clothing as requested.
Except for the tailor and the person in charge, all about 30 workers in the shop were young seamstresses. When I entered with the bundle of cloth, I felt a bit out of place.
As soon as I greeted them with a cheerful, “Hello! Thank you for all your hard work!” the sound of the sewing machines stopped, and everyone’s attention turned toward me. I even heard someone whispering excitedly, “Hey, that’s the head NCO, the whistle!” and “What? Who?” Their whispers reached my ears.
The first person to approach me was the tailor, the only man there. When I asked who was in charge of the shop, he pointed to a woman in her 40s and asked what I needed.
I put the cloth bundle down and said, “Comrade in charge, I need training suits made from this cloth for martial arts. Can you do it?” She happily agreed so I asked if a week would be enough. She said she would try.
While talking with the manager and the tailor, a tall, pretty young woman came over. She took the cloth from me with a kind smile and said, “Don’t worry, Comrade Head NCO.”
The tailor said, “Oh, In-sook, you’re quick!” and gave me a meaningful smile and wink.
I thanked them and left the tailor shop, thinking that In-sook was in charge of my order. As I walked out and turned around, I noticed several young women peeking out from the shop’s windows, watching me.
Though I had never spoken to them, they were interested because I used to walk around the neighborhood singing or whistling the song “Whistle.”
The North Korean song “Whistle,” famous then and still today, is the theme from the TV drama Lark (종달새). That day, I returned to the Military Academy with a happy and satisfied smile, even though I wasn’t quite sure why.
A week later, I visited the tailor shop again. As I walked in and greeted them, the lady in charge welcomed me and said, “Bring the clothes you made, dear Young-ae.” A young woman I didn’t remember seeing before brought out the 25 training suits I had ordered, neatly tied up.
The manager and the tailor took turns praising the young woman. “Young-ae did an excellent job,” the tailor said. “She stayed here all week and worked through the nights to finish the 25 suits on time.”
Then, the manager added, “Isn’t Young-ae amazing? Everyone was busy with many orders this month, but she managed to work on your order during the night while handling her other tasks during the day. She really did a great job.”
When I heard this, I was so touched that I don’t remember exactly how I expressed my thanks. I looked at her face—she seemed in her early-twenties, with a cute, flushed face.
Even more surprising was when I tried to pay. She said, “please keep the money. This was for the military. How can I accept payment from soldiers who serve for ten years defending our country? I made these in my spare time. I hope you like them.” She insisted, so I ended up putting the money back in my pocket.
I showed my gratitude to the tailor shop workers by bringing fruit and ice cream several times. Yet, the maiden’s kindness that day left a deep impression on me. It felt like a genuine appreciation for justice and a heartfelt connection as a member of the opposite sex. Little did I know that this moment of compassion would eventually lead to trials filled with shame, anger, sacrifice, dedication, protest, and resistance.
The commanders were pleased with the training suits, and the students who would wear them were excited. Each year, on the eve of Military Foundation Day, commanders visit civilian areas. On the day itself, party and administrative officials come to the base to admire the soldiers’ martial arts training, have lunch with the commanders, and present consolation gifts. I had prepared the training suits in anticipation of this event.
Previously, demonstrations were done in just pants with the tops removed, but I believed that using special training suits would boost the combat spirit and create a more unified look. The transformation from military uniforms to training suits, with a black belt around my waist, felt like stepping into a real competition.
A few days later, around 5 p.m., I handed off my duties to the sub-platoon leader of the 1st platoon, passed through the sentry checkpoint, and headed to the tailor shop. While students were prohibited from going out, officers who commuted from home had more freedom. However, even head NCOs and sub-platoon leaders needed a pass to leave the base.
I had the freedom to come and go easily, not only because I was close with the school security platoon leader and sub-platoon leader, but also because of my high, though unofficial, status at the school. As I crossed the railroad track after passing through the sentry checkpoint, I noticed that many of the ladies were leaving the tailor shop.
The shop closed at 5 p.m., and while I was still unsure of what to do, the girls on the other side recognized me and called out, “Young-ae, come out! Comrade Head NCO is here!” It seemed like everyone was playing matchmaker. Eventually, Young-ae appeared, not with a luxury item, but with a modest handbag that many women would appreciate.
“How are you, Companion Young-ae? Are you heading home?” I asked.
“Yes, but what brings you here?” she replied, looking puzzled.
I explained that I wanted to thank her properly for the hard work she had put into making the training suits. She smiled modestly and said, “What have I done that’s so great? I was just doing my job.” In the background, other ladies looked over and giggled.
Though I had come to express my gratitude, I wasn’t sure what to do next. If she were a man, I would have taken him out for a drink. If she were a married woman with children, I might have brought some baby snacks. Since she was single, I was at a loss. Not wanting to keep her from going home, I decided to walk with her and chat.
Without thinking, I extended my right hand and introduced myself, saying, “My name is Park Sangil. I heard your name is Young-ae. May I ask your last name?”
She replied, “It’s Jin Young-ae,” and shook hands with me, looking a bit awkward.
I then asked, “My school is that way. Where is your home?”
She said, “I’m heading in the same direction.”
As we chatted about various topics, I realized we were getting close to her house. Suddenly, she stopped and said, “You should probably go now. I’m almost home.”
Reluctantly, I prepared to say goodbye and asked, “Where exactly is your house?”
I asked, “Do you live in that house on the hill?” She blinked in surprise and asked, “How did you know my house?”
I felt a pang of guilt, realizing she seemed so innocent and truthful, and I was embarrassed for asking about her home. She confirmed it was her house, then blushed as if she had done something wrong and said, “Well, take care, I’ll go first…”
With a strange feeling, I returned to the base and resumed my usual work. After that, I often found myself thinking about her.
As I neared the end of my military service, my goal was always to graduate from a major university in Pyongyang and settle in the capital rather than in my hometown of Hyesan. Everyone at the time preferred to meet and marry someone from Pyongyang. At that time, moving from a provincial city to Pyongyang was a rare opportunity, almost as unlikely as picking a star from the sky.
Around that time, Kim Chang-seop, our 2nd platoon commander, was getting married to a woman from Gangnam, a suburb of Pyongyang. He was from a rural area in Yanggang Province and had no parents; his cousin’s family couldn’t afford a wedding for him. I decided to write a letter to my parents in Hyesan, asking them to use any funds they had set aside for my future to help with his wedding, since Chang-seop was a close friend and an orphan.
By the early 1990s, my family was doing relatively well. My father, originally from Gyeongsang Province in South Korea and an orphan, and my mother, who had many cousins still living in China from her time there before the Korean War, were able to support this gesture.
My parents told me that my mother had a cousin who was the director of public security in Yanji and Jilin, China. Some of our relatives had visited my uncle’s house in Hyesan with long-term travel permits. My uncle and his wife had also gone to China several times on tourist visas. Back then, visiting relatives in China while doing business was a way to become wealthy.
In the late 1960s, there was a significant movement of people returning from Japan, known as the “Great Migration of the People” (민족의 대이동). By the end of the 1970s, those who had returned from Japan were the wealthiest, thanks to money sent by their relatives. However, by the mid-1980s, this situation changed. Financial support from Japan was cut off, causing the returnees to fall into financial difficulty. Meanwhile, people with relatives in China began to emerge as the wealthiest.
I learned that my parents were already planning for my future, hoping I would marry a woman of their choice and live comfortably. I convinced Chang-seop, who had initially hesitated, to accept their help.
My parents agreed to my request. They hosted a wedding reception at our home for the newlyweds, and even arranged for their wedding photo to be taken.
While today in North Korea, wealthy people might rent a large restaurant for grand wedding ceremonies, in the 1980s and 1990s, most weddings were held at home. Chang-seop and his wife were grateful and invited me to their small studio apartment in the military housing to thank me.
Even with Chang-seop’s experience, it was clear that marrying someone from outside Pyongyang came with many challenges. After some thought, I decided that my future spouse would need to be from Pyongyang. The recent experience at the tailor shop made me reflect even more on my future and who I would marry.
About a week after my last visit, I got a pass to leave and timed my departure to match the closing time of the tailor shop at 5 p.m. As head NCO, it was my responsibility to buy cleaning tools and supplies for the barracks once a week. This shopping was usually done at department stores or markets in downtown Pyongyang, with the expenses covered by the welfare department.
I told the company commander I needed to run some errands and headed to the tailor shop. At that time, workers were leaving promptly at 5 p.m.. This was the time before the period of the Arduous March began.
As I smoked a cigarette, the young women at the tailor shop began to leave one by one. Eventually, Young-ae appeared. She greeted me with a happy expression, as if she had been waiting.
I greeted her warmly and we started walking together, chatting about various topics. Before long, we arrived in front of her house. As she stopped, intending to say goodbye, I walked into her home first. She was surprised and tried to stop me, but I continued inside.
After a loud cough to ease the tension, I shouted, “Hello!” The kitchen door opened, and a well-dressed, middle-aged woman appeared. She looked as refined as someone from a high-status household.
The woman scanned me and asked, “Who is it?” When she saw her daughter, Young-ae, she seemed relieved. After catching her breath, she asked, “Young-ae, is this the head NCO from the military academy?”
I was surprised to hear this, realizing Young-ae had mentioned me to her mother. To make a good impression, I gave a vigorous salute and said, “Hello, Mother! I’m Park Sangil, the head NCO at the school next door!” I was then invited inside.
The house had two rooms and appeared to be an ordinary home without any luxury. I glanced around discreetly while the mother and daughter spoke quietly in the kitchen, likely discussing me.
After a certain amount of time, I became nervous. After all, I randomly entered Young-ae’s house without prior notice, and I wondered what her parents would think. I wondered what her father would be like and debated whether I should just say goodbye and leave. But then I decided to stay. After all, I was already here, and I wouldn’t know the outcome unless I tried.
As I stood there, the smell of oil frying wafted from the kitchen. A deep voice came from outside, “Honey, who’s home? Whose shoes are these?” Young-ae’s mother whispered something to her husband, standing near the doorpost.
After a while, Young-ae’s father came in after washing his hands at the tap in the yard. He was a big-framed man with a cheerful demeanor. As I stood up to greet him, he extended his hand for a handshake and said, “I appreciate your hard work, Head NCO. I’ve heard about you from Young-ae. You work at the school?” It seemed she had shared with her parents the story of how she had stayed late at work to finish the training suits I ordered.
He invited me to sit down comfortably and then called into the kitchen, “Honey, I’m feeling a bit hoarse today and would like a drink since we have a special guest. Please bring anything that’s ready.”
Young-ae, now in an indoor suit, helped set the table, bringing in food and dishes with her mother.
I spent the evening drinking with Young-ae’s father from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. I felt a bit awkward because, traditionally, I should have brought a drink and treated him first, but I had been in such a hurry that I skipped a few steps. Trying to make up for it, Young-ae’s father said, “My name is Jin Myung-hwan. I work as an instructor at the Daedonggang District Party Committee. Let’s set aside formalities for now. As the host, I’ll pour the drinks tonight.”
I poured drinks for Young-ae’s father in return, and we ended up drinking quite a lot that evening. Not only did we drink heavily, but we also talked extensively. When he asked if there was anything urgent, I explained that I had been given time off from the base, so the drinking continued. We covered a range of topics.
He asked me about my age, family background, and where my parents and siblings were from, as well as my future plans. I answered all his questions honestly, sharing details about the higher university recommendation and my participation in the Head NCO conference.
Young-ae’s father reacted very positively to the news about my conference attendance and future plans. Among the residents of the military academy’s neighborhood, it’s well known that discharged soldiers who have completed rigorous training at the school are typically recommended to central universities they aspire to attend.
While answering his questions, I also inquired about Young-ae’s family. Her father, originally from Pyongyang, had one older brother and sister, as well as two younger brothers. He lost both parents during the war and was raised by his siblings. Young-ae’s mother is from Hwanghae Province, where her family still resides.
Young-ae’s father’s family all lived in Pyongyang. His brother, Jin Myung-chul, was particularly notable. While a student at Kim Il Sung University, Jin Myung-chul worked at the Kiyang Tractor Factory and impressed Kim Il Sung during a factory visit. When asked a key question about normalizing production, he gave a standout answer that caught Kim Il Sung’s attention.
Following this, Jin Myung-chul was directed to Kim Il Sung High-level Party School, North Korea’s premier training center for high-ranking officials. He rose to prominence, eventually serving as the director of the party cadre in the capital (중앙당 간부부장), a role focused on managing cadre members working overseas.
Although no definitive conclusion was reached about my relationship with Young-ae after meeting her parents, her father appeared pleased, while her mother seemed somewhat reassured but still uncertain, likely worried about the prospect of her daughter moving to a distant city like Hyesan.
During our conversation, Young-ae’s youngest brother, Jin Young-cheol, arrived. He was a striking man with a large build, resembling his father. Young-ae and Young-cheol also had a sister named Young-sook, who was serving in the People’s Army. She was stationed at a well-known post on Daedeoksan in North Korea.
I went back to the base feeling satisfied, having achieved more than I had hoped for. I continued to visit Young-ae’s house whenever I had free time. Once her parents felt more comfortable with me, something unexpected happened.
One evening around 7:00 p.m., a day-duty NCO came to find me. He said, “Head NCO, you need to go to the political commissar’s office right away. He’s asking for you.” I quickly said, “Got it,” and ran to the commissar’s office on the second floor of the command building.
When I reported to the political commissar, Ahn Young-soo, he was reading some documents. After offering me a seat, he asked how I was doing and then said, “Head NCO, come over to my house tonight. My wife would like to invite you.” I knew his wife managed the laundry for the school, handling the soldiers’ uniforms. I had met him before when I was a trainee.
After agreeing to his invitation, I returned to the company, puzzled about why the commissar and his wife wanted me to visit their home. That evening, I left through the sentry and made my way up the hill to the executive residence. As one of the top officials at the school, the commissar oversaw our political life, including recommendations for higher education and party assessments. When I arrived and knocked on the door, his wife came out to greet me.
When I walked into the room, I saw a table set with a Rodong Shinmun paper. It looked like they had been waiting for me.
Political Commissar Ahn was sitting and reading the newspaper. As I entered, he looked up and said, “Oh, you’re here! I’m not sure why my wife invited you, but please have a seat.” He then moved the newspaper off the table.
His wife soon brought out a bottle of high-quality ginseng drink. I realized that I might be the first person in the history of the school to be invited to the political commissar’s home and served such a special drink from him, someone who oversees our entire political life.
While I was receiving a glass poured by him and still wondering why I was called, the door suddenly opened. A well-dressed woman in her early to mid-twenties walked in.
Seeing me nod in greeting, the wife said, “Head NCO, this is my daughter.” The political commissar then asked his daughter to prepare some apples and bring them to the room.
After a while, the daughter returned with the fruit on a small table. I didn’t get a very close look at her, but when she went back to the upper room, the political commissar spoke earnestly.
“I don’t know how you feel, Head NCO, but my wife really likes you. The young woman you just saw is our only child. I won’t be in uniform forever; I’ll have to take it off one day. My wife has been asking about you, and now I’m officially speaking to you. Please understand.”
It was then that I realized what was happening. I had assumed the house was just for the two elderly people, but with their young daughter present, it became clear that they were trying to set me up with her.
But it turned out to be a situation like holding a wolf by the ears. If the offer had come before I met Jin Young-ae, I might have considered it, but now, having met her parents, I couldn’t simply accept or reject the proposal on the spot. I told the political commissar that I was still serving in the military and would need to consult my parents back home. I promised to think about it and get back to them. I didn’t have the courage to refuse outright, especially since he was the political commissar.
He accepted my response and said, “If you face any difficulties, feel free to come by my office. If that’s not convenient, you can also visit the laundry where my wife works and let her know.”
The next day, the couple, having not received a definitive answer from me, seemed to watch me closely without making their interest obvious. I kept the relationship with the political commissar private, even from my close friends, and focused on my duties with the company soldiers as if nothing had happened. I felt a pang of guilt for the couple, who were likely waiting for my response, but it was difficult for me to explain that I was already committed to another woman.
I decided to stay quiet and endure the situation until my discharge, which was only a few months away. Sometimes, I considered accepting Ahn Young-soo’s offer, as it could guarantee a smooth path to success and development due to his influential background. However, I always ended up shaking my head.
Young-ae’s mother had mentioned that a student from Pyongyang Art University, from a prominent cadre family, frequently visited their house to see Young-ae. Despite this, Young-ae had turned him down, saying she was only thinking of me. When I thought about that, I couldn’t bring myself to accept the political commissar’s offer. I valued being with Young-ae, who lived simply and modestly but genuinely cared for me, over pursuing a relationship with someone from a wealthy and influential family. Yet, as the political commissar was my superior, I found it difficult to outright reject his proposal.
At that time, it felt like living on a bed of thorns but one day, things finally broke out.
I was close with several head NCOs who knew about my relationship with Young-ae and had even visited her house with me. But there was one head NCO, Ro Jong-il from the 6th Company, who was considered an outsider mischieviously teased as sissy. Though he and I had no personal grudges against each other, he ended up causing me trouble.
He was probably secretly jealous of me, given that I was the top head NCO among the 11, frequently praised by military commanders and the political department. Eventually, one day, political commissar Ahn Young-soo called me in, furious because of a report from Ro Jong-il.
When I entered the commissar’s room, I was taken aback by his intense anger. I had no idea what it was about until then.
He yelled at me without holding back. “Sangil, is it true that you’re neglecting your duties because of a woman?” I struggled to find a response, and after a long pause, he continued, “I was very considerate of you, but are you deliberately axing yourself in the foot?” He told me to leave, warning me not to blame him for whatever happened next. It felt like all my years of dedicated service were unraveling in an instant.
The consequences were swift and severe. The political commissar’s power over the unit was now fully apparent. Both our company commanders and several instructors, who had been close to me, began to worry about my future.
In North Korea, once someone is targeted, it’s almost impossible to change the outcome. I couldn’t escape the repercussions. An ideological and personal investigation was launched against me and a few of my close friends. Under the political commissar’s orders, the defense department director scrutinized each of us, requiring us to write letters of self-criticism. While my friends were released after a week of intense interrogation, the political pressure on me only intensified.
Times have changed, but back then, relationships between men and women were tightly controlled. With that said, the severity of the punishment was out of proportion. A private warning to improve my discipline and recover my combat spirit would have been sufficient for my delinquency.
Instead, my close friends and acquaintances were monitored, and the investigation extended to the tailor shop and Jin Young-ae’s home. The tailor shop’s employees, who were all supportive of our relationship, were subjected to unwarranted scrutiny. It was shocking that these innocent civilians faced such invasive questioning.
One day, I was forced to write a confession that included confirming a hospital examination to verify that Young-ae’s hymen was no longer intact. At the time, I had no understanding of what a hymen was.
I later learned that Jin Young-ae was never taken for a hospital checkup, and the testimony was fabricated. During those two months, I was completely isolated from the outside world, monitored around the clock, and subjected to intense interrogations. Fortunately, I wasn’t physically beaten. Given my temperament, I might have reacted impulsively, protesting my innocence without regard for the consequences.
The cafeteria workers also reacted oddly. The older ladies who used to joke about finding me a spouse after my discharge now looked at me with mixed emotions. Some, who had heard from the political commissar’s wife about my situation, looked at me with sympathy and concern, while others regarded me as if I were a traitor.
But more painful than all the insults was the knowledge that I couldn’t help or comfort Young-ae, who had suffered and been humiliated, believing she was taken to the hospital.
After two months of being investigated and treated as a criminal, my fate was finally decided on April 21, 1992. After the morning work, the school principal arrived at the company in a car, looking for me.
“Company, attention! Comrade Colonel! The company is preparing for a training session. Head NCO, Master Sergeant (후보상사) Park Sang-il!” After I saluted, the principal approached me and said, “Come with me,” then led me to his car.
“I didn’t eat this morning so I could have breakfast with you. Let’s go eat together,” the principal said, ushering me into his car. Despite the restaurant being only 150-200 meters away, he insisted on driving me.
We arrived at a military restaurant where high officials and cadre members from the headquarters dine. The chief of staff was already there, and a lavish feast was laid out, apparently prepared the day before. However, the political commissar, Ahn Young-soo, was notably absent. I struggled to eat, my mind too troubled to enjoy the meal.
After we finished eating and stepped outside, the principal took out a cigarette and offered one to me. I felt a bit awkward and replied, “I have my own. I’ll use it.” I pulled out my cigarette and smoked quietly.
A little while later, the principal, speaking with a slight tremble in his voice, said, “Head NCO, I don’t know what’s going on. I heard from the political commissar yesterday, and he was very angry. There are also some strange rumors going around among the commanders.”
He wasn’t aware of the full story. It was only after my discharge that everyone at the school learned the incident involved a relationship between the political commissar’s daughter and me.
Pausing from smoking, the principal looked at me and said, “Head NCO, let Hyo-sung take over the company in the morning and come with me to the station. Actually, the headquarters issued your discharge yesterday afternoon. It will be officially delivered to your company commander and political instructor in the morning. You need to finish all handovers by 11 a.m. The train leaves at 2 p.m., so make sure everything is done by then. See you later. You’ve done a great job.”
I couldn’t hold back my tears. I was grateful to him and the chief of staff for sharing one last meal with me. I had anticipated some form of punishment, perhaps a demotion, but being completely discharged from the military felt like a severe blow.
I was overwhelmed with shame and guilt, watching everything I’d built over a decade—through strict discipline and rigorous service—crumble so suddenly.
Back in my office, I quickly wrote a letter and sent a day-duty NCO to find Han Gwang-won, the head NCO of the 8th company. No one knew about my discharge yet.
Gwang-won arrived within minutes. I said to him, “Gwang-won, please deliver this letter to Young-ae right away. I don’t have time to explain now. I’ll fill you in when you return.” I handed him the letter, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me.
When I returned to the company, I found the company commander, the political instructor, and the platoon commanders all waiting for me. They looked serious and asked, “What’s going on, Head NCO? Why are you being discharged?”
I forced a smile and asked them not to make a fuss. I requested that they gather the entire company in the education room after the second period. Thankfully, no outdoor training was scheduled for that day. The company commander and the political instructor were still in shock, unable to speak.
After a pause, the company commander instructed the platoon commanders, “Listen up, all platoon commanders. Skip the second class today. Finish the first class quickly and assemble everyone in the education room. Head NCO has something to tell the boys.”
“Ha, they’ll be shocked to hear that the Head NCO is leaving!” The platoon leaders expressed their concern more for the soldiers’ reaction than for me. I appreciated their sympathy and understood their feelings.
I was deeply worried about the 120 company soldiers and non-commissioned officers. I knew that my successor would manage the company well, but it pained me to think about all the progress we had made—from being a troubled unit to becoming a model company. The dedication and sweat of the commanders, NCOs, and soldiers who had worked so hard went through my mind like a flash.
During the first period, I handed over all documents to Kim Hyo-sung, the sub-platoon leader of the 1st platoon, and made sure to transfer all the clothing, bedding, and essentials for the soldiers.
At the end, I took out my most treasured wooden box and opened it with my key. Hyo-sung’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw the contents. “Comrade Head NCO, what kind of money is this?” he asked. I myself was unsure of the exact amount, but it was a significant sum.
The money I had saved was substantial. As a light infantry soldier, my monthly salary was over 40 won, while most other soldiers and NCOs received only 2 won. This money was not just my savings from military service; it also included contributions from the hundreds of trainees who graduated from the school during my time. They gave me this money as a token of appreciation for my hard work, advising me to use it when I was discharged and returned to civilian life.
If they had been in their original base, they would have made time to sneak out and spent the money on the alcohol and snacks for themselves. However, even if they had money for six months, the trainees could not spend it because they were in an educational institution installed on a 2-meter-high concrete wall with triple-barbed wire fence. That is why they had the money in hand.
Many trainees had left their salaries with me, except for those who resented my strict demands and intense training. About 50-60% of them did so upon their departure. I was deeply grateful at the time, and I remain so now. Money, whether in capitalist or socialist societies, plays a crucial role in every aspect of life.
The amount was dozens of times more than my total salary over ten years as a soldier and head NCO. I instructed him to use this money to help address medical issues among the company soldiers.
In North Korea at the time, diseases like typhoid, tuberculosis, and scabies were common, especially among those living in collective accommodations. By 1991, these diseases were spreading more aggressively.
The military clinic had some medications, but foreign drugs were often more effective, and these had to be bought privately. The amount of money I had could cover the cost of treating the entire company of 120 soldiers for over a year, and with careful management, it could last up to two years.
Most of this money was from donations by trainees who had left, with my salary being a minor part. Though it felt so precious while collecting every penny, handing over the entire sum felt like lifting a significant burden.
I took great care to hide the money I had saved up over the years. During occasional inspections of the warehouse of head NCOs, items like unregulated clothing, high-end cigarettes not provided by the military, or prohibited alcohol were often discovered and confiscated. To avoid any trouble, I hid the money box high up in the closet’s cladding, keeping it safe and secret. The total amount I had collected could have bought a decent house at that time, if not the finest one.
Before I left, I instructed Hyo-sung several times to use the money solely for treating the illnesses of the company soldiers. I emphasized, “I’ve already informed the company commander and political instructor about this, but you’ll be in charge of the company in my place, so make sure to use it effectively.” In truth, I had not told either the company commander or the political instructor about the money.
When I visited the base in Pyongyang a month after my discharge, I learned that Hyo-sung had honestly reported back to the company with the money I had left with him. The volume was so great that the bills filled two thirds of a military backpack. I later heard that thanks to the money, my company treated the illnesses of the soldiers more effectively than other companies did. Looking back, the decision of donating the money to the company was far more precious than the value of my decade-long military service.
After taking a smoke break outside, I gathered the soldiers in the education room following the first period. Facing them, I struggled to find the right words. I don’t recall exactly what I said during that second period, but it was a deeply emotional moment for everyone. Both the soldiers and I were in tears, and some even went so far as to file complaints with the company and the political department, pleading for my discharge to be postponed until after their graduation. They argued that, even if it was a party order, I should remain with them at least until they completed their training.
After about an hour of emotional turmoil, the commanders intervened to calm everyone down. Eventually, the soldiers had to leave for their third period infantry strategy class, and I was able to leave the room.
Kwang-won, who had been tasked with delivering my letter to Jin Young-ae, was waiting for me when I finished with the soldiers. By then, he knew about my discharge and what had transpired. He had met Young-ae as she was leaving for work and handed her the letter. Upon reading it, she ran back home in tears.
The commotion at Young-ae’s house was significant. Her father, Jin Myung-hwan, who had just left for work, was quickly informed about the situation, and Young-ae was unable to go to her job at the tailor’s shop.
In the letter, I expressed my deep gratitude and regret. I asked Young-ae not to forgive me for the pain and shame I had caused by leaving without proper compensation. I urged her to find a good man and live a happy life, knowing that I could no longer be a part of her future.
After Kwang-won spread the news, many of my friends gathered at the base. Chang-seop, the 3rd platoon commander who had gone to my house for his wedding, was so overwhelmed by the news that he couldn’t find the words to speak. He quickly entrusted his platoon to the 4th platoon commander, went home, and had his wife prepare food for my train journey.
Even those head NCOs, usually stoic and unflappable, were visibly shaken. Their eyes were filled with tears as they grappled with the reality of my departure. It seemed like a grim reminder that they might one day face a similar fate.
Everyone was deeply affected, their conversations subdued and punctuated by the endless filling of cigarette butts in the ashtray. Some friends were particularly concerned about my ‘discharge backpack.’
The discharge backpack is a standard kit that soldiers take with them upon leaving the military. It typically includes military uniforms, shoes, blankets, white cloths, and other essential items. While it was illegal to take military supplies into civilian life, it was a common practice for soldiers to leave with these items due to their value and usefulness in society.
Soldiers who were less meticulous might end up going home in their old, well-worn uniforms, but these are the conscientious sldiers. Many soldiers would take new uniforms and equipment from the newcomers to their squad or platoon, leaving behind their old, worn-out gear.
To everyone concerned about my discharge backpack, I said, “Thank you all, but I am okay with what I am wearing now. All I need is the food I would need while on the train. Let’s stop worrying about me and let us laugh now.”
We spent a long time reminiscing about hometowns, each other’s discharge timings and university prospects. At 11 a.m., the principal who is also the regimental commander arrived with his driver, who was from Yanggang Province, just like me. I can’t remember whether his name was Cholsu or Gwangsu, but I remember his flashing gold tooth when he smiled.
The drive to Pyongyang Station took about an hour. When we arrived, the station gate was already open. I said my farewells to the cadre members who came to see me off and went through the ticket gate with the accompanying officer, a colonel, from the rank department.
As I was walking toward the train, a strange sound of sobbing made me turn my head reflexively. My heart sank when I saw Young-ae crying uncontrollably, behind the iron bars next to the luggage. Her father stood behind her also in tears.
After a pause, I approached them. The short distance made me out of breath as if it were a big hill. The accompanying officer, sensing what was going on, stopped at a distance, allowing me privacy.
Since only those with a train ticket could pass through the gate, Young-ae and her father had to wait outside, in a place where they could still see me. I struggled to find the right words, overwhelmed by guilt and shame. I offered my apologies, wished her well and turned away so as not to show my tears that were pouring out.
Climbing aboard the train, I felt like I was fleeing from the heart-wrenching scene outside. I found a seat in a car where the view was obscured, and tried to collect myself. The train’s whistles sounded, and with a gradual lurch, it began its journey. Hoping to catch the sight of Pyongyang one last time, I stepped outside to the boarding ramp. As I gazed out, I was very startled.
To my shock, even after 20-30 minutes, she was still there, crying deeply. She wiped her tears with one hand while waving at me with the other. The sight pierced my heart.There were two moments in my life when I felt the urge to jump from the moving train and end it all. One of the moments was then. But I remained standing on the boarding ramp until the train passed through West Pyongyang, Seopo, and Ganli stations. As we neared Pyongsong after about two hours from the departure, I eventually returned to my seat.
As I settled back into my seat, a lady and an elderly man across from me started a conversation with the accompanying officer. They commented on my appearance, asking if I was on my way to a commendation vacation or heading to a university. “He looks splendid,” they said. Their words were a stark contrast to the sadness I felt inside.
Trying to mask my deep sorrow, I managed a smile and addressed them. “How far are you traveling? Would you like a drink? It can keep you from boredom and help pass the time.” I then reached into the backpack that Chang-seop’s wife had packed for me and pulled out some food and drink.
I offered them a drink and chatted with them as the train continued its journey. I offered the drink mainly to dull my own feelings of resentment. I opened bottle after bottle—one, two, three, four in total. The old man and the accompanying officer each had a half-bottle before they gave up, leaving me to drink the rest.
Instead of feeling drunk, I found myself becoming more sober, which only intensified my sense of despair.
After a while, I turned to the officer beside me and asked, “Comrade Colonel, you mentioned you’re on a business trip to Hyesan. What’s the occasion? Are you originally from Hyesan?”
He looked at me and replied, “Songhu-dong, Hyesan is my hometown. I’m going because my parents are celebrating their 70th birthdays. It’s been years since I last saw them.”
He seemed to be hiding something, wary of me, and trying to curry favor. My curiosity about his true motives grew, but since he was an officer traveling with me to Hyesan and held my discharge card, I decided to bide my time and wait to uncover the truth.
Whenever armed censors came to check identities, he would discreetly show my discharge card on my behalf. Feeling a bit guilty, I offered to handle the card myself from a certain point onward so that he could rest without being disturbed by the checks. However, he insisted on keeping it and continued to manage it himself.
He explained that he was ordered by the unit to manage my discharge card due to his seniority. He promised to hand it over once we reached Hyesan, and though I agreed, his insistence on holding the card raised my suspicions.
Even though the military hierarchy demands absolute obedience, I was now discharged, and the card was my personal property, not his. These thoughts churned in my mind as the train reached Hamheung Station, a major stop halfway between Pyongyang and Hyesan.
Hamheung Station was bustling, with passengers stretching their legs and getting fresh air after the long journey. The 30-minute stop provided a brief respite, and passengers took the opportunity to get out and clear their heads.
The officer suggested that we step outside for some fresh air, but I said no, mentioning that I had a headache. The other passengers across from me also got off the train, leaving me alone. I reached up and took his bag down from the overhead storage. When I opened it, I found a sealed envelope. It looked like it contained important documents.
Thinking the documents might be related to me, I wanted to open the envelope to check. But I held back and hid it inside my jacket instead. After a while, the officer came back to his seat.
I decided to speak up. “Comrade Colonel, is there something you’re not telling me? We’re from the same hometown, so it’s better to clear up any misunderstandings now. That way, things won’t be awkward if we meet again in the future.”
After a long pause, he finally responded, “Head NCO, you know we have no choice but to follow orders from our superiors. Please understand.” He was firm about not sharing anything.
I was furious and nearly lost control. I showed him the Party membership card bag I wore on my chest. The bag, carefully crafted with fine nylon threads and decorated with a red plate reading “Workers’ Party of Korea” in yellow, was a gift from Young-ae. I said, “I’ve been a Party member for a while now. You’re a Party member too, aren’t you? So, tell me, why won’t you give me my discharge card?” Then, I pulled out the envelope I had taken from his bag and shook it in front of him.
The colonel was startled by my action and grabbed my hand tightly. He said, “I’m sorry, Head NCO. Have you already seen the documents? It was so hard for me to come this far without being able to tell you.” He suddenly seemed desperate, acting like someone who had done something wrong. The passengers across from us looked puzzled, blinking in confusion at the scene unfolding before them.
Even though I knew deep down that he wasn’t to blame, my emotions were already running high. “Comrade Colonel, I have my suspicions. Please, just be honest with me. What are these documents about? If you don’t answer, I’ll tear them up and throw them in the train toilet.”
At that, he finally took out my discharge card from the upper pocket of his military uniform and showed it to me. The moment I saw the card, I wasn’t just surprised—I felt like I was losing my senses. It wasn’t a normal discharge card for term expiration; it was a dishonorable discharge card. And my rank wasn’t Head NCO—it was listed as soldier, the lowest rank.
Hatred for Ahn Young-soo, the political commissar and director of the Defense Department, surged within me. I managed to suppress my anger and asked again, “What’s in that envelope, then?”
“Didn’t you already open it, Head NCO?” His response left me feeling bitter and disgusted, and I threw the envelope back into his hand.
It all became clear—Political Commissar Ahn had orchestrated this behind closed doors. He knew that if I found out I’d been demoted to a soldier, I would surely file a complaint with our superiors, which would have ruined his plan. So, he hurriedly submitted my discharge request to the command’s rank department through his own channels and got it approved.
Punishments in the North Korean military range from a warning at a meeting or a year of military labor training to more severe consequences like dishonorable discharge or, in rare cases, execution by gunshot. In the end, I received the second-strongest punishment—just one step away from death.
One unusual thing was that they didn’t take away my Party membership. Normally, for serious crimes like leaking state and military secrets, destroying military supplies, or causing massive harm to lives and property, a dishonorable discharge is always accompanied by the removal of political status. As I grappled with this strange situation, I found some comfort in knowing that the card still represented my past commitment and integrity. Despite the pain and humiliation of my discharge, the card symbolized that I hadn’t been completely defeated. It gave me a glimmer of hope and a sense of continuity as I prepared to rebuild my life.
The colonel then continued without prompting, “The documents in that envelope are the assessment of your Party activities, which will be submitted to the Hyesan City Party Committee, and the paperwork for the Military Mobilization Department of Yanggang Province to assign you to a workplace after discharge. If you want to check, I’ll break the seal for you. Would you like to see? I’m ready to face some punishment, though it wouldn’t be too severe.” He offered to tear it open immediately if I agreed.
I told him there was no need to open the envelope—I could guess the contents. I appreciated his offer but asked him to keep the documents. He also suggested that he keep my discharge card himself for the remainder of the train ride lest I need not present the embarrassing discharge card to the sensor. I was grateful for his thoughtfulness.
He then mentioned that Hyesan was indeed his hometown, but both of his parents had already passed away.
That he had to lie to me against his will was probably also quite torturous. For the rest of the trip, I made a conscious effort to treat him with kindness. I even invited him to stay at my house for a few days, considering he had no parents in Hyesan. I asked him not to inform my family about the dishonorable discharge, fearing that the shock would be too much for them.
He stayed just one night, but he kept his promise. My family remained unaware of my discharge status.
As soon as we arrived in Hyesan, the colonel and I went straight to the City Party Committee and the Provincial Military Mobilization Department.
Choi Moon-sik, the registration director at the Provincial Military Mobilization Department, looked at the document and then at me repeatedly. “You served in a prestigious unit guarding the Supreme Leader and the General,” he said. “You were even photographed with the Leaders at the head NCO conference. How is it possible that you’re under dishonorable discharge?”
Neither the colonel nor I had an answer to this question.
The director, clearly pitying my situation, said, “I don’t understand what’s happened, but you’ll need to return tomorrow. You’ll receive your assignment letter then.” With my head bowed in shame and humiliation, I walked toward the City Party Committee.
A female instructor in her mid-40s at the City Party Member Registration Department greeted us. She looked over the documents and said, “Comrade Colonel, it states here that he is a dishonorably discharged soldier. Aren’t such individuals expelled from the Party? Why is it that a ‘culprit’ still holds Party membership and has submitted both the Party transfer certificate and Party life assessment?”
Once again, neither the colonel nor I could provide an answer.
Finally, the colonel spoke on my behalf. “Comrade Instructor, he has been discharged due to issues that arose in his unit, which were not his fault. He has made significant contributions to the Party and his unit over the years, demonstrating a strong sense of Party loyalty and organizational commitment. Please understand that the situation in the unit is complex and difficult to explain further.”
She seemed convinced by the colonel’s explanation and instructed me to visit the provincial Party member registration department the next day, where my documents would be transferred.
At the time, I didn’t understand why my Party documents were being sent to the provincial Party committee, given that the city Party committee was typically responsible for managing the documents of city residents.
In the evening, the colonel and I arrived at my long-awaited home. The reunion with my parents, which I had looked forward to for a decade, was tinged with mixed emotions—both happiness and anxiety. I managed to smile, but inside, I was burdened by the grim prospect of my future.
The six miniature decorations on my left chest, under the Kim Il Sung’s facial badge, spoke volumes about my service and achievements. But the pride for my parents and brothers doubled when I showed them the Party membership card I was wearing on my chest in front of the gathered villagers.
When asked why I had returned home so suddenly and without prior notice, I simply said I had come early because I missed my family. My explanation was accepted without further questions.
Many soldiers return home after a decade of service without being able to join the Party, but I had not only secured my Party membership but also achieved the rank of Special Sergeant, the highest rank among soldiers and non-commissioned officers.
My father, admiring the military decorations on my chest, said, “Sangil, you’ve already earned all the medals needed for a military pension. Your six medals are even more prestigious than mine.”
The welcoming party, filled with lively chatter and laughter, went on until past midnight. It only ended when my father finally urged the colonel to go to bed, acknowledging his long journey.
As I tried to sleep next to the colonel, I was overwhelmed with shame and pain. The celebration felt more like sitting on a bed of thorns. My first night back home dragged on, and Young-ae and Pyongyang came to mind. I wondered what the future held for me. After ten years of service, was this all there was?