Tag: Misun’s Life

My father, being the oldest among his siblings, had the most children, which drew special attention from his brothers and sisters. This attention was heightened by the fact that we lived far away from Pyongyang. Although we were comparatively better off than others in our region, our finances were always a source of difficulty.

My uncles and aunt had diverse professions. The eldest was an engineer at an insulating materials factory, the second worked as a security guard, the third was a scientist, and the fourth was an army officer who held a high rank and had received prestigious honors. Unfortunately, all of them have since passed away, leaving behind a legacy of admiration.

My aunt, my brother’s only sister, married an alumnus of the late leader Kim Jong Il, and their union brought them significant benefits. She was a renowned performer in the Moranbong Band (모란봉악단) and even had her picture taken arm in arm with Kim Il Sung.

The offspring of my father’s siblings have now reached old age and have grandchildren of their own. I met them only during my childhood, and I probably wouldn’t recognize them now. We lost contact with each other as life became increasingly challenging in North Korea.

My own siblings, with whom I grew up playing and laughing, are either advanced in age or have passed away. My youngest older brother died just a year after my mother’s passing. My sister, who married an army officer from the same base as my late husband, used to lead a happy life with her children. Now, she is serving a life sentence at Gaechon Concentration Camp along with others who watched a South Korean show together and were caught. My youngest brother lives a rootless life in my hometown. The thought of my siblings brings me heartache.

My father’s siblings, once known for their strong brotherly ties, have all passed away, leaving their children to struggle to make a living. My own siblings, who once enjoyed a content life, have grown gray-haired and financially strained, living day to day with no other choice.

North Korea was not in such dire straits during my childhood or even during my singlehood. We were content with our regular rations and took pride in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, believing it to be the best country in the world. We were grateful and happy when we heard news about South Korea, thinking how fortunate we were to be born in North Korea rather than the South. We were educated that North Korea was the best, a people’s country to live in, and the one that the whole world envied. North Koreans, like frogs in a well, believed that their well was the best place to live, singing, “We have nothing to envy in this world” (세상에 부럼 없어라).

My father, who devoted his entire life to the nation with unwavering faith, expressed his concerns in his journal in the year before he passed away:

“I have dedicated my entire life to the nation, wholeheartedly loyal to the Leader and the Party. I raised and educated my children to follow the same path. But where is our nation heading? Why are people starving due to food shortages? Why is capitalism spreading, and merchants flooding the country? How did our nation reach this point? The entire population worked diligently for the nation and remained loyal. Why must our people endure this suffering?”

It was during the years when my father lamented the nation’s direction that North Koreans, who had once been patriotic and loyal to the Party, began leaving their homeland one by one, crossing the Aprok and Duman rivers.

I, too, said goodbye to my siblings and relatives, leaving behind the hometown where my parents and ancestors are buried. I left when life became unbearable after my husband, a uniformed guardian of the nation, passed away. It’s unfathomable that I can’t reunite with my siblings and relatives or revisit the place where I was born and raised, where my parents and ancestors rest.

My grandparents, who had traveled a long way from Pyongyang to see their eldest grandson, took their daughter-in-law and the newborn baby back to Pyongyang and nursed them for a year. My mother’s illness seemed to be more a result of the change in environment than the childbirth itself.

My grandparents were insistent that my father should produce another son from the Kumsan Kim family’s bloodline. There were no other descendants of the Kumsan Kim family clan apart from us, so my grandfather hoped for another son to continue the family lineage. My father was overjoyed when he learned of my conception. However, when the long-awaited child, me, was born, my father was once again on a business trip, as had often been the case. Upon his return, he learned from my oldest sister that the newborn baby was a girl. He entered the room where my mother and the baby lay, inquired about my mother’s well-being, and, without even casting a glance at the baby girl, pushed her aside with his foot before leaving the room. Because I was a girl, he did not prepare seaweed soup for my mother, nor did he buy her a slice of meat or a jar of honey. This bitter memory stayed with my mother, and she would often affectionately refer to my father as a “bad old codger.”

In later years, I procured 10 kilograms of native honey from my husband’s army base and presented it to my ailing father. I said, “Dad, I heard that you didn’t make seaweed soup for Mom, or get her meat or honey. Your daughter has brought you this much honey for your health.”  Both my mother and father laughed.

Despite my grandparents’ hopes for a son, my parents had another daughter after me. They decided to try one last time for a son, and that’s when my youngest brother was born. In the end, my parents had five daughters and two sons. They say that a mother with a large brood never has a peaceful day. It was true; my parents experienced numerous challenges and hardships while raising their seven children.

By the time my youngest brother was born, my oldest sister had graduated from high-level professional school (고등전문학교) and joined the army. The following year, my second sister also graduated from the same school and was assigned, along with her fellow graduates, to an automotive factory in Dokchon, South Pyongan Province. In 1970, during those times, middle school graduates were typically sent to work in coal mines, while technical school graduates were assigned to construction sites and machine factories – jobs that no one volunteered for. In North Korea, a high-level professional school education was equivalent to vocational training in South Korea.

Sungri Motor Plant (승리자동차공장) in Dokchon, South Pyongan Province, was an underground facility carved out of a mountain to protect it from potential bombardment. Even its entrance was designed as a cave. No parent, no matter how loyal to the Party, willingly sent their children to work in such grueling conditions. The North Korean government dispatched groups of graduates to such challenging work sites. My sister endured days filled with tears, resenting my father for not using his cadre position to exempt her from the group assignment. Eventually, at the age of 23, she escaped from that place through an arranged marriage with her current husband, a man for whom she felt little affection.

My mother dearly missed her first-born daughter, and she traded a sewing machine for a wristwatch, a rare luxury at the time. She then made the journey to Chongjin, where my sister was stationed in the army. My mother was determined to place that wristwatch on her daughter’s wrist.

Because of the significant age gap between my two older sisters and me, I have few memories of them during my childhood. What I do recall are moments of laughter, playfulness, and occasional sibling quarrels with my third sister, older brother, and two younger siblings.

During the 1970s and 1980s, North Korea was in better economic shape compared to its southern counterpart. Stores were well-stocked with meat, fish, fruits, and vegetables. Food distribution occurred every other week at designated stations, and the government also provided firewood and coal.

However, despite the food rations, many North Koreans of that time still struggled financially, as their monthly salaries were quite meager. While today’s challenge may be a shortage of goods, back then, many people simply didn’t have the money to afford these goods.

Even in my household, with my father managing a large factory and my mother working as well, money was always in short supply due to the needs of our large family. My older sisters had to stay at home and care for the younger siblings because we couldn’t even afford the 10 won needed to attend school-organized movie viewings. In the 1960s, a 10-won coin was equivalent to 3 kilograms of rice. Rice was relatively inexpensive, but the cost of cultural activities and goods was high.

My father’s brothers, living in Pyongyang and its vicinity, were aware of the challenges we faced. Whenever my father went on a business trip, they would send us nice clothes, expensive candies, and snacks that were rare in our province.