Somewhere Inside Page 7

  “You will stay here and rest,” he instructed. “Use the bathroom to wash up. If you need anything, ask one of these girls. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied in Mandarin. The two men left the room, leaving the two women guards to watch over me.

  In the bathroom, I looked in the mirror for the first time in days. I could barely recognize myself. I was pale and gaunt, my right eye was black-and-blue, and my jaw was still swollen. A bandage was wrapped around my head covering the gash. I peered down at the neck of my turtleneck sweater and began picking off bits of dried blood that were stuck there.

  “Who are you?” I whispered to myself. “How could you let this happen?”

  It had been nearly a week since I’d spoken with Iain. And about ten days since my last Skype conversation with Lisa. Rarely would a day go by without my speaking to at least one of them. I’d never felt more alone or confused.

  Iain and I met twelve years ago when we were both in college. We had mutual friends who were all going to a concert, and a group of us gathered at Iain’s apartment before heading to the Shrine Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles. I literally bounced into Iain while dancing to the electronic beat of the Chemical Brothers, the British duo that helped popularize the electronic dance movement in the 1990s. While we didn’t say much to each other in the blaring hall, I felt an instant connection between us. The next day I decided to get hold of Iain’s telephone number and, at the urging of my roommates, rang him up. When he answered, I was at a loss for words. “Um, hi. This is Laura. I met you last night at the concert. I think I left my driver’s license at your apartment,” I said nervously, all the while holding my license in my hand. We ended up talking for an hour. A week later, Iain called me and asked me out to dinner and a movie. It wasn’t until our one-year anniversary that I told him I’d had my license all along.

  Iain was my first serious boyfriend and the only person I felt important enough to introduce to my family. I wanted him to meet Lisa. She was my best friend, and her opinion meant more to me than anyone else’s. I was afraid that she might disapprove of our age difference—Iain was ten years older than me and working on his second master’s degree. Anytime I mentioned him, she skeptically brought up his age, even though she had dated plenty of older guys. But I knew she was just being my protective big sister. Lisa and I consulted each other about practically everything. If I didn’t like someone she was dating, she usually ended the relationship soon after. I didn’t want that to happen with Iain. Fortunately, she and Iain got along from the start. Over the years they’d become like brother and sister. Iain, who is Australian-British, doesn’t have any family in the United States and my family quickly adopted him as their own. At this confusing, scary time, there was some consolation in knowing that he would be with my family and not alone.

  I made my way to the bed, sat up against the wall, and hugged my legs against my chest to provide extra warmth. It was so cold in the room that I could see my breath. But the blanket beneath me felt unusually warm. I reached my hand inside the yellow comforter and felt the heat from an electric blanket. I scrambled to get under the covers. Just as I was getting warmed up, the electricity went out. I wrapped the blanket around me tightly, not wanting to let any of the heat get away.

  Compared with the cell I’d been in before at the border, this room felt spacious. I was grateful to be lying in a bed and to have an adjoining bathroom. And though the guards watching my every move seemed cold and intimidating, I was thankful to have some human presence.

  I poked my head out from beneath the covers and shifted my eyes over to the guards’ area. Their room was connected to mine by a pair of folding doors, which were always left open so that the guards could look in at any time. Their quarters contained two couches, a desk, a small coffee table, a bookshelf with a collection of Communist teachings, and a television set. There was also a tall, freestanding heater and air-conditioning unit, which was not working.

  The two guards were sitting and reading quietly. I hadn’t encountered or seen anyone like them in North Korea. There was a casualness to their attire. They both had on makeup and appeared to be well groomed. Min-Jin, the older guard, who seemed to be the one in charge, appeared to be in her late twenties. She wore black slacks, black heels, a red turtleneck sweater, and a puffy black trench coat with faux fur trim around the hood. Her hair was pulled back neatly in a ponytail. Her red sweater was the first clothing I’d seen that wasn’t a dark shade or army green. Kyung-Hee, the younger guard, had a round baby face. She had short straight hair and wore black slacks, sneakers, and a light-colored jacket. Every now and again I sensed her looking over at me curiously. I decided I’d try to communicate with them.

  I crawled out of bed and took a few steps toward the room where they were seated. I tried to remember the Korean phrases Euna had taught me.

  “Good morning,” I said, stuttering as I tried to put the words together. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Korean. Do you speak English?”

  “What do you want?” Min-Jin replied in broken English and in an arrogant tone.

  “Oh, you can speak English,” I responded, smiling in relief. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you know what is happening with me? Is someone going to come see me?”

  “Just wait,” she replied harshly.

  Kyung-Hee shot me a stony glare. I went back to the bed and buried myself inside the covers.

  I was awakened several times during the night by the dog that was growling outside. I couldn’t make out any other sounds. I didn’t know if I was in the capital city, in the outskirts, or somewhere else entirely. There were windows in both rooms, but the curtains remained closed. I was told not to step anywhere near the windows.

  The next morning I was brought into the guards’ area and told to remain standing while several authorities crowded into the room. A photographer and videographer set up their equipment and began taking pictures. The bulldog-faced official I’d met the day before entered the room and sat at the desk. In a booming voice, he began reading from a document in Korean. A man standing to my right translated what he was saying. But he wasn’t translating into English—instead he was speaking in Mandarin. I interrupted him and explained that I didn’t understand what he was saying. This seemed to confuse everyone in the room. Whatever official announcement they were making was not going as planned. I stared at the floor, nervously waiting to be told what he was saying. I could sense from his tone that he wasn’t going to tell me I’d just won a ticket back home.

  The photographer kept snapping pictures of me, while various authorities consulted with one another in hushed voices. Finally they called over Min-Jin, the female guard who spoke some English. Until this point, she’d seemed confident, and had an almost superior air. But now that she was being asked to perform, she suddenly became scared and vulnerable.

  Once again the official began his speech, with Min-Jin translating. He said that journalists have a duty to uphold the truth, to report on stories about injustice. Then he said: “You were trying to distort the truth and spread falsehoods about the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea [DPRK]. You are not a good journalist.”

  I was surprised that his denouncement was devoted to my job as a journalist. He actually said very little about stepping into North Korean territory. I wondered how much they knew about the report we’d been working on.

  “I’m very, very sorry,” I responded, in tears.

  “If you confess your crimes, openly and frankly, and express regret for your actions, there may be forgiveness,” the man continued. “However, if you are not honest and frank, there will be punishment. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I responded dejectedly.

  “Speak up!” the man ordered.

  “Yes, sir!” I loudly proclaimed. “I understand.”

  Then they all filed out of the room, and I was left there with the two female guards.

  “Go back to your room,” Min-Jin instructed. “Someone will come to se
e you later.”

  “Thank you for translating,” I said. “You did a very good job.” Her lips curved into a slight smile. I could tell she appreciated the compliment.

  I was relieved that I hadn’t been given my death sentence and decided that the mention of forgiveness was a positive sign. But the word punishment echoed in my mind. What sort of punishment could I be facing? I hoped a confession and an apology would be enough to win back my freedom.

  A few hours later I was ordered back into the guards’ room. A man entered carrying a red notebook. He introduced himself as my investigator, Mr. Yee. I bowed to him respectfully, and he motioned for me to sit down. He was dressed in the standard black suit, with a pin showing the founding leader, Kim Il Sung, on his chest. His hair was well groomed, and he smelled of fresh soap. He looked to be in his late forties. He had a kindness in his eyes that contradicted his stern demeanor.

  He sat down at the desk, lit up a cigarette, and let out a few puffs while looking me over. Using Min-Jin to translate, he explained, “I will be handling your investigation. I will visit you every day, and I expect you to cooperate fully with my investigation. I am in charge of you, so anything you need or any questions you have, you can ask me.”

  Min-Jin’s English was so elementary that I had to ask her to repeat herself several times before I fully understood what the investigator was saying. Mr. Yee handed me a few pieces of paper and told me to write down my education, career, and family history, with the ages of my immediate and extended family, including aunts, uncles, cousins, and their spouses. He exited the room, leaving Min-Jin to instruct me.

  I was confronted again with the dilemma about describing what Lisa did for a living. I figured some government workers might have Internet access here in Pyongyang and that they could easily discover the work Lisa had done in North Korea. I kept remembering the words from that morning—forgiveness and punishment—so I decided to be honest. Next to Lisa’s name, I wrote: “Freelance Correspondent.” However, I did not disclose that Lisa was currently working for The Oprah Winfrey Show, or that previously she had worked for National Geographic Television, CNN, and The View.

  I was also worried about saying what my father’s job had been before he retired. My dad was once a civil service employee for the U.S. Air Force at McClellan Air Force Base in Sacramento. He’d been sent to Vietnam during the war to conduct safety of flight inspections on aircraft. I didn’t want to tie my family to the U.S. military in any way, thinking this might further incense the North Korean authorities. “Retired,” I wrote next to his name. I purposely misspelled it “McClelan,” leaving out an l, and I didn’t say it was an air force base.

  Mr. Yee returned, this time followed by another man, Mr. Baek, who introduced himself as a university professor who had been assigned to be the investigation’s official translator. Mr. Baek wore a short-sleeved, checked shirt and slacks. I liked him the minute I saw him. He had a round, friendly face with spiky salt-and-pepper hair. It was the first time I’d seen a man wearing anything but the traditional Communist garb. His English was impeccable. Mr. Yee looked over the papers I had just filled out about my family and occupation.

  “You are a journalist working for Current TV, is that correct?” he asked speaking through Mr. Baek.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your husband. What does he do?”

  “He works in the finance industry. He manages money.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  I then went into a detailed explanation of Iain’s profession, something in which Mr. Yee seemed to take great interest considering that the free market does not exist in North Korean society. When translating, Mr. Baek mimicked Mr. Yee’s tone with such precision that it felt as if I was speaking directly to the official without the aid of another person.

  When Mr. Yee left the room for a brief moment, I felt comfortable enough to start talking to the translator, Mr. Baek.

  “Sir, do you know what is happening, what this process will be like?” I inquired.

  “I don’t know a thing,” he replied. “I was just informed today that I would be translating for this investigation. Beyond that, I don’t know a thing.”

  “Do you know why I’m here? Do you know what I’ve done?” I was trying to see if the authorities knew more about the story Euna, Mitch, and I were working on than we’d said.

  “I haven’t a clue,” he answered.

  “You speak English so well,” I added. “Are you from somewhere else, like Singapore?” I thought I’d picked up on a slight Singaporean accent.

  “I’m from North Korea,” he replied, smiling. “I work in the international affairs department at the university. It’s my job to speak English well.”

  “Well, I’m very glad to meet you,” I said. “It has been so hard to communicate with anyone here, and it’s a relief to speak with someone who I know understands what I’m saying.” He acknowledged my compliment by nodding, but his face was totally expressionless.

  The interrogator, Mr. Yee, returned and started questioning me about what we had been doing before our arrest. I began with the same explanation I’d rehearsed—that we were working on a story about the border region. Before I could finish my sentence, Mr. Yee jumped in.

  “We know you were working on a story about defectors,” he said. “Let me add that this is an investigation, and if you are not completely frank with us, you could face the worst consequences!”

  I quivered in fear, while at the same time I was utterly flustered.

  Had Euna already confessed about our documentary? Were the North Koreans getting intelligence from the Chinese, who had perhaps detained Mitch? Regardless of where they were getting their information, I knew what I had to say.

  “Yes, we were working on a story about defectors,” I began. “We’d interviewed various people who had left North Korea about why they left.”

  “Why did you cross the border into North Korea?” Mr. Yee asked.

  “We wanted to film on the river to show where defectors are crossing. We never meant to enter your country,” I explained. “But the guide we had hired to help us walked across to the other side and motioned for us to follow, which we did. We returned back to China after taking only a few steps onto the soil. We didn’t mean any harm. But I know that it was wrong. And I’m very, very sorry.”

  Mr. Yee took another puff of his cigarette, pressed the butt into an ashtray, and got up from the desk.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said coldly and left the room.

  Again I was alone with Mr. Baek. Desperately wanting someone to confide in, I told him how scared I was and then waited to see if he would reply.

  “It is a very bad time to be here,” he said in perfect English. “Things are quite tense between North Korea and the U.S.”

  “I truly never planned on crossing the border,” I explained.

  “Well, I really hope everything works out and that you can go home,” he said sympathetically.

  “I hope so too,” I replied. I felt grateful to have come in contact with Mr. Baek. I was glad he would be serving as my official translator for the investigation.

  The day’s session ended with Mr. Yee instructing me to write down every aspect of what we had filmed prior to our arrest. He handed me several sheets of paper, and he and Mr. Baek then left the room.

  LISA

  OUR PARENTS SHOULD HAVE never been together in the first place. He was a gruff man, happiest when he was fishing or hunting with the guys. She was distractingly beautiful but insecure and didn’t have many friends because she had just arrived from Taiwan and knew no one in the United States other than her sister.

  Our father, Doug Ling, came from highly educated parents who met in Hong Kong in the 1930s. His father, H.T. Ling, was part of an elite group of Chinese students who were given permission by the government to attend university in the United States in 1920. After receiving an undergraduate degree from New York University and an MBA from the University of Colorado,
H.T. was recalled to China to assist in the war effort when the Japanese invaded Manchuria in 1931. Doug’s mother, Lien, was the daughter of missionaries in Malaysia. When she was a teenager, she went to live in Hong Kong and earned a degree in classical music from the London School of Music program there. Lien was an unusually well-educated, well-spoken woman with a very strong voice and opinions. This impressed H.T., who was doing his compulsory military service in Hong Kong while Lien was teaching piano there. They married, had two children, and lived in the British colony until they emigrated to the United States in 1948, when Doug was eleven years old.

  The Lings ended up in a small suburb outside of Sacramento, California, called Carmichael, where a few of their relatives owned a Chinese restaurant called Sun Ar. They soon learned that the locals weren’t exactly friendly toward “Orientals.” Even with their impressive degrees and perfectly spoken British English, H.T. and Lien had tremendous difficulty finding jobs that were commensurate with their levels of education. And it didn’t help that H.T., who was descended from a long line of Chinese scholars and government officials, was a bit arrogant and refused to do anything beneath his skill set. He spent a great many years, with little success, trying to convince companies in Sacramento to hire a Chinese man for a management-level position.

  The responsibility for taking care of the family fell on Lien and young Doug. At first they were unable to get any locals to rent them a home, but eventually they were permitted to live behind someone’s main house in a converted chicken coop. With the little money they had, the family took over the restaurant Sun Ar. Lien taught piano in the mornings and cooked in the restaurant at night. Doug worked slavishly in the kitchen, seven days a week. He reported to the restaurant right after school ended, which meant that he never went to a high school football game; he never went to a prom. To avoid being teased by the kids in his blue-collar community, he developed a sharp wit and a foul mouth. Somehow, making fuck, goddamn, and shit a regular part of his speech allowed him to fit in better, even if it shocked and dismayed his highfalutin parents. He could make his friends laugh, particularly when he’d deride other races, including his own. He laughed when his classmates referred to him as “Chinaman,” even though it made him seethe inside.