Chapter 4
Crime and Punishment in North Korea
It is well-known that the DPRK operates prison camps that can rival in cruelty anything the twentieth century could offer. The penal system of North Korea is designed and operated in such a manner as to make the cost of challenging the regime intolerably high. One indirect consequence of this comprehensive harshness is that it becomes difficult for any observer to discuss the DPRK’s system for maintaining order in anything approaching a purely descriptive, clear-eyed fashion. The authors will, however, try their best.
The DPRK’s denial of the existence of prison camps, torture, and abuse also complicates matters. In piecing together an overview of how North Korea’s penal system actually works, one is inevitably going to be reliant on testimony from defectors (including former prisoners and former guards),1 and the off-the-record words of the rare North Korean official brave enough to discuss it with outsiders. One cannot see the prison camps for oneself (except from a great distance via Google Earth), and one can certainly not access reliable statistics about them.
It is often said that 200,000 people reside in North Korean prison camps. This figure, however, is highly likely to be inclusive of those incarcerated in more “normal” institutions, for the kind of crimes that also exist anywhere in the world—theft, murder, and so on. More plausible estimates suggest that there are around 70,000 people imprisoned for conventional crimes, and between 80,000–120,000 political prisoners. Despite this, all North Korean adults know of the political prison camps, and though they do not necessarily know exactly what goes on in them, they do fear them. Their role in maintaining control is thus hard to overstate.
Non-political Crime
As noted above, North Korea does have “normal” criminals. In every society, there exist young people who fall into drug addiction and petty crime; there are those who commit fraud; there are those who kill their lovers in crimes of passion; and there are those who scribble graffiti on walls. In North Korea, perpetrators of such acts are dealt with by a justice system that is extremely harsh, but not completely exceptional, by the standards of a poor and undemocratic country.
The incidence of standard crimes like stealing has exploded since the famine of the 1990s, going hand-in-hand with the rise of corruption and general decline in social trust. Bicycle theft, for instance, is now so common that residents of apartment buildings keep their bikes indoors at night. Furthermore, the current era of conspicuous consumption and huge inequality is fueling a boom in the theft of that must-have status symbol, the cell phone.
If one is suspected of stealing a phone, one will come up against the Ministry of People’s Security (MPS). The MPS employs around 200,000 people, and essentially functions as the police force of North Korea, running police stations in every city, town, and village. It has a broad-ranging remit to maintain public order, quell unrest, investigate crime, run the identification card and regional registration system that ties people to their home regions (and keeps them out of Pyongyang), police the roads, and even operate prisons. It also has responsibility for the distribution of food, although as we know, this is a role that has gone largely unfulfilled since the mid-1990s.2 Until his execution in 2013, the MPS was also the stronghold of Jang Song Thaek, and was thus locked in a rivalrous relationship of sorts with other branches of the state.
MPS officers are perhaps not as feared as one might imagine. There exists a secretly-taken video, smuggled out of North Korea and obtained by media organization Asiapress,3 which shows a middle-aged woman repeatedly swearing and pointing a finger straight into the face of a policeman. This is actually not such an unusual occurrence in an age-ordered society like Korea. Crucially, the video also shows other citizens coming along and taking the ajumma’s side. The policeman eventually gives up arguing with her, and walks away. Such incidents are not isolated, and in general, it can be said that outside of Pyongyang, ordinary citizens do not greatly fear ordinary police officers. This is because of the post-famine social environment in which bribery is the norm, and the regime no longer feels willing or able to impose strict order anywhere outside of Pyongyang—except where political threats are concerned.
The reason the woman became angry with the policeman is also important. He had asked her for a bribe. Corruption pervades North Korean society, and furthermore, the MPS is an extremely large part of a very cash-strapped government. Bribery is therefore not merely a way for MPS officials to generate extra income, but rather, a way for the whole organization to continue existing. For many crimes, then, the trouble can be made to disappear if one has a little money. Bribes vary according to the relative wealth of the suspect, and the severity of the crime; a small bribe may consist of nothing more than a pack of cigarettes, and a large one may run into hundreds of dollars. Traders caught with Chinese cell phones, for example, would find themselves at the more expensive end of the bribe spectrum. The mid-1990s famine broke the social contract between state and citizen, and created a population of millions of people who would do anything necessary to survive. This provided the incentive to steal, and now a culture of bribery provides the opportunity to get away with it.
Additionally, the MPS tends to practice mediation in relatively trivial cases. A teenager graffiti scribbler, for instance, may well be let off with a stern telling off after a meeting with the person whose wall he defaced. A young family member engaged in anti-social behavior would be considered an embarrassment to his parents, and so it would probably be assumed that his father would correct him enough so that he would not act out of line again.
But what if one committed a more serious offense, or came up against a zealous policeman who didn’t feel like being lenient that day? In such a case, one would likely end up in court. As with other countries, several levels of court exist in North Korea. At the lowest level, one would be tried by a “people’s court,” which is presided over by a trusted town or village elder; there are then provincial courts, and the national Central Court. There are formal procedures for judicial nomination, but in practice, the judges for each are ultimately nominated, if not officially “selected,” by the OGD.
Trials have an appearance of fairness. There are defense lawyers and prosecutors, who each make their case in front of the judge. The judge will often find the defendant innocent, as well; this may be the result of bribery, or simply come from a belief that the police and prosecutors got the wrong person. And even where there is a conviction, it is possible to appeal. North Korea is a very bureaucratic country with a strong sense of formal procedure (even though the most important decisions completely bypass that procedure), and in that vein there is a lengthy appeals process that may even be used successfully on rare occasions.4
Conventional Prison
There are five types of place a person can be held in North Korea, the first four of which are operated by the MPS and are intended as “non-political” prisons. The first is the kuryujang,5 or police station, where suspects are taken after arrest and interrogated. The next is a kind of remand or holding facility, named the jipgyulso. One may be held there while an investigation takes place, or before one’s sentence is determined. Those who cross into China illegally before being forcibly repatriated by the Chinese authorities, for instance, are usually held in a jipgyulso, while the MPS decides what to do with them. A border crosser the MPS believes to be a “political” criminal—perhaps one who was in contact with Christian missionaries, South Koreans, or who intended to go to South Korea—will be handed over to the State Security Department. Those merely believed to have been in China for business or work will likely be sent to the next level of MPS institution, to serve a sentence of between several months and a year.
That institution is the rodong danryondae, the labor training center. Here, the border crossers are combined with relatively low-level criminals, such as petty thieves and drug dealers. Those with good songbun6 (social status) who get caught using Chinese cell phones may end up there, too. And, due to the government’s obsession with promoting “social hygiene,” they all rub shoulders with women who dared to wear skinny jeans, or men who dared to grow their hair long. Prisoners spend “half the day doing forced labor, and the other half receiving propaganda education,” according to a source. The state’s intention here is to re-indoctrinate the prisoner before returning them to society. Discipline at a rodong danryondae is strict, and violence is common. Security, however, is relatively light, and escapes do occur.
Those convicted of more serious crimes end up in a gyohwaso,a place for “betterment through education” to which the convict may be sent for a fixed sentence measured in years. The gyohwaso is still an MPS-operated “non-political” institution, but in reality, many inmates are there for what would be considered political offenses in most other countries. A person trading in foreign DVDs may be sent to a gyohwaso, for instance, due to the fact that the material they sell helps undermine the state’s control of information.
Life in a gyohwaso is exceptionally tough. Testimony from former prisoners of Gyohwaso Number 12, located at Jonggori in North Hamgyong Province (near the Chinese border), reveals that food rations there are so pitiful as to be below subsistence level, forcing inmates to eat whatever insects and rodents they are able to trap for themselves. It is common for men serving time there to lose 30 kilograms in body weight. Many end up starving to death. Gyohwaso Number 12, which houses around 3,000–4,000 inmates (including 1,000 women), is far from the exception in this regard.
At the same time, gyohwaso prisoners must also endure forced labor. Men at Gyohwaso Number 12 may be sent to work for 14 hours per day in the camp’s copper mine. Safety equipment is non-existent, and thus fatalities and severe injuries are common. There is also an on-site furniture factory, in which accidents are very frequent. Prisoners sleep for five hours per night, so the combination of tiredness and antiquated equipment results in around one death every few days.
The only consolation for a gyohwaso inmate is the possibility of eventual release. Unlike the inmates of political prison camps, those in the gyohwaso have fixed sentences, and have their (admittedly scant) rights as citizens restored after serving them. It is even possible to win a pardon or early release by writing letters to the Supreme Leader, asking for mercy; these letters go through the OGD and occasionally, a lucky individual will gain their freedom this way. This is apparently done on special paper distributed by propaganda instructors at the camp.7 The completion of one’s sentence may also be expedited if one’s relatives have money to pay a bribe, or political influence.
Political Imprisonment: How it Differs
At all levels of the MPS system, brutality is commonplace. Below-subsistence rations, torture, and beatings are all standard practice. Public execution of those who attempt to escape a gyohwaso is considered a normal and effective means of discouraging others from trying. Kuryujang interrogators can do almost whatever they please when trying to get a confession from a suspect, and prison guards have the same impunity when enforcing discipline, or merely indulging in sadism.
There are, it can be noted, other countries that operate brutal prison regimes. Where North Korea truly differs is in its system of political prison camps. A political prison camp, or gwalliso, is similar to a gyohwaso in that it is a forced labor institution characterized by brutality, but it takes that brutality to an extra level, as we shall see later. Furthermore, gwalliso inmates are non-citizens, with almost no hope of ever being released.8
Perhaps most importantly, political imprisonment happens not merely to individuals, but rather, to whole families. A principle called yeonjwaje, or guilt by association, sees three generations of a family all sent to the gwalliso for the crimes of one member. Naturally, this acts as a great deterrent against challenging the regime. A man who distributes anonymous leaflets criticizing Kim family rule, for instance, may be joined in the camp by his children, his brothers and unmarried sisters, and his parents. His wife may be spared if she agrees to divorce him immediately. Married sisters would not join him, as the traditional Korean conception of the family is patrilineal, and when a woman marries, she is considered to have left her family.
Here, we can see once again the feudal mentality of the DPRK. The “three generations” idea is not communist in origin, but rather derives from Korea’s monarchical past. During the Joseon Dynasty, men who passed tough national examinations were brought into government service, and given land for three generations. Similarly, sons and grandsons of criminals and political opponents were discriminated against by the state.9
The political prison camp system is also completely separate from the criminal one operated by the MPS. Another organization, the State Security Department (SSD), is responsible for its operation. The SSD is smaller than the MPS, employing around 50,000 people altogether. Essentially the secret police force of North Korea, the SSD carries out surveillance—including on the Koryolink mobile network, and on North Korean officials stationed overseas—and interrogates political suspects. The political prison camps are entirely their responsibility, and in fact exist outside of the realm of the legal system and courts.
The MPS and SSD are, at the higher levels, somewhat mutually hostile. Typically, when one is in favor, the other is out.10 Jang Song Thaek headed up the MPS for many years before his execution, and led a rival power base to the mainstream OGD group under which the SSD falls.11 Jang was apparently considered a little soft by SSD officials, willing to take as lenient an approach to transgressors as the system allowed. Though the MPS is supposed to hand over political suspects to the SSD, one source claims that the MPS under Jang was sometimes willing to simply let people go (most probably in return for a bribe). It is naturally very difficult to corroborate such claims, but two of the recurring stories about Jang—that he was relatively humane for a senior North Korean official, and that he was highly susceptible to the lure of money—would make the tale seem plausible.
How the SSD Catches You
All North Koreans are part of “units” related to their station in life—work units, Youth League units, agricultural units, and so on. They are also members of neighborhood units, or inminban (literally, “people’s group”), which consist of around 20–40 families living in one part of an apartment block or neighborhood. Its leader will typically be a middle-aged lady of good songbun and whom the authorities consider reliable. The inminban ostensibly exists to transmit state ideology down to the people through meetings once or twice per week (such as chonghwa, or self-criticism sessions), and to be the conduit via which people engage in work projects—cleaning the streets, beautifying public areas, collecting food for the military, and so on.
All of these types of unit, including the inminban, have another function: spying. Within an inminban there will be at least one SSD informer, as well as an MPS informer. The SSD informer is usually of low songbun, or has some other weakness that SSD officials can exploit. Some are recruited through payment, but most are victims themselves, in that they are forced into complying. SSD agents take them away, beat them severely, and force them to confess to their “crimes”; these can be “forgiven” in return for the favor of becoming an informer.
Inminban held greater significance before the famine. Inminban leaders were said to know everything about you, down to how many spoons and chopsticks your household possessed. They also still possess the ability to enter any household they wish, as they have copies of their neighbors’ door keys. The post-famine growth of bribery, the increased ability of people to move around the country to conduct business, and the decline of faith in the state, though, has weakened the ability and inclination of inminban informers and heads to get their neighbors into trouble.
Regardless, the threat still exists, and can be extremely serious. If someone informs on you, be it from your inminban, work unit, or elsewhere, the SSD may decide to investigate you. According to a source in personal contact with a retired SSD member, officials hold weekly meetings and decide who to go after based upon the reports they receive. The greater the perceived threat to Kim family rule, the greater the chance of further action. Sometimes, quotas necessitate action as well; if the SSD has been criticized from above as slacking on the job, or the leadership has recently ordered a crackdown, then the risk of arrest is elevated.
If someone informed on you as having said, “Kim Jong Un is too young to run this country,” or “Kim Jong Un’s mother was born in Japan, and her father worked for the Japanese Ministry of War,” SSD officials would look into your background. If your songbun was good, if you had no history of making similar comments, or you held an important job, the information might simply be kept on record by the SSD—and placed in your secret OGD file, too. If the rest of your political life passed without incident, you would probably never even know that the SSD had been investigating you. Or, perhaps five years later, if one of your best friends decides to defect to South Korea, the SSD could dig up the complaint and use it against you—regardless of whether the accusation were true or not.
If the SSD does bring you in, your life changes forever. At that point, it has essentially been decided that you are guilty of some anti-state, political crime, and barring a miracle—intervention from a powerful person, for instance—you are going to “confess” at a brief show trial, and then be sent to a political prison camp, probably never to return. The most important remaining question is whether or not your family will be joining you. This decision is also made by the SSD; there is no proper, or transparent, legal process.
The Point of No Return
SSD agents may simply show up at your house and take you—and your family, if they wish—for interrogation. One source claims that they take all your belongings as well, and store them (bizarrely, they are returned intact in the event that you are ever released). Sometimes, people are even asked to give themselves up at a specific time and date. One can be certain that not doing so would only make matters worse. Other than provoking fear, asking you to show up has one additional, grim benefit for the SSD: if you commit suicide before the appointment, it saves them the effort and financial cost of having to deal with you.
SSD interrogation centers are typically arranged in rectangular fashion, with two rows of cells divided by one corridor, and an interrogation room at the end. Inmates are separated by gender, and kept perhaps five to a cell. Food rations at the facility are of near-starvation level. Many talk of not being allowed to wash, or even see sunlight during the entire interrogation period (underground cells are common). A typical method of physical torture is that of being forced to sit in one position for hours on end without moving in even the slightest way, or making any sound; failure to adhere to either of these two rules results in a severe beating.
Violence and the threat of violence are major parts of any interrogation session. You may be led, for instance, into a darkened interrogation room, where an SSD agent stands in front of you asking questions. Though you cannot see them, you are aware of the presence of two men standing behind you—one to the left, and the other to the right. If your answer to a question is deemed satisfactory, the interrogator simply moves on to the next question. If he thinks you are lying, he signals to one of the men behind you. That man then beats you with a stick. The question is then repeated until you give the desired answer.
Sometimes, inmates are beaten so severely that they die of their injuries. The family of the deceased has no right to complain about this (perhaps they were not even told that their loved one had been taken away). An inmate beaten almost to death may be sent home. The attitude seems to be that it is better that they die somewhere else; if they survive, they can either be deemed to have been punished enough, or else brought in again.
The aim of interrogation is to break the accused, and then send them to a “court”—which is really just an SSD-managed hearing. A list of offenses is read out, the accused pleads guilty, and then is sent away to a prison camp. If he or she does not plead guilty, they will be taken away and interrogated further. Interrogation is so distressing that by the time of the “trial,” the prisoner simply wants to get it over with and begin their sentence.
After the prisoner’s guilt is announced, they will most likely be sent to a political prison camp. Potentially, they may end up back in the MPS system, as an inmate at a gyohwaso. In relative terms, this may be considered a piece of luck. There appears to be no procedure or logic behind such decisions; where the SSD is concerned, everything is arbitrary. The prisoner may, however, still lodge an appeal against their sentence, or plead for a pardon. It has been speculated that one of the reasons Jang Song Thaek was subjected to a special military tribunal was that procedurally, they offer no right of appeal after conviction. Jang’s enemies wanted him out of the picture as quickly as possible.
The Political Prison Camp
The political prison camp system of North Korea can be traced back to the late 1950s, when Kim Il Sung, inspired by Stalin, began interning political rivals. There have been more than ten gwalliso overall, but closures and consolidations mean there are (to the best of our knowledge) four in operation today. We should not infer anything from this fact: on one hand, it may mean that fewer people are being sent to prison camps; on the other, executions and deaths from starvation may have led to a reduced need for camp places. Certainly, it can reasonably be said that the overall prison camp population has decreased in recent years. However, accurate information about the camps, particularly of the statistical kind, is very difficult to come by.
The biggest camp, Yodok (Gwalliso Number 15), differs from the others in that it is split into two distinct sections. One, the “Revolutionizing Zone,” is for people the regime considers potentially redeemable. Those sent there are eligible for eventual release, if they can survive the conditions of the camp. They are subjected to propaganda and indoctrination, like those in the MPS system. Child inmates even have access to schools. Revolutionizing Zone inmates tend to be either relatives of other political detainees, or those who have been sent down for offenses such as tuning in to South Korean radio, or criticizing government policy.
The other inmates are in the “Total Control Zone” (TCZ), and are ineligible for release. TCZ inmates are no longer considered citizens of the DPRK, and are not even given the dubious privilege of being subjected to propaganda.12 They are allowed no contact with the outside world, and are simply told that they deserve nothing more than death—but that thanks to the kindness of the state, they are being allowed to see out their days as prison laborers. The other three camps are run entirely as TCZs.
What does one have to do to be treated like this? Other than the crime of simply being related to someone the state truly despises, there are several offenses likely to incur such punishment. The first is the defacing of Kim statues and monuments, which provokes fear of a potential uprising against the regime. The distribution of anti-Kim literature is similarly regarded. Though Kim Jong Il personally disliked being characterized as a “god” and lamented never hearing an honest opinion from anyone, he also knew that the whole system depended upon his deification.
Naturally, TCZs also contain many people convicted of being part of anti-Kim factions. Many of these will simply be those caught up in factional infighting—members of Jang Song Thaek’s old “line,” for instance. It does not necessarily matter whether a person truly was conspiring against the regime; more important is the fact that their example discourages others from even thinking about it.
The other class of crime is economic—i.e., stealing resources from the state. The regime considers such a theft a political act. The stealing of state resources has become extremely commonplace since the famine, and runs from the stripping of copper piping from state-owned factories for scrap, to the bulk selling of coal from North Korean mines to China. The sheer pervasiveness of the former, and the financial incentives created by the latter, make prosecution unlikely in any given individual case. But for those convicted of it, the punishment can be very severe.
Inmates sleep 30–40 to a room, in dirty shacks of around 530 square feet (50 square meters). Again, rations are starvation level (around 100–200g of corn gruel, three times a day13), and the withdrawal of food is also used as a means of enforcing compliance. Torture methods such as forced water ingestion and the “pigeon” stress position are standard punishments, as are severe beatings for even the slightest transgression. Rape and sexual abuse by guards is apparently forbidden, but that still does not stop their occurrence; and, in any case, victims have no recourse to complain. Those suspected of stealing or trying to escape may be executed in front of the other prisoners.
In having absolutely no rights, gwalliso prisoners are completely at the mercy of their captors. Some gwalliso guards may occasionally feel pity for their captives, but in order to minimize this likelihood, the SSD deliberately selects “psychos,” according to a source. During guard training, new recruits are encouraged to “practice” on camp prisoners, selecting a victim at random and beating them. Furthermore, prison camp managers are often SSD officials who failed14 in some way, and are sent to run a gwalliso as punishment; this introduces a culture of bitterness and “taking it out on someone” from the top down.
Exile
Despite the fact that gwalliso inmates spend most of their waking life working in prison mines, factories, and farms—in return for below-subsistence rations and terrible living conditions—the DPRK apparently considers the system a costly one to maintain. Consequently, an old Korean method of dealing with one’s enemies is making a comeback. Though the DPRK has long exile d political “criminals” to the remote countryside, such a punishment is growing in frequency today.
The system is a very simple one. Enemies of the state are taken up to the mountains and left there with nothing. It is expected that they will die there. Though the authors know of no evidence relating to this, it is presumably the case that those who make their way down into a town or village can be punished severely if caught, since they do not possess the permit to be there. North Korea also has a number of uninhabited islands, and it is said that one can be punished by being exiled to one.
Sometimes, high-ranking officials find themselves surplus to requirements, and are given the “golden cage” treatment. Ri Yong Ho, once a very powerful military figure who ran the Pyongyang Defense Command, was pushed aside following the succession of Kim Jong Un. State media announced his retirement due to ill health, and praised him as a great servant of the country. He was given a luxurious home in the countryside—but one that he is not allowed to leave. In being away from his old network and the center of power in Pyongyang, his influence is now diminished. Whilst still maintaining the valuable pretense of Ri as a national hero by retiring rather than being seen to punish him, the regime is able to neutralize his power by keeping him under house arrest.
1. For the most exhaustive and up-to-date collection of such testimony, please see the United Nations Human Rights Council’s report on the Commission of Inquiry on Human Rights in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, published February 2014.
2. One source does claim, however, that Jang Song Thaek, in his capacity as Minister for People’s Security, was concentrating efforts on the revival of food production prior to his death.
3. Asiapress is the publisher of Rimjin-gang Magazine.
4. It can also result in harsher punishment, however.
5. Although State Security Department interrogation facilities can also be referred to as kuryujang.
6. Songbun is very important. Good songbun can get the accused a lighter sentence. There are tales of those with excellent songbun being let off for crimes that would see ordinary people executed. For more information on songbun, please see Chapter 7.
7. Bizarrely, Kim Jong Il would sometimes send a gold watch to an inmate who wrote a moving letter—but still keep them locked up.
8. Inmates at Yodok (Camp 15) held in the “Revolutionizing Zone” are an exception. If they survive, they may eventually be released.
9. Despite denouncing the Joseon era as feudal and backward, the DPRK actually uses the term “Joseon” to refer to Korea. And like the Joseon Dynasty, it is a monarchy!
10. Control of Sino-DPRK border policing has been a long-standing bone of contention between the two organizations, for instance. The border is now an SSD issue, and in the Kim Jong Un era, it is being guarded far more aggressively. Bribing one’s way out of North Korea, or simply jumping the border, is now much more difficult.
11. It appears, however, that the SSD had temporarily fallen under the influence of Jang’s Administration Department after the death of OGD deputy director Ri Je Gang in 2010. The Administration Department had been part of the OGD, but was separated and handed over to Jang by Kim Jong Il in 2007 as a means of checking OGD power. Now Jang is gone, it can be assumed that everything is back with the OGD.
12. Shin Dong Hyuk of Escape from Camp 14 fame was born and grew up in Total Control Zone conditions. He said that he had no idea who Kim Jong Il or Kim Il Sung were until he left the camp.
13. Tragically, however, it is true that gwalliso inmates are better fed than some ordinary North Korean citizens.
14. For instance, an SSD agent who performed badly in an overseas mission to monitor the business activities of North Korean diplomats. An international posting such as this would be considered a very attractive one, as it involves travel and money-making opportunities. Being brought home from that posting to run a prison camp—with the implication that they would never be awarded a “decent” job again—would lead to bitterness.