“Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me.”
—JOHN 12:26
A FEW DAYS before Christmas, Mr. Lee came into my room with paper and a pen. “I would like you to write letters to your family,” he said. “You have a wife, yes?”
I nodded.
“And you have extended family as well? A sister. Mother and father. Children, correct?”
“Yes,” I said. “Can I write all of them?”
“No, just your wife, mother, and sister for now.”
“How will they get my letters?”
“I can take care of that. Do not worry,” Mr. Lee replied.
I wasn’t sure whether I should believe him. As far as I knew, this might be another way of extracting information from me.
“Your letters cannot be long. You must urge your family to petition your government to do something to bring you home,” Mr. Lee said.
“I will do my best,” I replied. Since my arrest, I had replayed in my head conversations I wanted to have with my wife and family. Every night, when I tried to sleep, I thought about all the things I needed to tell them. I knew I couldn’t pour all those thoughts and concerns into the letters I had been asked to write. My stories would never get past the official DPRK censors that I knew were going to read my letters before they sent them on to my family. If they even sent them.
I reminded myself that I didn’t have to say much. They just want to know I am alive and well, I told myself. So that’s what I told them. “Please do not worry about me,” I wrote. “I am in trouble because I brought people into the country to pray for the people of North Korea, but I have been treated well. I am okay. God is with me. Please contact the State Department and ask them to help me come home.”
All the letters had this same message. I added personal touches for my wife and also gave a longer reassurance that I was okay for my mother. Moms worry in a way no one else can.
Mr. Lee took the letters and placed them into a large manila envelope.
The next day, which I believe was December 21, Mr. Lee came into my room with two guards. “Please, come with us,” he said.
I didn’t ask where we were going. I had learned not to ask too many questions. Mr. Lee led me outside to a small minivan. Black curtains covered the windows. One of the guards opened the side door. He climbed in and slid to the far side. “You next,” the other guard said. I climbed in, and the second guard got in next to me and shut the door. Once again I was stuck in the middle of a very small seat.
“Put your head down between your knees,” a guard said. I did as I was told.
Then I heard Mr. Lee say, “All right, let’s go.”
The van traveled about ten minutes. We made a few turns along with a few stops and starts, which told me we were still in the city. When the van came to a full stop, the guard on my right opened the door and grabbed my arm.
“We’re here,” he said. “Get out.”
Even though I was not supposed to know where I was, I immediately recognized the building in front of me as the Yanggakdo Hotel. It sits on an island in the Taedong River that runs through the heart of Pyongyang. The hotel is very popular with Russian and Chinese tourists. I had visited it on one of my earlier trips as a possible place for my tour groups to stay when I got the green light to expand my tours to the city.
Mr. Lee told the uniformed guards to stay in the car. He then led me inside the hotel. The doorman was expecting us.
“Good morning,” he said to Mr. Lee. “Take the stairs there on the right.”
Mr. Lee and I followed his directions. Once we reached the third floor, Mr. Lee took me to one of the hotel conference rooms. A couple of officials were waiting for us near the door. I guessed that they might be from the foreign affairs department. I was told to sit and wait.
After a few minutes two Western men walked into the room. “Mr. Bae,” a blond, athletic-looking man said to me in accented English. He looked to be around forty. We shook hands as he introduced himself. “I am Karl-Olof Andersson, the Swedish ambassador to the DPRK. This is my secretary, John Svensson,” he said, motioning toward a larger man about six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds. “Please, have a seat,” the ambassador said.
Mr. Lee and I took our seats across from the ambassador. One of the two DPRK officials that had met us at the door had already sat down. I noticed he was writing down everything that was said.
“We have only a few minutes,” the ambassador began, “so I have to be quick. We are here representing the United States’ interests. I want to assure you that the United States government has been notified of your situation and is doing everything in its power to secure your release. Since your government does not have diplomatic relations with the DPRK, the US State Department will communicate with Pyongyang through our office. Your family will also be able to reach you through us. Also, until all of this is resolved, we will check in on you and monitor how you are being treated.”
“Thank you,” I said. I was relieved to know that someone outside North Korea actually knew about my situation and cared about me.
“How have they treated you so far, Mr. Bae?” the ambassador asked.
I glanced across at the man from the foreign affairs office, who was rapidly taking notes. Then I looked over at Mr. Lee. I wasn’t sure how much English he understood.
“My treatment has been okay,” I said. “I have not been physically mistreated or anything like that.”
“Did they tell you why you are being held?” he asked.
“They have charged me with conducting a smear campaign against the country’s leadership and with setting up mission bases in China to overthrow the North Korean government. They have also charged me with bringing people into the country to pray,” I said. The ambassador wrote all this down. I then said something I probably shouldn’t have said. “They also objected to things I said about North Korea in my orientation sessions for the tourists I brought in.”
“How so?” the ambassador asked.
“I told people that North Korea attacked the South and that’s what started the Korean War.”
The ambassador just nodded and said, “Okay. Is there anything you would like to say to the US government?”
“I’m standing strong now, but I need their help. I need them to step in and do something so that I can go home.”
The ambassador gave me a reassuring smile. “I understand,” he said. “I know they are doing all they can right now. All right, I have another couple of things to address in the short time we have left. First, I have a privacy waiver I need you to sign. It authorizes us to release information about your situation. You need to check who we can give this information to. There are boxes for your family and friends, as well as the general population through the media.”
I checked the boxes for family and friends. I did not want the media to become involved, nor did I want total strangers knowing about my being held. Deep down I still believed the misunderstanding that led to my arrest could be cleared up fairly easily. Until it was, I wanted to draw as little attention as possible to myself or the North Korean government. As crazy as it now sounds, I still held out hope that I could resume my work and bring tour groups back into North Korea. I thought that by showing respect for the North Korean government and by not embarrassing them in the media, we could go back to the way things were before.
“And last but not least,” the ambassador said, “I have letters from your family.” He pulled out a manila envelope and handed it across to me. I had never seen anything so wonderful in my life. “Your wife also wanted us to give these to you.” He gave me a package that contained some warm shirts and a new pair of shoes. “I understand you have something for us,” he said.
I looked over at Mr. Lee. He handed Mr. Andersson the letters I had written the day before. “Yes, please, if you would send these to my family, I would very much appreciate it,” I said.
“Of course,” the ambassador said. “If you need anything, have the DPRK officials contact our office, and I will see what I can do.” Mr. Andersson and his secretary then stood to leave. I thanked them for coming and turned my attention to my letters.
Mr. Lee also stood. “You can read your letters first,” he said as he and the other official left the conference room, leaving me alone.
I ripped open the large envelope and dumped out the letters on the table. My heart soared. I grabbed the letter from my wife and read, “My yeobo,” she wrote, using the Korean word for “darling,” “I am so worried about you. I waited three weeks before I wrote this letter, because I thought you would already be home. Stream told me what happened. She also informed me that the DPRK officials assured her that you were going to meet her at the customs office when she left the country. I keep waiting for you to come home. Where do they have you now?
“The first snows have fallen in Dandong. When you left, you did not pack for cold weather. I am so worried you are cold. Have they given you the medicines you need? I wish I could bring you your diabetes medication. I pray they have provided this for you. Your mother is holding up well. Your reputation is good in North Korea, so we hope you are treated decently while they clear up this misunderstanding.
“Please do not worry about us or the ministry here in Dandong. I will carry on the work until you return. No matter how long it takes I am here, waiting for you. I love you. Lydia.”
I wept as I read her letter. I reread it several times. I could hear her voice. It was almost as though she were in the conference room with me. But at the same time, hearing from her made the distance between us seem so much greater, and it made me miss her so much more. I had never felt so far from home.
My mother and sister also sent letters to me. I wept as I read those as well. Both asked where I was. They tried to sound confident in their hope that I would come home soon, but I could tell both were very worried about me. They asked about my medications and whether or not I had seen a doctor.
“Why are they holding you?” my mother asked. She did not understand what was happening to me.
I’m causing them so much pain, I cried.
The conference room door opened. I assumed it was time to go back to the detention center. “Stay seated,” Mr. Lee said. “To show you how humanely we treat even those who commit crimes against us, I am going to let you call your family.”
“Now?” I said, my heart racing.
“Yes. Right now. You may call whomever you would like. Now, the purpose of the call is for you to inform them of the seriousness of your crime and to let them know that you are facing a trial for very specific charges. You must tell them exactly what the charges are against you. Here,” he said, “take this paper and write down exactly what you are going to say based on what I just told you.”
“Everything?” I asked. How could I possibly write down everything I was going to say? I didn’t know what was going to come out of my mouth when I heard my wife’s voice for the first time in two months.
“As close as you can. It is clear your family does not know how serious the charges are against you. They call this a misunderstanding. This is far more than a misunderstanding.” Mr. Lee had clearly read my letters from home. Many people probably had. “You have to say, ‘I am charged with violating Article 60 of the constitution, which carries with it the highest maximum penalty.’”
I did not want to say “highest maximum penalty,” because I knew the words were code for the death penalty or life in prison. The phrase would further upset my family. But, of course, I had no choice.
“Okay,” I said.
I scribbled out a basic outline of what I was going to say and slid it across the table. Mr. Lee gave it a quick read. Then he retrieved the telephone for me. “Who first?” he asked.
“My wife.”
He dialed the number and handed me the receiver. My heart beat in my chest. But the call failed.
“May I try?” I asked.
Mr. Lee nodded.
I redialed the number. This time the call went through. The phone rang. Then I heard Lydia’s voice.
“Hello,” she said.
“Lydia. It’s me, Kenneth.”
She burst into tears. I also began to weep. I tried to keep to the script I had written for Mr. Lee, but it was so hard. I told her the charges against me, and I included the maximum penalty line, because Mr. Lee was standing right next to me.
“But do not worry too much about this,” I reassured her. “Everything will be all right.”
“How do you know?” she asked, crying.
“God has promised me I will not be harmed,” I said.
I tried to say more, but Mr. Lee stepped toward me. “Time,” he said.
“I have to go. I love you. I will be home soon,” I said.
I then called my mother and my sister in Washington. Both calls were filled with tears.
“Please keep this as quiet as you can,” I said. “I don’t want a lot of publicity.”
After I hung up, Mr. Lee escorted me out of the room, down the stairs, and to the lobby of the hotel.
I looked around. I was just here a couple of months ago, I thought. I stood right here, in this lobby, a free man. Now I am a hated American criminal on his way back to jail.
Christmas was four days away. The thought of spending it in the detention center sickened me. I wished I could turn back the clock. The sight of the lobby only made this feeling stronger.
Once I was back at the detention center, I read the letters from home over and over again. I tried to stay strong, but I could not stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. In the six years I’d lived and worked in China, I had never once missed a Christmas with my family. I always flew home to the United States in time to celebrate with my children and spend time with my mother and sister. But not this year. I felt like the worst father and husband and son and brother in the world.
When Christmas Eve morning arrived, I remembered an idea I had had on my previous trip to Pyongyang, a few months before that fateful eighteenth trip. Back then I still enjoyed the officials’ favor as a respected businessman who brought much-needed tourist dollars into the country. I had stayed at the Koryo Hotel, the finest and most famous hotel in Pyongyang. It was not far from the hotel I had just left. One evening I had looked out at the city from my window. Even though I had already led many prayer teams into the area around Rason, I still wanted to find a way to actually reach all the North Korean people, to show them that God is real and that he loves them.
It’s hard to make a difference from a distance, I had thought to myself. Then a lightbulb came on. Maybe I could actually live here for a couple of years. Yes, I could stay in Pyongyang for a year or two and maybe even have a special tour to celebrate Christmas in the capital. That might do it!
“Well, you got your wish,” I told myself. “Now what?”
I thought about this for a moment. I had wanted to bring people into the capital to celebrate Christmas, so I figured the least I could do was celebrate on my own. Sitting on my bed, I started singing Christmas carols, one after another. The more I sang, the better I felt. I kept on singing and singing and singing. It didn’t really matter whether I was home in the United States or sitting alone in a North Korean detention center. Christmas celebrates Christ coming to earth, and that’s what I was going to do. One of the names of Christ, Immanuel, means “God with us.” I experienced Immanuel as I sang. God came near.
I sang all through the day. At five o’clock the guards told me to turn on the television. I was surprised by what I saw. It seemed the entire country was celebrating too. Then I remembered December 24 is treated as a national holiday in North Korea that celebrates the birthday of Kim Jong Suk, the wife of Kim Il Sung and the mother of Kim Jong Il. The movie of the day showed her as a freedom fighter, standing alongside Kim Il Sung as she mowed down Japanese soldiers with her gun. The movie made her out to be an action hero—like a real-life Black Widow from the Avengers movies, but more graceful and charming.
The movie played on the television while parties celebrating her life and the Great Leader went on around Pyongyang. I couldn’t help but notice the irony. They celebrated the birth of their leader while I celebrated the birth of mine. I started singing “Silent Night” loud enough to drown out the noise of the television.