After getting off the bus, I called the smuggler to let him know we were there, just as we had arranged beforehand. In the crowd of the Erenhot bus station, we anxiously waited for our liberator. I still had my qualms. We were in a small town near the border in a Chinese province called Inner Mongolia. It felt like we were in the middle of nowhere. This province adjoins the neighboring country of Mongolia, an independent nation that fought for centuries against China. It was through this country that we had to escape, according to the explanations given to us on the phone. We were at the mercy of many people: the border guards, the Chinese police, and even this smuggler, whom I still wasn’t sure I completely trusted.
Mom and I had just traveled through half of China with our savings hidden in our clothing and with fear in our hearts. We had first boarded the train toward Beijing, then gotten on a bus heading northwest toward the Mongolian border.
Erenhot is the last Chinese city on the route toward Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia. However, before getting there, we would have to cross through vast deserts. We had no idea if our plan was going to work. And we were always terrified of getting sent back to North Korea in case we failed.
* * *
Suddenly, two shady-looking men approached us. They turned out to be the smugglers we’d been communicating with. We started heading toward their car, but once we were in the vehicle, we felt even less at ease. Instead of reassuring us and explaining to us what would happen, they immediately started asking us for the money. These two Chinese men, who were ethnically Korean, threatened us and demanded that we immediately take out our cash. My mother had a bad feeling about everything and took me outside in a frenzy.
“It’s a trap!” Mom said to me. “All they want is to take our money from us! We can’t leave our fate in the hands of these two thugs.”
Distraught, we went to take refuge in a public sauna in this unfamiliar city. But had we really come all this way just to abandon our plans at the last minute? One of the two men called the cell phone we had saved up for before embarking on this journey and insisted that we complete the deal. Finally, we agreed to negotiate with them.
We made our way through a labyrinth of narrow, deserted streets and headed toward a small, dilapidated house on the outskirts of Erenhot. The two men led us into the first room. It was very dirty, and the only piece of furniture there was a bed. This house did not look like it was lived in very often; it looked more like a crack house. At the end of the room, there was a door that led to another room. There, we found three North Korean women. They were here for the same reason we were. But they had not spent even one yuan, because they were members of a Christian church that was paying for their trip to freedom. They were highly religious, which made us feel a little better, a little safer.
Later I would learn that American Protestant missionaries and South Koreans played a crucial role in getting North Korean escapees to Seoul. They have money, networks, and contacts in strategic places, and were willing to take big risks to help transpot North Koreans safely to South Korea. Their generosity was not without some self-interest, however. One of their objectives was to increase the number of followers in their community in Seoul. But this was hardly too much to ask, considering they were helping us escape from a life of tyranny and hiding.
Meeting these women made us feel a bit more at ease. After all, these smugglers knew what they were doing, right? With no better alternatives, we decided to take the risk. We took out our savings to pay the smugglers. The deal was done. We gave out twenty thousand yuan each to the two men. Had we just gotten swindled? We were about to find out.
* * *
Our departure was scheduled for the second day, but we had to wait until night to make our escape, to minimize the risk of getting caught and subsequently repatriated to North Korea. The day seemed to drag on forever, especially since we had no say in our own departure plans. We were still unclear about what was going to happen to us, and how we were supposed to reach Seoul, which was far from here. The smugglers were, as always, taciturn.
Night finally started to descend over Erenhot, and then it was completely dark. Around ten p.m., the two men, still stoic, gave us the signal. It was time to go. In front of the house, an old, beat-up car was waiting for us. There were seven of us total, and we were supposed to fit in this piece of junk that was meant to hold at most five people. The two men took the front seats, and the five of us sat in the backseat, packed together like sardines. Since I was the smallest, I sat on the others’ knees. The car jolted to a start and then crept along the deserted streets.
Then we reached the main streets, which were lit up by streetlamps. But after a quarter of an hour went by, they started to dim, until we were completely enveloped by darkness. There weren’t any people or civilization around us for miles. Thanks to the white glow of the streetlamps there, I could see that the fields were starting to get more and more arid the farther we went. The trees, which were already sparse, gradually disappeared, and they were replaced with a scenery of rocks and the occasional shrub. We began to feel like we were in the middle of a desert.
After some time, we made our way off the asphalt road on to a bumpier path. Inside the car, you could cut the tension with a knife. The two men remained silent, and each one of us stayed lost in our thoughts, imagining the dangers in store during the next few hours. There was no going back now, but we still didn’t know anything about our itinerary.
All of a sudden, in front of us, bright white lights lit up the night. Immediately, our driver turned off the headlights of the car and slowed down. As soon as he found a spot on the side of the road where he could do so, he pulled over and shut off the engine. The other car and its headlights were getting closer. The tension mounted higher and higher. We were desperately hoping that it wasn’t the police or border patrols. The border patrols were a regular sight in this region. The vehicle continued approaching us without slowing down. It grew larger and larger before passing us, leaving a cloud of dust in its trail. Thankfully, it was just a regular car, not one containing uniformed men. The red lights on the back of the car started slowly disappearing. Outside, it was total darkness again, and we were enveloped by silence. Our driver turned the key, turned on the headlights, and soon we left our hiding spot to continue on the bumpy road.
That same situation happened only two more times during the hours that we were on the road. There weren’t exactly a lot of people in the desert. Each time we saw lights in the distance, we held our breath. The driver, visibly tense, immediately hid on the side of the road, all lights turned off. Luckily, both times this happened, the car that rolled by contained neither police nor border guards, which meant we could continue on our mysterious journey through the night. We would continue along the Mongolian border until we found the safest passageway.
* * *
After three hours on the road, our smugglers became more talkative. They explained in more detail what we were to expect. I understood that we were approaching a critical moment in our journey. I had butterflies in my stomach. For the first time, one of the two smugglers spoke to us in a gentle tone:
“Listen to me carefully. We are close to the border with Mongolia. When we arrive at the place that we know, you have to get out of the car and follow my instructions. Don’t worry, we’ll be right there beside you. We chose a very remote area where few people go. There will be a tall fence that you have to climb over. That’s the Chinese border, guarded intermittently by patrolmen. We will help you climb it. When you land on the other side all you have left to do is go straight forward, as fast as possible. You will reach a second fence, which marks the entrance into Mongolian territory. Once you make it past the second barrier, you will be saved! The Chinese police will no longer have any power to arrest you. Understood?”
“And then? What will happen to us afterward?” asked one of our companions, very timidly.
The man replied, “Once you are on the other side, all you need to do is to give yourself up to the Mongolian army. They will transfer you to the South Korean embassy, in the capital city of Ulan Bator. There, the South Korean diplomats will take care of your transfer to Seoul. You will be safe there. Mongolia and South Korea have signed an agreement to send all North Korean escapees like you to South Korea. It will be fine!”
The smuggler was trying to reassure us right before we took off for a critical moment. The last thing he wanted was for us to start panicking when we were so close to the end. But his explanations, even if I appreciated them, didn’t assuage my fears.
In the passenger side of the car, our anxiety was palpable. We knew that as soon as we crossed the first barrier, these men would take off with our money. We would have to manage by ourselves. And if we were arrested by the Chinese border police, then it was just too bad for us. They would have kept up their end of the bargain. And they would try this same operation again in a few weeks with other escapees. I still wasn’t sure I completely trusted these men, who seemed motivated only by money. We couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
* * *
After five hours, the driver slowed down and scrutinized the surrounding area and then turned off the ignition. It was three o’clock in the morning.
“Here we are,” said the man.
He motioned for us to get out of the car, making sure we didn’t make any noise.
It was really cold outside. It was May, but the night air was already very cool. In the darkness, I could distinguish some rocks and dirt, and then a tall, wooden stake. In front of us, there was a fence three meters tall. It was nicknamed the “green line” due to the color of the wooden stakes that ran along the border between Mongolia and China. The smugglers explained that they had chosen this spot because patrols were infrequent. But we still didn’t have a minute to lose. The two men hoisted us up, one by one, over the barrier. The fence was quite tall, but I didn’t have time to be scared. I was small and light and climbed the fence like a monkey, using the chain link like a ladder. My heart was racing. At the top of the fence, I paused for a moment to catch my breath and then climbed back down on the other side.
When my foot touched the ground, I didn’t have any time to rejoice. I was too scared that a police officer would appear at any moment. I was even more scared because I sensed the nervousness of our smugglers on the other side of the fence. They didn’t want to waste any time here, where they too were at risk for getting arrested. Since I was the youngest, I had to wait for my companions, who were heavier and less agile than I was and struggled a bit to climb the fence. Minutes passed, minutes that seemed to drag on forever. We had to hurry, because the most difficult part of our journey still remained: we had to reach the Mongolian border.
“Now run straight ahead! Get as far away as possible from China,” whispered one of the smugglers. Shortly after, he disappeared through the darkness.
* * *
And so began our mad run. The five of us bolted like we were being chased by an invisible monster. In front of me, the land seemed to move up and down as my feet sank into the sand. We ran and ran without looking back. We had to cross this no-man’s-land as fast as possible to get to the Mongolian border, which was several miles away. As we weren’t there yet, a Chinese policeman could bust us at any moment.
For an entire hour, we ran until we were out of breath. My mind was blank, concentrating only on reaching our destination. My breaths were short; we didn’t speak to one another. My eyes started adjusting to the darkness, so I was able to distinguish the shapes—rocks and hills—in the distance. We were in the middle of the desert, an arid, desolate landscape that I’d never seen anywhere else before. Behind us, the sun seemed to already be rising. The time was passing by quickly and there was still nothing in sight. Could we be lost? I thought back to what the two men had told us:
“Go straight ahead!”
But how did we know whether we were going straight or not? There was no path to follow in this desert.
When we couldn’t run anymore, we started walking. Finally, I was able to distinguish something through the dark. Something man-made. It was a sign placed on top of a cement base. On the side of the sign that we could see, there were sloppily painted Chinese characters that read “Zhongguo,” which means “China.” On the other side there was something very messily written. I tried to decipher the gibberish and was able to make sense of only one word. I wasn’t 100 percent sure, but I felt pretty confident that it said “Mongolia.” What a relief! We were heading the right way. I caught my breath while waiting for the others. I was young, so I could walk fast, but for my mom and the others, it wasn’t so easy.
I showed them what I’d found. But we weren’t safe yet. As long as we hadn’t crossed the Mongolian border, we were still at the mercy of the Chinese. And so we started running again, under a sky that was steadily growing brighter and brighter. How much longer would it take? Had the smugglers tricked us?
Finally, I stumbled upon what we were waiting for. In front of me was a fence, considerably shorter and in much worse condition than the one at the Chinese border. It matched the description that the smugglers had given us. We had no doubt; it was the Mongolian border! We had reached our goal. It was all the sweeter because this fence was not as tall as the Chinese one. Like spiders, we climbed as quickly as we could until we reached the top. After scaling the top, I clambered down the other side of the dilapidated fence.
I felt an immense relief. I relaxed for a moment and caught my breath. A massive weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
In a few minutes, the others made it over the fence as well. In that moment, we felt united by a strong sense of solidarity. The other three women, who were highly religious, wanted to say grace to God. They took us by our hands and we formed a circle. The three of them praised Jesus out loud. For the first time in my life, I prayed. I felt overwhelmed by what we had gone through. Lost in the immensity of the desert, we were just a tiny, insignificant circle of people, but at least we had one another. Since I’m not religious, I stayed silent, but in my head I prayed that everything would go well.
During this time, daylight started to seep in around us, and I saw that our desert environs were quite majestic. It was five o’clock in the morning. The sun lit up the sand and the toffee-colored rocks. The horizon was empty, interspersed with rocky hills. The landscape was both marvelous and nerve-racking.
Later, in Seoul, while researching online, I would learn that we were in the Gobi Desert, one of the most arid deserts in the world. But at the time I didn’t know that; I had no understanding of geography. Our sole objective was to march straight forth and surrender ourselves to the Mongolian army. It had been explained to us that they would transfer us to the South Korean embassy, because South Korea had signed an agreement with Mongolia to send defectors from North Korea to Seoul. We were about to find out if that was true.
* * *
For the moment, our priority was simply to survive in the desert, since we had no provisions. The smugglers had given us each a bottle of water and a sausage link. Officially, the provisions were meager so that we wouldn’t get weighed down during our trek, and because, according to them, we would quickly meet the hospitable Mongolians. But I was dubious. Where did we go now? Luckily, behind the fence, we stumbled upon a road. Finally, we would find civilization. All we had to do was follow it, and we’d surely find a village and people.
But after three hours of walking, we still hadn’t seen a soul, and we started to feel doubtful, still traveling under the blisteringly hot sun. Were we on the right path? I was convinced that we were, but a few of the women weren’t quite so sure and wanted to turn back. At that moment, my gut was telling me to keep going straight forward, so I told the others that I’d go ahead and scout things out.
In front of the group, I advanced through the gravel, and soon, through the blinding sunlight, I made out what looked to be a hut hidden in the desolate landscape. I was just about to go inform the others of my discovery, when all of a sudden, two uniformed men riding horses appeared. Seeing their horses, I no longer had any doubt: we were in Mongolia. I didn’t know much about this country, but I knew that it had steppes and warriors on horses who had conquered China a long time ago, under the guidance of their leader Genghis Khan. Even the Chinese were afraid of these terrifying horsemen and bowed in their presence. In China, I had never seen border guards on horses. I was definitely in Mongolia. It was quite the sight. The men were almost as big as their horses. They galloped, whirled, and seemed resistant to the harsh climate of Mongolia, from the scorching summers to the harsh winters of negative thirty degrees Celsius (less than negative twenty Fahrenheit).
The two of them must have spotted me from afar. They quickly galloped over to our group. I was right: they were Mongolian soldiers. According to what I’d been told, they should not have been hostile. Yet the encounter did not go well. They searched all of us very roughly. They were clearly looking for money. Having found none, one of them started threatening us: “Give us all your cash, or else we’ll send you straight back to the Chinese guards!”
I was quite worried, even if I wasn’t sure I believed their blackmail. I had a sense they were taking their chances on us, seeing if they could pull the wool over our eyes. But they didn’t look like they were ready to follow through. Especially since they had nothing to gain by taking us back to the Chinese border, which was several hours away. Besides, the smugglers had told us that there wasn’t an agreement between China and Mongolia requiring Mongolia to send back North Koreans. What would the guards at the Chinese border do with five miserable North Koreans anyway? They already had a hard enough time patrolling the “green line.” They wouldn’t want to worry about us; we would just be an extraneous burden. These soldiers were bluffing. I stood my ground, but it was our three companions who would get things under control, and in quite the unexpected way.
Our three comrades finally succeeded in cajoling these two horsemen thanks to their supplies … of cosmetics! Like good Koreans, they had brought tubes of creams and lotions, and they convinced these wretched soldiers with cracked and dirty hands of their beneficial effects on the skin. In Korea, skin quality is considered the first attribute of beauty for a woman. As soon as we had earned a bit of money in China, we had bought tubes and boxes of cosmetics to pamper ourselves and protect our skin. But we never would have thought to bring them with us across the desert. Our travel companions hadn’t forgotten their makeup supplies, even for a perilous journey such as this one.
Satisfied with their new acquisitions, the officers locked us up temporarily in their barracks, where we waited the entire afternoon without knowing what was going to happen to us. And then, at night, a military vehicle tumbled in from the horizon, followed by a long trail of dust that floated up into the immense sky. This truck was obviously sent for us. Our Mongolian jailers were going to deliver us to the army.
The vehicle took us to a military base, which was also in the desert. There, the soldiers hid us away in a basement, in a building in the middle of nowhere, without giving us any explanation.
In this basement, I found women, children, and the elderly. Including us, there were a total of eighteen North Koreans who had tried to cross the desert in the last few days. We were no longer alone: we were part of an ever-growing group of refugees in search of liberty. It was reassuring to be part of such a group, even if we were still in captivity.
* * *
For two weeks, we stayed there. The only things to eat were foul-smelling soup and fermented milk, which the Mongolians loved but that I quickly learned to hate. I had never missed kimchi so much before. No Korean can go for more than a few days without this spicy cabbage, fermented for several weeks in jars with red spices. Foreigners have a hard time getting used to this food that sets your mouth on fire and has a very strong taste. But for the Korean people, rice, meat, and vegetables are so bland without kimchi. It’s as addictive as a drug, really. In the middle of that desert, I longed for my roots. And since I am a gastronome, I take deep pride in our national dish. I have survived through famines and situations that were much worse, but there, in that forsaken country where we didn’t know what was to become of us, it was the lack of kimchi that would bother me the most.
* * *
One day, when we no longer expected even the smallest of miracles to occur, the guards came to get us from our confinement area cave, and when we were released, we were shepherded into a military vehicle that transported us across the steppes of Mongolia toward the capital city, Ulan Bator. On the way there, we passed caravans of camels. It was the first time I’d seen these strange animals in real life. We were in the middle of nowhere, and no one knew if we would actually survive this long journey. Luckily, in this empty landscape, we started coming across more and more vehicles. I began to feel hopeful again, and it seemed to me that we were heading toward civilization—much better than being in the steppes. For just a few years in China, I had gotten a taste of city life, after our miserable life on the farm. I had truly become a city girl.
When we arrived in Ulan Bator, I couldn’t believe my eyes: the sidewalks were cracked, the houses were dilapidated, and there was not a single skyscraper in sight. Everything was gray, dirty, and seemed to be in ruin. This run-down place could not be a capital city. After living in China, I was astonished at the sight of such a decrepit city. However, it was in this broken, Soviet-style city that we were supposed to find our salvation.
But they did not let us go yet. We were sent into an enormous military base where seventy other North Koreans had been detained and were still waiting. How much longer was this going to take?
But at last, a pleasant surprise: we had rice and kimchi! The canteen was stocked by the South Korean embassy. We no longer felt abandoned; our brethren from the south seemed to be taking care of our departure. Furthermore, it was safer for us behind these high walls, since North Korea also has an embassy in Ulan Bator and could also “take care” of our departure. Outside the walls of the South Korean embassy, we risked falling into the hands of their agents. I didn’t know if this fear had any basis in reality, but after all the trials and tribulations I had just gone through, I was prepared to expect anything.
* * *
After three days of waiting, I was called in for an interrogation with a South Korean official. I was nervous, but Mom was right there next to me. I responded carefully to all the questions. They wanted to know everything: where I was from, how I’d gotten here, whether the woman next to me was really my mother. These questions were justified; South Korea was always on the lookout for possible spies from the north who would try to infiltrate the south. The two countries are still technically at war. The diplomats are also equally wary of Chinese citizens of Korean heritage who pretend to be defectors so that they can obtain visas for the economically well-off South Korea.
For a month, we were interrogated over and over again, each interviewer asking for more details than the last.
During this time, I got to know the other escapees quite well and realized that they had gone through many of the same things we had, but that my family and I had nonetheless been fairly lucky. We befriended a man who had become so dehydrated in the desert that he had had to drink his own urine. During his struggles with thirst and hunger, the two women who had been accompanying him disappeared in the vast sands of the desert.
I will never forget this man, whose health was rapidly deteriorating. He was in his fifties and had already tried several times to escape, but was sent back to North Korea, where he was savagely tortured. Weak-bodied and diabetic, he finally reached Mongolia, where he thought he would finally make it to freedom. But we had to watch him wither slowly, eaten away by his pain and suffering.
During one particularly sunny day, just a few steps away from me, he looked like he was having a seizure. He was shaking violently and frothing at the mouth. I was so scared. We immediately laid him down and called for help. But there was no medicine available here. Half an hour later, he was dead; he succumbed to the tribulations that he had had to endure up until now, which provoked this epileptic shock. Our group’s morale just vanished. We begged the diplomats, in vain, to bury his body in Korea, our homeland. To this day, his body rests, alone, in Mongolia—so close to reaching the promised land of South Korea.
* * *
After a month had passed, the interrogations finally stopped and we were all transferred to a camp on the outskirts of the city. At least it was summer, so we didn’t have to suffer through the terrible Mongolian winter. We were much more comfortable in our new camp; there were only four of us in each room. Outside was the steppe, and we could go out and play soccer to kill the time.
There, we understood that we were on the last leg of our long journey, before boarding the airplane toward our new lives. The countdown had begun. Every week a vehicle came to take a group of defectors in the order that they had arrived.
However, our turn was behind schedule, because the departures were suspended for several weeks. And just like that we feared that there would be a problem at the last minute. But it was explained to us that the delay was simply because the South Korean president, Roh Moo-hyun, had just come to Mongolia on official business. I never quite understood exactly why that stopped us from leaving, but politics often don’t make much sense to the politically disengaged. Perhaps the South Korean diplomats were simply too busy to worry about us?
After waiting two more months, it was finally our turn to leave via the Chinggis Khaan International Airport, about twelve miles from the city. I was already sick of Mongolia and its ever-changing weather, which was already cold even though it was only the end of summer. The smugglers who’d taken us to the Mongolian border had promised us that we’d be in Seoul within forty days, but it had already been four months.
* * *
And our journey wasn’t over yet. At the airport, with no explanation, we were put in a large gymnasium and had to wait yet another two weeks. Finally, one morning, the officials gave me a little green booklet with my photo, my name, and a stamp on one of its pages. At the time, I had no idea this was a passport. It was only later that I learned the significance of what I was given that day.
Then they brought us to the airport and loaded us onto a big airplane. They recommended that we not talk to anyone during the flight.
When the engines started whirring, I sat back in my seat. I had never flown on an airplane before, but after all I’d gone through, I thought that it couldn’t be so bad. And when the plane took off, I watched through the window as the airport become smaller and smaller until it disappeared.
It was only at that moment that I finally felt that we were saved. I was overcome with a vast sense of relief. While we were in Mongolia, I constantly feared that something bad was going to happen to us. But now, on this plane, we were en route toward South Korea, under the care of the South Korean authorities. No one could stop us now. It seemed unbelievable, but we had finally made it.
The plane was not completely full, and everything went smoothly during our three-hour flight. We were even served lunch. We were just a small group of North Korean defectors among the rest of the passengers, who probably had no idea who we were, nor what we had experienced before arriving at this point.
The plane started making its descent and my ears started hurting. The captain announced that we would soon arrive in Incheon, South Korea’s international airport. I looked out the window and saw the sea, and the magnificent beaches that cut through the blue water. It was September, and the sun was shining brightly. I’ve made it to heaven, I thought.