I was shivering uncontrollably, my strength completely gone. I managed to raise my head, and when I did, I saw a light in the distance. It seemed to be coming from a house.
How strange to turn on the light. Who would do such a thing? I wondered. Turning the light on at night in North Korea was tantamount to high treason. I couldn’t stand up, but I found I could move enough to crawl. So I crawled toward the house with the light on.
Then I heard barking in the distance.
I must have drifted off, but when I woke up, a man I didn’t know was carrying me on his back. I couldn’t speak. I tried, but my lips refused to move. My vocal cords seemed to be paralyzed. I couldn’t even grunt. I tried to move my fingers. Nothing. But wait. I could move my eyeballs. Where was I? I tried to look around.
Bushes. A dog. What was it doing, leaping about like that, racing around this strange guy’s feet? Wagging its tail. Barking.
The man started talking to it. What was he saying? I couldn’t make it out.
I tried once again to say something. But I still couldn’t get a sound out. I tried again. Nothing.
The man kept on talking to his dog, in a kind voice.
And suddenly, it came to me. People didn’t keep dogs in North Korea. They ate them. This dog was a pet. This wasn’t North Korea. It was China. I’d made it. I couldn’t believe it. It was nothing short of a miracle.
Despite my excitement, I was overcome by fatigue.
I fell asleep.
Born again.
When I woke up, the man was watching over me. I wanted to explain who I was, to thank him for his help, but I still couldn’t speak. I tried to sit up, but he stopped me.
“It’s okay. You need rest. Try to sleep,” he said.
Later, he fed me rice gruel. He lifted the bowl and put the spoon to my lips.
If I’d had the strength, I’d have wept at his tenderness.
The gruel made me dizzy. I hadn’t eaten for so long, my body couldn’t take it. I felt as if I’d knocked back a bucket of alcohol.
I fainted.
I drifted in and out of consciousness for two days. I don’t remember anything about it. But then, on the third day, I woke up feeling full of energy. It was strange. I mean, I didn’t exactly leap out of bed, but I suddenly found I could stand up; I could walk. I looked around, gradually taking in my surroundings. I saw a TV, a fridge, a washing machine, a sofa bed, a motorbike, and a bicycle too. Unimaginable luxuries.
The man who’d rescued me came in. He was an elderly Korean named Kim, and he was the kindest person I’ve ever known.
I explained my situation in all its complexity.
“I’m not Korean. I’m Japanese. I’m trying to get back to Japan. I have to rescue my family. Can you help me?” I asked.
He took a puff on his cigarette. “You can’t even get to South Korea nowadays. But Japan!” he said.
He told me about other people who’d escaped from North Korea. Not Japanese, of course. Native North Koreans. I was stunned when he told me what had happened to them. Even if they made it to the South Korean embassy in Beijing—no small feat, when you think of the distance and dangers involved—they were given the cold shoulder.
They were told, “We don’t want to damage our relationship with China. I’m afraid we can’t help you. You’re on your own.” In other words, do us a favor and get lost.
After the Korean War, China and North Korea had a “friendship signed in blood” in which they agreed to a “Border Security Cooperation Protocol.” Fancy words for a simple process: if you escaped from North Korea but your luck ran out and you got caught, you were sent back.
Cue the firing squad.
As for South Korea, trade with China was all that mattered. That was evidently far more important than helping your own brother.
But Kim was all right. He was a good man, and I trusted him completely.
“Let me talk to my sons and some friends I can trust. I’ll sort something out. Don’t worry,” he said.
I looked around and wanted to weep at what I saw. The telephone on the table. A radio. Some fruit in a bowl. The dog snoozing by the window. Compared with North Korea, this was Shangri-La.
After a while, Kim returned with two men in their forties who turned out to be his sons, Chorusu and Choro. To me, they looked incredibly wealthy in their smart, tailored clothes and their Japanese watches. Like their father, they traded flour, rice, and other staples with North Korea. That was the legal side of their business. They also traded stuff that was under embargo—silver, antiques, and the like.
“I buy up old Japanese money that was used in the colonial era and sell it to a Japanese collector. He can’t get enough of it. Suits me!” explained Chorusu.
They said they traded farther upstream, where the river was narrower. Luckily for them, the younger brother, Choro, used to work for the Security Service, and some of his friends were still members. So he knew how they operated, which was useful. He suggested I keep moving around. Which was exactly what I did. I stayed with him, his brother, his father, trusted friends.
Chorusu’s house seemed like paradise, with all its electrical appliances, the mountains of white rice and pork, and fellow traders who were constantly stopping by to play cards. Everyone was smoking and gambling and having a good time. They all called one another “buddy” or “bud” or “pal.” It took me back to my Korean junior high school days in Japan. It was clear to me that they respected Chorusu. And because I was his guest, they were always very polite and kind to me, which was quite a refreshing change. I felt guilty about enjoying these luxuries when I thought of my family back in North Korea, but I knew that if I was going to have any chance of helping them, I needed to get my own strength back first.
After a few days, I suddenly got the idea to call the Red Cross in Tokyo. Just like that, a memory came to me from way back in the eighties, of a man who had written to the Red Cross to help him get in touch with lost relatives in Japan. A little while later, he received a response, a “Tracing Request Form.” The man was so happy to get a response that he showed the form to anyone who cared. I caught a glimpse of the address and phone number when he showed it to me, and I thought, Wait a minute! This could be useful. So I memorized the information on the spot. I can remember it to this day.
I asked Chorusu how to make an international phone call. Then I picked up the phone and dialed. I held my breath as I listened to endless clicks and buzzes.
But it worked. Someone answered. A female voice.
I couldn’t understand a word. It was Japanese all right. But it had been so long. I was rusty.
“I’m Japanese. I’m in China. I go to North Korea with my family. Long time ago. 1960. I come back to Japan. I beg you.” It was all I could say.
So I said it again and again.
She couldn’t understand what I was saying. But she had the sense to put me through to another department.
“How can I help you?” a man asked.
Suddenly I could speak a little more clearly. My Japanese was coming back to me.
“My name is Ishikawa. I’m a Japanese citizen. My father was Korean. My mother Japanese. Way back in 1960, my father was conned into taking us to North Korea. We were promised a new life in a paradise on earth. The Japanese government was all for it. The United Nations knew all about it. Your charity was happy to supervise the greatest mass migration in the history of the world. Have you any idea what you did to us? You consigned us to a living hell. I’ve finally escaped. No one else has. I’m the first. The rest of us are dying or dead. It would be nice if you could help me get home.” It all came pouring out of me.
Silence.
I’ve gone too far, I thought.
But then he spoke. And he sounded troubled.
“Okay. Please wait a moment. I’ll call the Red Cross in China,” he said.
A kind but ludicrous response.
“Are you out of your mind? If you do that, I’m a dead man.”
I pointed out to him that the Chinese authorities wouldn’t care what the Red Cross had to say. They’d just send me back, and I’d be shot.
He finally understood how difficult my situation was.