Korea is certainly a different world when you are working in an office all day as opposed to talking to people on the streets.
Britt asked me to post about the internship I am currently working at. Instead of writing a long blog, I decided it better to just include the following letter, as it will do a better job explaining what I am doing than I probably can.
To Boknam Choi:
Mother, it has been more than ten years since I left your embrace. You quietly held my hand as I was leaving, whispering, "My youngest daughter, don't die, and live to go where you hope to go." I saw you silently wiping away the tears that rolled down your face, but I still left you. Today I miss you so much that I pick up my pen to write you a letter.
At the youthful age of twenty, I stopped wanting to study and joined you in selling noodles, bread, and ricecake. We suffered to get through each day. Sometimes, we were chased off the marketplace; sometimes, a bunch of wanderers on the streets would steal all of our ricecake and I would come home crying. You would always blame yourself and father for the suffering I went through. Even after I got my acceptance letter to college I could not go because of our family's state, and you hugged me tight and held my hand as I made the decision not to go.
You married the only son in a family that had had one son each generation, and you gave birth to four daughters. How they must have blamed you for everything and mistreated you for our births! After I grew up, I heard from the other women in town that the day after I was born, you weren't even treated to miyeok-guk (Korean traditional soup, well-known to be good for women who just gave birth), and instead you had to go out to the fields to work. When the neighbors told you to stop working, you would say, "I wasn't even able to give birth to a son. How could I expect to be treated like a mother?" You kept working, even as your whole body became swollen and your sweat soaked all your clothes. You named me Bok-nam (bok meaning "luck" and nam meaning "boy" in Chinese characters) because you hoped that your next child would be a son. I whined many times that my name was like a boy's name. You always took the blame and accepted that as your destiny.
When I became old enough to realize what was going on around me, I would see Father coming home, drunk each night, and my three sisters, you, and I would shake before him like sinners. Whenever he tried to beat us, you would cover us like a hen covering its chicks and be beaten instead.
Six years later, when our brother Geum-cheol was born, my sisters and I sang, "Hooray!" for you would no longer be subject to Father's irrational anger and bitterness. I was seven, but I was old enough to understand the situation and be happy.
You were always fond of me because I was born right before your son was born. My sisters were jealous, but we all knew that such feelings were never hate-filled or evil. When my sisters graduated high school they were all sent to work, but when I graduated, you encouraged me to go to college, selling off everything our family had.
The years of 1996 to 98… They were like nightmares. The whole town was dying out of disease and starvation, and Father's illness grew worse. I could not sit there and be your "hope," I had to throw away what dreams you had made for me and start earning money to sustain our family. You and I would work all day and bring home a bowl of noodles, and that would be the greatest profit we ever made. Sometimes, we weren't even able to make enough money for what we had put in. They were truly days that felt more like inescapable nightmares.
You married the only son in a family that had had one son each generation, and you gave birth to four daughters. How they must have blamed you for everything and mistreated you for our births! After I grew up, I heard from the other women in town that the day after I was born, you weren't even treated to miyeok-guk (Korean traditional soup, well-known to be good for women who just gave birth), and instead you had to go out to the fields to work. When the neighbors told you to stop working, you would say, "I wasn't even able to give birth to a son. How could I expect to be treated like a mother?" You kept working, even as your whole body became swollen and your sweat soaked all your clothes. You named me Bok-nam (bok meaning "luck" and nam meaning "boy" in Chinese characters) because you hoped that your next child would be a son. I whined many times that my name was like a boy's name. You always took the blame and accepted that as your destiny.
When I became old enough to realize what was going on around me, I would see Father coming home, drunk each night, and my three sisters, you, and I would shake before him like sinners. Whenever he tried to beat us, you would cover us like a hen covering its chicks and be beaten instead.
Six years later, when our brother Geum-cheol was born, my sisters and I sang, "Hooray!" for you would no longer be subject to Father's irrational anger and bitterness. I was seven, but I was old enough to understand the situation and be happy.
You were always fond of me because I was born right before your son was born. My sisters were jealous, but we all knew that such feelings were never hate-filled or evil. When my sisters graduated high school they were all sent to work, but when I graduated, you encouraged me to go to college, selling off everything our family had.
The years of 1996 to 98… They were like nightmares. The whole town was dying out of disease and starvation, and Father's illness grew worse. I could not sit there and be your "hope," I had to throw away what dreams you had made for me and start earning money to sustain our family. You and I would work all day and bring home a bowl of noodles, and that would be the greatest profit we ever made. Sometimes, we weren't even able to make enough money for what we had put in. They were truly days that felt more like inescapable nightmares.
The situation was the same for my sisters, who had all been married off by that time. When we had nothing to sell from our home, Father died. He held your hand and my hand tightly, saying, "Forgive me. It would be more helpful to you if I died," and heavy tears dropped from his eyes. He left, not even having the peace to close his eyes. Fifteen days after he died, you met a Chinese man who was just visiting his family. You begged him to take me away and save my life, because we would all die together. I said that I would die with you, but you said angrily, "I'm old, and I will die soon anyway. But why should you die? You are young. You should live. Don't worry about me. It's one life, one mouth to feed. I can survive on my own. Go, and contact me when you are settled." And that was the last promise we ever made to each other.
I crossed the Aprok River safely, but unfortunately, I met a broker that sold off North Korean women to Han Chinese men. There, in my mid-20's, I was sold off to a Chinese man in his early-50's for 5000 won in Chinese money. I lived in pain and suffering that a woman could not possibly imagine, and when I felt that I could no longer live, I ran away but was caught. They beat me just until I was about to die from my wounds, and then the man sold me off again.
A crippled man came to get me. I could not live in this state, a state worse than an animal, and I decided to kill myself instead. I jumped off a running train, and when I woke up I was at the house of an old Chosun-Chinese couple. Thanks to their help, I was able to receive treatment for one month, and after hearing my story they started to look for a way to send me to South Korea.
I had to go through Laos and Thailand to get to Korea, and I suffered a great deal, but now I am without any worries. As I crossed each border, I had a million thoughts running through my mind. After I came here and became settled, I tried to reach you, but they said that you disappeared one day and didn't know what happened after that. It makes me shudder to think that you, old with age and starving, died on the streets. You have lived your whole life in this hard, bitter world, and I believe that you are strong enough to be alive somewhere, waiting for my news to reach you.
Mother! I am still looking for you. You cannot die before you meet your youngest daughter. We have to meet. We must. I finished my studies at an academy and now I am working at a company. I have saved a sufficient amount of money. This money is all yours Mother. My feelings and insistence upon finding you remain the same. Let's meet again and live happily. You must come to me, safe and alive, so I can finally fulfill my duties to you as your daughter. Then I could give birth to a son and relieve you of the suffering you went through because you could not give birth to a son.
Dearest Mother!
I have so much more to say, but today I stop here.
Please, please be alive and well.
I crossed the Aprok River safely, but unfortunately, I met a broker that sold off North Korean women to Han Chinese men. There, in my mid-20's, I was sold off to a Chinese man in his early-50's for 5000 won in Chinese money. I lived in pain and suffering that a woman could not possibly imagine, and when I felt that I could no longer live, I ran away but was caught. They beat me just until I was about to die from my wounds, and then the man sold me off again.
A crippled man came to get me. I could not live in this state, a state worse than an animal, and I decided to kill myself instead. I jumped off a running train, and when I woke up I was at the house of an old Chosun-Chinese couple. Thanks to their help, I was able to receive treatment for one month, and after hearing my story they started to look for a way to send me to South Korea.
I had to go through Laos and Thailand to get to Korea, and I suffered a great deal, but now I am without any worries. As I crossed each border, I had a million thoughts running through my mind. After I came here and became settled, I tried to reach you, but they said that you disappeared one day and didn't know what happened after that. It makes me shudder to think that you, old with age and starving, died on the streets. You have lived your whole life in this hard, bitter world, and I believe that you are strong enough to be alive somewhere, waiting for my news to reach you.
Mother! I am still looking for you. You cannot die before you meet your youngest daughter. We have to meet. We must. I finished my studies at an academy and now I am working at a company. I have saved a sufficient amount of money. This money is all yours Mother. My feelings and insistence upon finding you remain the same. Let's meet again and live happily. You must come to me, safe and alive, so I can finally fulfill my duties to you as your daughter. Then I could give birth to a son and relieve you of the suffering you went through because you could not give birth to a son.
Dearest Mother!
I have so much more to say, but today I stop here.
Please, please be alive and well.
I hope you could get past some of the bad translation and get a feel for what Saejowi (the NGO I am interning for) is working with. Every year, two thousand or so North Korean refugees make it into South Korea. There are a lot more that get out of North Korea, but for whatever reason (one of which you read about in the letter) don't get out of China.
Many of the NGOs concerned with North Korean refugees help bring them to South Korea through the "underground railroad" in China, which is something that I would love to help with (don't tell our parents), but Saejowi works only with those that have come to the South and made it through the assimilation process.
You can look at the NGO's website for some detailed information on all of their activities. I am responsible for everything English, including translating letters (like the one above) and activity reports, teaching English classes once they get started, and helping my boss with her doctoral dissertaion by researching articles and books written in English. Aside from the research, my responsibilties are fairly basic and usually boring. BUT, being around Koreans, particlualry North Koreans makes the experience a fun one.
Things are just getting started with my own research project here, and I will make sure to post an explanation of that sprinkled with some interesting statistics when we get finish the surveys.
In the meantime, everyone needs to see the movie, The Crossing. I really don't know anything about life in North Korea, but from what I have heard/seen/learned/ this movie is spot-on. I dare you not to cry.
I cried. I am passing it on to the ladies in the ward who keep asking what you two are doing.
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