In Order to Live: A North Korean Girl's Journey to Freedom

by Yeonmi Park

But as I began to write this book, I realized that without the whole truth my life would have no power, no real meaning. With the help of my mother, the memories of our lives in North Korea and China came back to me like scenes from a forgotten nightmare. Some of the images reappeared with a terrible clarity; others were hazy, or scrambled like a deck of cards spilled on the floor. The process of writing has been the process of remembering, and of trying to make sense out of those memories. Along with writing, reading has helped me order my world. As soon as I arrived in South Korea and could get my hands on translations of the world’s great books, I began devouring them. Later I was able to read them in English. And as I began to write my own book, I came across a famous line by Joan Didion, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” Even though the writer and I come from such different cultures, I feel the truth of those words echoing inside me. I understand that sometimes the only way we can survive our own memories is to shape them into a story that makes sense out of events that seem inexplicable.

Along my journey I have seen the horrors that humans can inflict on one another, but I’ve also witnessed acts of tenderness and kindness and sacrifice in the worst imaginable circumstances. I know that it is possible to lose part of your humanity in order to survive. But I also know that the spark of human dignity is never completely extinguished, and that given the oxygen of freedom and the power of love, it can grow again. This is my story of the choices I made in order to live.

This worship of the Kims was reinforced in documentaries, movies, and shows broadcast by the single, state-run television station. Whenever the Leaders’ smiling pictures appeared on the screen, stirring sentimental music would build in the background. It made me so emotional every time. North Koreans are raised to venerate our fathers and our elders; it’s part of the culture we inherited from Confucianism. And so in our collective minds, Kim Il Sung was our beloved grandfather and Kim Jong Il was our father. Once I even dreamed about Kim Jong Il. He was smiling and hugging me and giving me candy. I woke up so happy, and for a long time the memory of that dream was the biggest joy in my life. Jang Jin Sung, a famous North Korea defector and former poet laureate who worked in North Korea’s propaganda bureau, calls this phenomenon “emotional dictatorship.” In North Korea, it’s not enough for the government to control where you go, what you learn, where you work, and what you say. They need to control you through your emotions, making you a slave to the state by destroying your individuality, and your ability to react to situations based on your own experience of the world.

My mother tried to help people when she could. Homeless wanderers would sometimes knock on our door to beg for food. I remember one young woman who brought her daughter to our house. “I’m so cold, so hungry,” she said. “But if you give me food, I’ll let my baby eat.” My mother understood that feeling because she had young children, too. She invited them inside and gave them both plates of food. I watched them closely, because the daughter was nearly my age. They were very polite, and ate delicately even though they were starving. I wonder often if they survived, and if they are still in North Korea. There were so many desperate people on the streets crying for help that you had to shut off your heart or the pain would be too much. After a while you can’t care anymore. And that is what hell is like.

Before we reached Hyesan, the train stopped suddenly between stations. People were saying that one of the street kids had crawled onto the roof of the train and was killed when he touched a live wire. We were delayed while they removed the body, and some people seemed annoyed. Otherwise the incident didn’t seem to bother anyone.

I never knew freedom could be such a cruel and difficult thing. Until now, I had always thought that being free meant being able to wear jeans and watch whatever movies I wanted without worrying about being arrested. Now I realized that I had to think all the time—and it was exhausting. There were times when I wondered whether, if it wasn’t for the constant hunger, I would be better off in North Korea, where all my thinking and all my choices were taken care of for me.

I read to fill my mind and to block out the bad memories. But I found that as I read more, my thoughts were getting deeper, my vision wider, and my emotions less shallow. The vocabulary in South Korea was so much richer than the one I had known, and when you have more words to describe the world, you increase your ability to think complex thoughts.

Reducing the horror of North Korea into a simple allegory erased its power over me. It helped set me free.

Everything was so new to me. I could finally think about something beyond food and safety, and it made me feel more fully human. I never knew that happiness could come from knowledge. When I was young, my dream was to have one bucket of bread. Now I started to dream great dreams.

But then a remarkable thing happened: Despite my distress, I stopped praying for myself. For the first time in my life, I found myself praying for others. And then I realized why I was there. The feeling had been growing in me for some time now. I had read a powerful book called Don’t Beat Someone, Even with Flowers, written by a famous Korean actress and humanitarian named Kim Hye Ja, who became an ambassador for the World Vision International charity after she was taken on a tour of Ethiopia’s famine camps in the 1990s. Her moving account of the misery in Africa, India, and other places opened my eyes. It taught me the meaning of compassion.

Until I read her book, I thought North Koreans were the only ones suffering in the world. And even though many defectors talked openly about starvation and brutality, only a handful of women publicly admitted to being raped or trafficked. And certainly not as children. It was too shameful to discuss. So I thought I was the only one who had gone through these horrible things. But now I read that this had happened to other girls and women around the world. I was not alone. It made me realize that I was too absorbed in my own pain. But I still did not know how to cry for a stranger’s suffering. As far as I knew, it was impossible, because no stranger had ever cried for me.

Through helping others, I learned that I had always had compassion in me, although I hadn’t known it and couldn’t express it. I learned that if I could feel for others, I might also begin to feel compassion for myself. I was beginning to heal.

I was surprised that he cried when I was finished with my story. I told him that all I wanted was a chance for freedom, just as he had here in America. The man’s emotional response opened my mind to the power of my own story. It gave me hope for my own life. By simply telling my story, I had something to offer, too. I learned something else that day: we all have our own deserts. They may not be the same as my desert, but we all have to cross them to find a purpose in life and be free.