left the orphanage, she moved to a small
school outside Pyongyang. The other girls and I wrote a
farewell letter and shed tears because we knew we'd never
see her again. I couldn't have imagined I'd run into her in a
street market; she had aged so much in just a few years.
"Excuse me, Teacher Oh?" Pushing through the passersby, I approached her and sized up her brown, oval face; I was sure who it was when I saw the small mole under
her lip. Teacher Oh fell silent; I thought perhaps she hadn't
recognized me.
"Do you remember me, Teacher Oh?" I asked, getting
closer to let her see my face.
She smiled. "How can I forget you? Little dancing girl..."
She grabbed my wrists and held them lightly, as she used
to do whenever she asked me to dance and sing in front of
my classmates. I reminded her of "Blood Sea," the women's
emancipation song: how I would sing it in front of the class,
while she sang with me from the back of the classroom with
flushed cheeks.
On that day, she closed her tiny stand for several hours.
Like almost everyone, Teacher Oh had two jobs. In the
morning, she taught students at a small school, where half
of the students didn't come regularly. In the afternoon, she
came to the market to sell bread. She didn't have time to
bake it herself, so she bought it from old ladies who baked
in their houses but couldn't compete with the loud voices of
other vendors. She didn't make much money at the market,
but it was better than just staying in the house and not even
trying to escape her poverty.
Holding my hands, she smiled bitterly and said, "I had no
idea that selling things to other people could be so hard. But
what else can I do! I already sold all my beloved books."
She had been an ideal teacher. She was honest and didn't
abuse her authority like other teachers. She had taught Kim
Il Sung's books passionately, and we had studied together as
friends would.
"You know, Jia, life can change in a flash, or lead you
in an unexpected direction. Nothing is as precious as life. Trust me, I have seen death with my own eyes..." Her eyes
looked much older because of the deep wrinkles that ran
from their edges.
She continued, "My husband and daughter died on the
same day. How could I have imagined such a hell? My youngest daughter always clung to my skirt, complaining about
how noisy her stomach was, and one day, after she came back
from the school, she seemed to have no energy left. But, you
know, people are all like that now, so I didn't care. I was sick
of hearing her complain-it only made me hungrier. I was
tired of telling her that our Dear Leader would soon solve all
the problems. The longer the situation continued, the more
restless I became. When I saw my neighbors heading to the
markets and not to their usual jobs, I knew I should do something too. But I couldn't leave the country and become a
capitalist merchant: my life, devoted to the Party and its ideology, would have lost all meaning. I ignored my husband's
suggestion to start selling our goods. I mocked him and told
him his brain was being rotted by hunger."
Just then, two kkot ebi ran past us, like bullets shot out
of a gun. Behind them, a young woman, who looked much
younger than me, shouted, "Damn you! I'll kill you next
time I see you."
Teacher Oh stopped speaking. Her eyes followed the
kkot ebi, who held new shoes in their hands and disappeared
around a corner. She heaved a deep and long sigh.
"When my daughter came back from school, she was
quiet and spoke in a low voice. `Mom, I'm sleepy,' she said. `I
slept all day in class. I didn't know until the teacher woke me
up that class already finished. On the way home, I walked
half asleep. I almost sank down on the ground, and Fin still
sleepy.' Then she fell asleep in a corner of the room, and died. My husband and I realized it only after several hours.
He went crazy. He cried out, "How can be this possible? My
daughter just died in front of me.
school outside Pyongyang. The other girls and I wrote a
farewell letter and shed tears because we knew we'd never
see her again. I couldn't have imagined I'd run into her in a
street market; she had aged so much in just a few years.
"Excuse me, Teacher Oh?" Pushing through the passersby, I approached her and sized up her brown, oval face; I was sure who it was when I saw the small mole under
her lip. Teacher Oh fell silent; I thought perhaps she hadn't
recognized me.
"Do you remember me, Teacher Oh?" I asked, getting
closer to let her see my face.
She smiled. "How can I forget you? Little dancing girl..."
She grabbed my wrists and held them lightly, as she used
to do whenever she asked me to dance and sing in front of
my classmates. I reminded her of "Blood Sea," the women's
emancipation song: how I would sing it in front of the class,
while she sang with me from the back of the classroom with
flushed cheeks.
On that day, she closed her tiny stand for several hours.
Like almost everyone, Teacher Oh had two jobs. In the
morning, she taught students at a small school, where half
of the students didn't come regularly. In the afternoon, she
came to the market to sell bread. She didn't have time to
bake it herself, so she bought it from old ladies who baked
in their houses but couldn't compete with the loud voices of
other vendors. She didn't make much money at the market,
but it was better than just staying in the house and not even
trying to escape her poverty.
Holding my hands, she smiled bitterly and said, "I had no
idea that selling things to other people could be so hard. But
what else can I do! I already sold all my beloved books."
She had been an ideal teacher. She was honest and didn't
abuse her authority like other teachers. She had taught Kim
Il Sung's books passionately, and we had studied together as
friends would.
"You know, Jia, life can change in a flash, or lead you
in an unexpected direction. Nothing is as precious as life. Trust me, I have seen death with my own eyes..." Her eyes
looked much older because of the deep wrinkles that ran
from their edges.
She continued, "My husband and daughter died on the
same day. How could I have imagined such a hell? My youngest daughter always clung to my skirt, complaining about
how noisy her stomach was, and one day, after she came back
from the school, she seemed to have no energy left. But, you
know, people are all like that now, so I didn't care. I was sick
of hearing her complain-it only made me hungrier. I was
tired of telling her that our Dear Leader would soon solve all
the problems. The longer the situation continued, the more
restless I became. When I saw my neighbors heading to the
markets and not to their usual jobs, I knew I should do something too. But I couldn't leave the country and become a
capitalist merchant: my life, devoted to the Party and its ideology, would have lost all meaning. I ignored my husband's
suggestion to start selling our goods. I mocked him and told
him his brain was being rotted by hunger."
Just then, two kkot ebi ran past us, like bullets shot out
of a gun. Behind them, a young woman, who looked much
younger than me, shouted, "Damn you! I'll kill you next
time I see you."
Teacher Oh stopped speaking. Her eyes followed the
kkot ebi, who held new shoes in their hands and disappeared
around a corner. She heaved a deep and long sigh.
"When my daughter came back from school, she was
quiet and spoke in a low voice. `Mom, I'm sleepy,' she said. `I
slept all day in class. I didn't know until the teacher woke me
up that class already finished. On the way home, I walked
half asleep. I almost sank down on the ground, and Fin still
sleepy.' Then she fell asleep in a corner of the room, and died. My husband and I realized it only after several hours.
He went crazy. He cried out, "How can be this possible? My
daughter just died in front of me.
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