how people from all over the world prostrated themselves in front of the Great Leader in gratitude for spreading his shining light for all to see.
None of the participants complained. Hero Kang had told me that most of them were the family members or employees of various foreign embassies and consulates here in Pyongyang. However, the government’s official line was that we were all Taekwondo enthusiasts who had traveled at great expense to bask in the glow of Korean martial arts and, most importantly, in the shining sun of the people, Kim Il-sung.
Personally, I wanted to throw up.
Hero Kang had registered me as one Captain Enescu from the Warsaw Pact country of Romania. Although they’d devised a phony passport for me, Hero Kang hadn’t had to show it; instead, he’d been able to utilize the power of his personality to overwhelm tournament officials.
After the ceremony, we were allowed to return to our trainers, who stood on the sidelines of the central wood-slat floor. Hero Kang, my trainer, slapped me on the back.
A whistle was blown. The first two combatants trotted out onto the floor, faced the judges and bowed, and thenfaced each other and bowed again. The order
“Junbi”
was given. Prepare. And finally,
“Sijak.”
Begin. The two men started bouncing around each other, fists raised. One of them shot out a side kick. It missed. The other countered with a roundhouse, which also missed.
I glanced at Hero Kang and raised my eyebrows.
“Kisul-ee potong an imnida,”
he said. Their skills are remarkable.
It was a joke. He’d told me earlier that many of the contestants were chosen just to fill slots in this supposed final round of the tournament and make it look as if there were a huge international throng here in Pyongyang to study Taekwondo. Some of the combatants, however, would be tough. They were security people who kept themselves in good shape, and, according to Hero Kang, some of them had taken up Taekwondo with true dedication.
In Seoul, I had earned a black belt studying part-time when my work schedule allowed. In the secret
dochang
Hero Kang had taken me to yesterday, the martial artists had coached me on tournament technique, the best way to score points and impress the judges who would be deciding the winners here today.
I glanced around. The men throwing practice kicks on the sidelines showed various levels of skill, but one of them, a tall black man, sliced the air with some serious punches and kicks.
“Maputo,” Hero Kang told me, “from the Mozambique freedom fighters. He won last year.”
“Only among the foreigners?”
“Of course. Against Koreans, he wouldn’t stand a chance.”
And I knew this was true. Every child in North Korea studies Taekwondo from the time they start school. Those with potential are pulled out and sent to study at special schools for athletes. Once they’re in the military, highly skilled young men face enormous competition to land on the top military teams. If they make it, their only duty is to train and participate in martial arts competitions throughout the Communist world.
On the far side of the gymnasium, the People’s Army First Corps Taekwondo team was limbering up. They would be giving a demonstration after the foreign competition was completed.
The two men fighting now completed their third round, bowed to each other, and—breathing heavily, fists hanging to their sides—awaited the decision of the judges. The judges conferred, the combatants bowed once again, and the winner was announced. Another whistle was blown and two more men took the floor.
Here was the catch about this plan. I had to win the tournament. Not merely do well and come in second or third place, but win. Take the brass ring. If I didn’t, Hero Kang told me, I’d never be invited into the inner sanctum presided over by the political advisor to the commander of the First Corps, the army unit that guarded all access routes to the capital city of Pyongyang. And if I
None of the participants complained. Hero Kang had told me that most of them were the family members or employees of various foreign embassies and consulates here in Pyongyang. However, the government’s official line was that we were all Taekwondo enthusiasts who had traveled at great expense to bask in the glow of Korean martial arts and, most importantly, in the shining sun of the people, Kim Il-sung.
Personally, I wanted to throw up.
Hero Kang had registered me as one Captain Enescu from the Warsaw Pact country of Romania. Although they’d devised a phony passport for me, Hero Kang hadn’t had to show it; instead, he’d been able to utilize the power of his personality to overwhelm tournament officials.
After the ceremony, we were allowed to return to our trainers, who stood on the sidelines of the central wood-slat floor. Hero Kang, my trainer, slapped me on the back.
A whistle was blown. The first two combatants trotted out onto the floor, faced the judges and bowed, and thenfaced each other and bowed again. The order
“Junbi”
was given. Prepare. And finally,
“Sijak.”
Begin. The two men started bouncing around each other, fists raised. One of them shot out a side kick. It missed. The other countered with a roundhouse, which also missed.
I glanced at Hero Kang and raised my eyebrows.
“Kisul-ee potong an imnida,”
he said. Their skills are remarkable.
It was a joke. He’d told me earlier that many of the contestants were chosen just to fill slots in this supposed final round of the tournament and make it look as if there were a huge international throng here in Pyongyang to study Taekwondo. Some of the combatants, however, would be tough. They were security people who kept themselves in good shape, and, according to Hero Kang, some of them had taken up Taekwondo with true dedication.
In Seoul, I had earned a black belt studying part-time when my work schedule allowed. In the secret
dochang
Hero Kang had taken me to yesterday, the martial artists had coached me on tournament technique, the best way to score points and impress the judges who would be deciding the winners here today.
I glanced around. The men throwing practice kicks on the sidelines showed various levels of skill, but one of them, a tall black man, sliced the air with some serious punches and kicks.
“Maputo,” Hero Kang told me, “from the Mozambique freedom fighters. He won last year.”
“Only among the foreigners?”
“Of course. Against Koreans, he wouldn’t stand a chance.”
And I knew this was true. Every child in North Korea studies Taekwondo from the time they start school. Those with potential are pulled out and sent to study at special schools for athletes. Once they’re in the military, highly skilled young men face enormous competition to land on the top military teams. If they make it, their only duty is to train and participate in martial arts competitions throughout the Communist world.
On the far side of the gymnasium, the People’s Army First Corps Taekwondo team was limbering up. They would be giving a demonstration after the foreign competition was completed.
The two men fighting now completed their third round, bowed to each other, and—breathing heavily, fists hanging to their sides—awaited the decision of the judges. The judges conferred, the combatants bowed once again, and the winner was announced. Another whistle was blown and two more men took the floor.
Here was the catch about this plan. I had to win the tournament. Not merely do well and come in second or third place, but win. Take the brass ring. If I didn’t, Hero Kang told me, I’d never be invited into the inner sanctum presided over by the political advisor to the commander of the First Corps, the army unit that guarded all access routes to the capital city of Pyongyang. And if I
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