Long Road Home: Testimony of a North Korean Camp Survivor by Yong Kim, Suk-Young Kim Page A
Authors: Yong Kim, Suk-Young Kim
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did he give?”
I had nothing to say. They could not have seriously believed that I’d ever had a chance to see my father and inherit his espionage mission, since I was only an infant when he was executed. But they kept going with the same question.
“Tell me how your father passed on his espionage mission to you. What instructions did he give?”
I no longer had the strength to even open my mouth. The pain in my ear brought tears to my eyes.
“You bastard, you dirty son of a bitch, you fucking son of an American spy, how did you receive your espionage mission from your damned father?”
I was completely sleep deprived and could not react any longer. I had lost track of how many hours or days had passed. But I knew that if I told them what they wanted to hear, there would be no other punishment but a death sentence waiting for me. At moments, the sleep deprivation became so severe that I simply wanted to surrender, but I bit my lips to remain silent. As time went by, the interrogator became more and more infuriated by my stubbornness.
I soon learned that I was being held at Maram detention facility, which was located in the Yongseong district of Pyongyang. For the first three days, they treated me well. They put me in solitary confinement. Although it was small, it was clean and had wooden floors. Decent meals with boiled eggs were served. At the same time, they wanted me to write a confession letter explaining my activities as a spy, how I’d inherited my father’s defamed profession. They also requested that I clarify my mission at the National Security Agency and confess how I managed to get away with such a huge, deceptive plot for so long. I wrote the letter about my life exactly the way I knew it and explained that I never had any intentions other than serving the Great Leader and the Dear Leader.
I was kept at the detention center for three and half months. During that period I lost about thirty pounds due to daily torture. When I refused to write a letter confessing my treasonous crimes, they started to deprive me of sleep. When that did not work, they stuck sharp bamboo pieces under my fingernails until the nails fell off. The pain was sharp and nerve wracking. When that method did not work, they increased the level of pain and shock. They handcuffed me and hung me by the wrists for hours until the flesh around the wrists was torn. I still carry the scars from that torture to this day. One of the worst tortures I endured was to have my body, waist down, submerged in water in a tiny cell that prohibited me from moving. The cell was so tiny that I had to bend slightly in order to fit my body in. They kept me in that excruciating position for forty-eight hours. When I couldn’t stand it any longer and collapsed, they came and dragged me out. When I was not being tortured, they put me in solitary confinement in a tiny cell about two feet wide and five feet long and ordered me not to move an inch. When I couldn’t bear the pain any longer, they brought me blank paper and made me write confessions.
Physical torture at Maram detention facility was unbearable, but what was more tormenting was the feeling of betrayal. I had been completely loyal to Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il since I’d learned how to walk and talk. It was obvious that everything I did leading up to my arrest was for the greater good of our country. I worked harder than anyone else I knew, presented business plans that turned out to be more lucrative than others’, ran organizations more efficiently than conventional bureaucrats, and worshiped Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il as feverishly as those revolutionary heroes in movies. It was incomprehensible to me that I would be suspected of this treasonous crime. The great purpose that had defined my life was gone. Guilt by association was injustice itself, and the feeling of betrayal became the worst possible torture that broke me into a thousand pieces.
I could hear numerous voices of other
I had nothing to say. They could not have seriously believed that I’d ever had a chance to see my father and inherit his espionage mission, since I was only an infant when he was executed. But they kept going with the same question.
“Tell me how your father passed on his espionage mission to you. What instructions did he give?”
I no longer had the strength to even open my mouth. The pain in my ear brought tears to my eyes.
“You bastard, you dirty son of a bitch, you fucking son of an American spy, how did you receive your espionage mission from your damned father?”
I was completely sleep deprived and could not react any longer. I had lost track of how many hours or days had passed. But I knew that if I told them what they wanted to hear, there would be no other punishment but a death sentence waiting for me. At moments, the sleep deprivation became so severe that I simply wanted to surrender, but I bit my lips to remain silent. As time went by, the interrogator became more and more infuriated by my stubbornness.
I soon learned that I was being held at Maram detention facility, which was located in the Yongseong district of Pyongyang. For the first three days, they treated me well. They put me in solitary confinement. Although it was small, it was clean and had wooden floors. Decent meals with boiled eggs were served. At the same time, they wanted me to write a confession letter explaining my activities as a spy, how I’d inherited my father’s defamed profession. They also requested that I clarify my mission at the National Security Agency and confess how I managed to get away with such a huge, deceptive plot for so long. I wrote the letter about my life exactly the way I knew it and explained that I never had any intentions other than serving the Great Leader and the Dear Leader.
I was kept at the detention center for three and half months. During that period I lost about thirty pounds due to daily torture. When I refused to write a letter confessing my treasonous crimes, they started to deprive me of sleep. When that did not work, they stuck sharp bamboo pieces under my fingernails until the nails fell off. The pain was sharp and nerve wracking. When that method did not work, they increased the level of pain and shock. They handcuffed me and hung me by the wrists for hours until the flesh around the wrists was torn. I still carry the scars from that torture to this day. One of the worst tortures I endured was to have my body, waist down, submerged in water in a tiny cell that prohibited me from moving. The cell was so tiny that I had to bend slightly in order to fit my body in. They kept me in that excruciating position for forty-eight hours. When I couldn’t stand it any longer and collapsed, they came and dragged me out. When I was not being tortured, they put me in solitary confinement in a tiny cell about two feet wide and five feet long and ordered me not to move an inch. When I couldn’t bear the pain any longer, they brought me blank paper and made me write confessions.
Physical torture at Maram detention facility was unbearable, but what was more tormenting was the feeling of betrayal. I had been completely loyal to Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il since I’d learned how to walk and talk. It was obvious that everything I did leading up to my arrest was for the greater good of our country. I worked harder than anyone else I knew, presented business plans that turned out to be more lucrative than others’, ran organizations more efficiently than conventional bureaucrats, and worshiped Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il as feverishly as those revolutionary heroes in movies. It was incomprehensible to me that I would be suspected of this treasonous crime. The great purpose that had defined my life was gone. Guilt by association was injustice itself, and the feeling of betrayal became the worst possible torture that broke me into a thousand pieces.
I could hear numerous voices of other
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