Out of North Korea

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

Here I am again at my desk, except by now I suppose Captain Sadist must not consider me a flight risk because even though my wrists are handcuffed together, I’m not shackled to the furniture anymore. Maybe I’ve progressed from being a bad prisoner to a below-average prisoner.

Do North Koreans give their captives time off for good behavior? I seriously doubt it.

I’ve been ordered to write my confession again, the real reason I crossed the border and sneaked into North Korea, which is what they tell me I’ve done. Last night, after standing in my little bad-boy corner for what felt like hours, I was allowed to sleep — still in nothing but my boxers — and now the sun’s just coming up for the day.

The Real Reason I Crossed the Border into North Korea. I’ve been promised that once I pass my writing assignment, I’ll be rewarded with some sort of breakfast. My first meal since I woke up here yesterday.

When I was a kid, school felt just like a prison. And writing essays, that was torture. It wasn’t until I joined the high school newspaper that I realized the truth. If I’m allowed to write exactly what I wanted to write, I adore it. Add in the photography skills I first learned at a summer community class, and my destiny as a photojournalist was sealed.

For years, that’s what I’ve done. As a freelancer blessed with a ten-thousand-dollar camera and a few fortuitous connections from my grad-school days, I’ve set my own hours, deadlines, and assignments. Until digital technology finally surpassed my own learned skill, I developed my film by hand, but now I’m addicted to the tech. It’s been years since I’ve used pen and paper. I do all of my writing by dictation, yes, even most of my emails. None of these wide-ruled sheets of notebook paper that transport me into traumatized flashbacks of sixth grade English class.

For many writers, there’s absolutely nothing more intimidating than a blank page. I write my name in the top right-hand corner. I’ve even given my essay a working title. How I Ended up in North Korea.

Unfortunately, that’s all I’ve got down so far. Either Mr. Chuckles doesn’t know or doesn’t care that someone captured me in China, drugged me, and brought me here. I have no memories whatsoever of my journey, and every once in a while I wonder if I’ve ended up as part of some kind of terrible social experiment. Maybe in a minute or two, a whole slew of American film students is going to come out from behind the woodwork, slap me on the back, and tell me what a good sport I’ve been. For all I know, I’m still in China and this whole North Korea act is a gimmick.

I start writing on the page. One of Grandma Lucy’s favorite Bible verses says If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed, and connected to that in my head is another one of her Scripture quotes: The truth shall set you free. Don’t ask me where it’s from. I haven’t opened a Bible in a decade, even the one she gave me as a Christmas present a few years ago, but her words play in my mind nonetheless.

The truth shall set you free.

Except my oh-so-pleasant guard doesn’t believe me when I tell him the truth, so here I am. Stuck.

The truth shall set me free?

Seeing as how — yet again — I have literally nothing to lose, I give a little shrug and start my essay once more. This time, I add a subtitle.

My summer vacation in a North Korean jail.

Hey, my name’s Ian McCallister. Did I mention yet that I’m an American? Got my passport somewhere. Maybe if you let me have my pants back I can dig through the pockets and show you.

You guys want to know what I’m doing in your blessed country of North Korea. Sure. I can answer that one. And just in case you’re worried that I’m making stuff up, I’ll even voluntarily put myself under oath. I, Ian McCallister, a resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts, do hereby swear that I am in my own right mind and under no compulsion — save for the handcuffs around my wrists — to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Except I’m pretty sure you guys are supposed to be even greater atheists than I am, so that leaves us in a kind of bind, doesn’t it? I could swear on your Dear Leader or something like that, but I’m not sure how happy that’d make your higher-ups.

This is my essay on what I did over summer vacation in North Korea.

I got drugged. I woke up. And here I was.

What I’ve learned from this big mistake is to never take candy from a stranger, and always bring a buddy with you to the club so you can keep an eye on each other’s drinks.

I would like to apologize to the North Korean government for any hassle my unwilling abduction may have caused and hereby formally and with all due respect request that as a punishment for my crimes, I get sent back to my home in the United States ASAP. I also would hate to think that I might be leaving any incendiary or revolutionary materials behind to corrupt your impressionable masses. Therefore, I humbly request that my laptop, camera, and all other recording information suffer the same fate as I will.

Respectfully yours,

Ian (who I hope is no longer on your naughty list)