Out of North Korea

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

About fifteen minutes later, my personal North Korean interrogator Happy Face storms back in. “You have your confession ready?”

My wrists are so chafed I could probably write an entire five-point essay in blood more easily than this.

“Going a little slowly,” I grumble.

“What? What did you call me?”

My new best friend apparently is afflicted with a scorching case of Little Man Syndrome. Lucky me.

“I said I need more time to work on it.” I over-enunciate every word, wondering if Korean culture has perfected the subtle art of sarcasm the way we have in the grand old US of A.

He snatches the paper from me. “What is this?” He squints at my scribbles.

“It’s my confession.” Admittedly, my handwriting’s illegible even when I’m not handcuffed to my desk. If you just let me have my smart phone, I could dictate my confession ...

“What does this say, American?” He shoves the paper into my face.

“Do you need me to read it to you?”

He pauses, as if considering. That answers my question about sarcasm. He lets out a scoff of sorts, which I can only take to mean that he’s taking me up on my offer.

I glance up. “You really want me to read this? Out loud?” I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to stand up and read an essay I’ve written. Okay, so technically I can’t stand up right at the moment, but it feels just as awkward. You know that dream about showing up to school in nothing but your underwear? I’m basically living it out right now.

Officer Good-Cheer scowls at me in dead earnestness. Seeing as how I have very little left to lose, I read — or attempt to read — the start of my confession.

“You asked me to explain how I ended up in your sacred little kingdom called North Korea. Let me tell you. There I was in China, on a visa with the full permission of both the Chinese government and the US Embassy, when all of a sudden, some thugs came up from behind and grabbed me and my friend.”

“Thugs?”

I blink at him. “Yeah. Thugs. You know, Godfather, Gangs of New York. Thugs.”

He blinks again.

I let out my breath. “Bad guys,” I finally translate for him, and he grunts something which I take to mean he wants me to continue.

“After about three nights in the Chinese jail,” I read, “and after being repeatedly denied the opportunity to speak to anyone from the US Embassy” — I steal a peek at him to make sure he’s following my big words — “I was given a pill, which I was told was headache medicine. I woke up here this morning with no clothes on except my boxers, and some thug” — here I admit to some slight on-the-fly rewording — “demanding to know what I’m doing in North Korea.”

“Liar!” The man lunges for my paper, tears it out of my hand, and proceeds to rip it up into little shreds. His eyes glisten menacingly, and I keep waiting for a director to yell cut and tell him he’s overdoing it.

“You are a bad prisoner.”

He stares at me expectantly, and I wonder what he’s waiting for. Does he think I’m about to cower with my tail between my legs or start bawling my eyes out because he called me something mean?

“For your punishment, you will stand in the corner and think about what you have done.”

I raise my eyebrows, the universal sign for seriously? He wants to me stand in the corner — in my boxers no less — and think about how bad I am? Is that what he’s saying? Should I tell him that in America, nobody gets put in timeout after the age of four?

“What are you doing, American?” he demands. “Why do you not obey?”

I have no idea why Lord of the Rings pops into my head now of all times, but I find myself making my best Sean Aston as Samwise impression by saying, “Begging your pardon, but last time I checked, I was still chained to this desk.”

I wonder if he’s going to tell me what a bad prisoner I am again, and if he does, I’m ready with a real doozy of a comeback: Oh yeah? Well I think you’re a lousy guard. So there.

He unlocks my cuffs, but not for long enough that I can stretch out this awful pain in my shoulder. Next thing I know I’m in the corner, my hands are cuffed behind my back, my nose pointed straight at the wall. My guard slams the door shut behind him, and in the silence, I’ve got all the time in the world to think about what I’ve done.

Like how I ended up here. I spent the summer between Seoul and China working on my documentary of North Korean refugees. Nothing illegal, nothing to warrant an arrest. I probably wasn’t too popular with the government over there because I was actually telling the world about the way the Chinese persecute North Korean immigrants, sending them home to face torture and imprisonment if they’re caught, but the last time I checked, my US passport still promised me the freedom of speech.

I wasn’t terribly surprised or even all that worried when I got arrested in China. I mean, what was the worst they could do? Slap my wrist and send me home, right? Except they didn’t send me home. They drugged me, and I woke up a prisoner of the North Koreans. I don’t understand any of it, and I’ve got to find a way to get free.

Hear that, God? Are you listening?

Discounting the last few days since my arrest, I’m pretty sure I haven’t said a single prayer since I graduated high school, but now I can hear my Grandma Lucy’s voice almost as clearly as if she were a little miniature angel sitting on my shoulder, shining halo over her head and everything.

Bless him, Father God, and fill him with great boldness and courage to spread your news to the nations, and yada, yada, yada.

I’ve made my way up and down the atheist/agnostic spectrum starting on day one of my undergrad orientation until now. But it’s still nice to know that somewhere I’ve got a little old granny lady praying for me. That woman is so annoying with her religious fervor that as soon as we’re done talking on the phone I have to jump onto my favorite atheist Reddit forum to vent, but as much as I despise the fundamental bigotry she stands for, I adore that little white-haired lady.

And I hope God doesn’t let me die before I get the chance to tell her that one more time.