Living apart had not improved their relationship. He still didn’t trust her to take care of him; she still
seemed tense in his presence. The teacher, however, told him to go home. So he went.
As unexpected as it had been for him to be sent home, there was a bigger surprise when he got there. His brother, Shin He Geun, had come home too. He worked at the camp’s cement factory,
located several miles away in the far southeast of the camp. Shin barely knew and rarely saw Shin He Geun, who had been out of the house for a decade and was now twenty-one.
All that Shin knew about his brother was that he was not a hard worker. He had rarely been granted permission to leave the factory to see his parents. For him to be in his mother’s house,
Shin thought, he must have finally done something right.
Shin’s mother was not delighted when her youngest son showed up unexpectedly for supper. She did not say welcome or that she had missed him.
Then she cooked, using her daily ration of seven hundred grams of corn meal to make porridge in the one pot she owned. With bowls and spoons, she and her sons ate on the kitchen floor. After he
had eaten, Shin went to sleep in the bedroom.
Some time later, voices from the kitchen woke him up. He peeked through the bedroom door, curious about what his mother and brother were up to.
His mother was cooking rice. For Shin, this was a slap in the face. He had been served a watery corn soup, the same tasteless gruel he had eaten every day of his life. Now his brother was
getting rice.
It is difficult to overstate the importance of rice in North Korean culture. It signifies wealth, evokes the closeness of family and sanctifies a proper meal. Labour camp prisoners almost never
eat rice and its absence is a daily reminder of the normality they can never have.
Outside the camp, too, chronic shortages have removed rice from the daily diets of many North Koreans, especially those in the hostile classes. Teenage defectors from the North, when they arrive
in South Korea, have told government counsellors of a recurring dream: they are sitting at a table with their families, eating warm rice. Among the elite in Pyongyang, one of the most coveted
signifiers of status is an electric rice cooker.
As Shin watched his mother cook, he guessed she must have stolen the rice, a few grains at a time, from the farm where she worked and secreted it away in her house.
In the bedroom, Shin fumed.
He also listened.
His brother was doing most of the talking. Shin heard that Shin He Geun had not been given the day off. Without permission, he had walked away from the cement factory, where he had apparently
done something wrong.
Shin realized his brother was in trouble and that he would probably be punished when the guards caught up with him. His mother and brother were discussing what they should do.
Escape.
Shin was astonished to hear his brother say the word. He was planning to run. His mother was helping him and her precious hoard of rice was food for the flight.
Shin did not hear his mother say that she intended to go along. But she was not trying to argue her eldest into staying, even though she knew that if he escaped or died trying she and others in
her family would be tortured and probably killed. Every prisoner knew the first rule of Camp 14, subsection 2: ‘Any witness to an attempted escape who fails to report it will be shot
immediately.’
His mother did not sound alarmed, but Shin was. His heart pounded. He was angry that she would put his life at risk for the sake of his older brother. He was afraid he would be implicated in the
escape and shot.
He was also jealous that his brother was getting rice.
On the floor of his mother’s bedroom, as the aggrieved thirteen-year-old struggled to contain his fear, Shin’s camp-bred instincts took over: he had to tell a guard. He got up off
the floor, went into the kitchen and headed out the door.
‘Where are you going?’ his mother
seemed tense in his presence. The teacher, however, told him to go home. So he went.
As unexpected as it had been for him to be sent home, there was a bigger surprise when he got there. His brother, Shin He Geun, had come home too. He worked at the camp’s cement factory,
located several miles away in the far southeast of the camp. Shin barely knew and rarely saw Shin He Geun, who had been out of the house for a decade and was now twenty-one.
All that Shin knew about his brother was that he was not a hard worker. He had rarely been granted permission to leave the factory to see his parents. For him to be in his mother’s house,
Shin thought, he must have finally done something right.
Shin’s mother was not delighted when her youngest son showed up unexpectedly for supper. She did not say welcome or that she had missed him.
Then she cooked, using her daily ration of seven hundred grams of corn meal to make porridge in the one pot she owned. With bowls and spoons, she and her sons ate on the kitchen floor. After he
had eaten, Shin went to sleep in the bedroom.
Some time later, voices from the kitchen woke him up. He peeked through the bedroom door, curious about what his mother and brother were up to.
His mother was cooking rice. For Shin, this was a slap in the face. He had been served a watery corn soup, the same tasteless gruel he had eaten every day of his life. Now his brother was
getting rice.
It is difficult to overstate the importance of rice in North Korean culture. It signifies wealth, evokes the closeness of family and sanctifies a proper meal. Labour camp prisoners almost never
eat rice and its absence is a daily reminder of the normality they can never have.
Outside the camp, too, chronic shortages have removed rice from the daily diets of many North Koreans, especially those in the hostile classes. Teenage defectors from the North, when they arrive
in South Korea, have told government counsellors of a recurring dream: they are sitting at a table with their families, eating warm rice. Among the elite in Pyongyang, one of the most coveted
signifiers of status is an electric rice cooker.
As Shin watched his mother cook, he guessed she must have stolen the rice, a few grains at a time, from the farm where she worked and secreted it away in her house.
In the bedroom, Shin fumed.
He also listened.
His brother was doing most of the talking. Shin heard that Shin He Geun had not been given the day off. Without permission, he had walked away from the cement factory, where he had apparently
done something wrong.
Shin realized his brother was in trouble and that he would probably be punished when the guards caught up with him. His mother and brother were discussing what they should do.
Escape.
Shin was astonished to hear his brother say the word. He was planning to run. His mother was helping him and her precious hoard of rice was food for the flight.
Shin did not hear his mother say that she intended to go along. But she was not trying to argue her eldest into staying, even though she knew that if he escaped or died trying she and others in
her family would be tortured and probably killed. Every prisoner knew the first rule of Camp 14, subsection 2: ‘Any witness to an attempted escape who fails to report it will be shot
immediately.’
His mother did not sound alarmed, but Shin was. His heart pounded. He was angry that she would put his life at risk for the sake of his older brother. He was afraid he would be implicated in the
escape and shot.
He was also jealous that his brother was getting rice.
On the floor of his mother’s bedroom, as the aggrieved thirteen-year-old struggled to contain his fear, Shin’s camp-bred instincts took over: he had to tell a guard. He got up off
the floor, went into the kitchen and headed out the door.
‘Where are you going?’ his mother
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