began. “When foreign missionaries first traveled to the Korean Empire, my maternal grandfather as well as my paternal grandmother both sailed over from Britain. But unlike many other missionaries, they did not just live in Korea for a few years, do good works, and then return to their lives back home. They both learned the Korean language, took Korean spouses, and died on Korean soil.
“My father was born in what is now South Korea. My mother, like you, little daughter, grew up in the mountains of North Hamyong Province. Until they found one another, Mother and Father were quite alone. It was not easy for them to be the children of Westerners, half-breeds that were never accepted by their Korean peers. They both moved to Pyongyang as young adults, my father to attend seminary and my mother to help oversee a small Christian orphanage. During the Pyongyang revival of 1906, my parents met at church and fell in love.
“At that time, marriages were still arranged by parents with the help of a matchmaker. My father and mother wanted to marry each other, so they both wrote to their parents, asking them to come to Pyongyang for a season to help them arrange the match.
“Mother and Father loved each other deeply, but for many years after marrying they had difficulty bearing children. When I was born, Father was already in his late fifties, and Mother was not much younger. By that time, the entire Korean Peninsula was annexed by Japan. Korean children were offered very limited opportunities to receive an education, so it was Mother who taught me to read and write.
“We were all still living in Pyongyang when Japan lost the Great War and the Korean Empire was divided. My parents and I tried on three separate occasions to flee to the south, but finally my parents agreed that it must be God’s will for us to remain in North Korea. At that time there was still a significant Christian community in Pyongyang.”
The Old Woman paused and looked at the cement ceiling above her. “Little daughter,” she questioned, “do you know how many Christians live in our nation’s capital today?”
At first I was sure the Old Woman was joking. Christians in Pyongyang? The thought was absurd. “None.”
The Old Woman smiled. “Dear child, you are too quick to believe what your school instructors taught you. There are Christians in Pyongyang just as surely as there are birds outside this detainment center. These believers may be few and scattered, with very little strength or courage, but I have seen them.” Perplexed, I watched the Old Woman as she continued staring up toward the ceiling. Her blue eyes sparkled, as if she were catching a glimpse of something beautiful and glorious taking place where I saw only cracked cement and spider webs.
“I have seen them.” The Old Woman sighed. “My parents and I suffered much during the Peninsula War of the 1950s. We witnessed many crimes. I was twenty years old when the armistice was finally signed between North and South, and by then I was in love with an officer of the North Korea People’s Army.”
The Old Woman smiled, lifting her masses of wrinkles when she saw my surprise. “Like your friend Mee-Kyong,” the Old Woman confessed, her craggy voice lifting with an air of youthful gaiety, “I also was once blinded by love and imagined it was enough to overcome any of our religious or ideological differences.
“My parents were heart-broken. My beloved officer was as whole heartedly atheist as they were devoutly God-fearers. They begged me not to marry him, but at this point the matchmakers were obsolete; it was the children who chose their spouses. This decorated, atheistic officer and I were married in Pyongyang, and by the time I was twenty-two, I had borne my husband two healthy boys.”
I pictured my cellmate as a young mother. Traces of maternal beauty still radiated from the Old Woman’s wrinkled face. I imagined her voice as it must have been decades ago, light and airy as
“My father was born in what is now South Korea. My mother, like you, little daughter, grew up in the mountains of North Hamyong Province. Until they found one another, Mother and Father were quite alone. It was not easy for them to be the children of Westerners, half-breeds that were never accepted by their Korean peers. They both moved to Pyongyang as young adults, my father to attend seminary and my mother to help oversee a small Christian orphanage. During the Pyongyang revival of 1906, my parents met at church and fell in love.
“At that time, marriages were still arranged by parents with the help of a matchmaker. My father and mother wanted to marry each other, so they both wrote to their parents, asking them to come to Pyongyang for a season to help them arrange the match.
“Mother and Father loved each other deeply, but for many years after marrying they had difficulty bearing children. When I was born, Father was already in his late fifties, and Mother was not much younger. By that time, the entire Korean Peninsula was annexed by Japan. Korean children were offered very limited opportunities to receive an education, so it was Mother who taught me to read and write.
“We were all still living in Pyongyang when Japan lost the Great War and the Korean Empire was divided. My parents and I tried on three separate occasions to flee to the south, but finally my parents agreed that it must be God’s will for us to remain in North Korea. At that time there was still a significant Christian community in Pyongyang.”
The Old Woman paused and looked at the cement ceiling above her. “Little daughter,” she questioned, “do you know how many Christians live in our nation’s capital today?”
At first I was sure the Old Woman was joking. Christians in Pyongyang? The thought was absurd. “None.”
The Old Woman smiled. “Dear child, you are too quick to believe what your school instructors taught you. There are Christians in Pyongyang just as surely as there are birds outside this detainment center. These believers may be few and scattered, with very little strength or courage, but I have seen them.” Perplexed, I watched the Old Woman as she continued staring up toward the ceiling. Her blue eyes sparkled, as if she were catching a glimpse of something beautiful and glorious taking place where I saw only cracked cement and spider webs.
“I have seen them.” The Old Woman sighed. “My parents and I suffered much during the Peninsula War of the 1950s. We witnessed many crimes. I was twenty years old when the armistice was finally signed between North and South, and by then I was in love with an officer of the North Korea People’s Army.”
The Old Woman smiled, lifting her masses of wrinkles when she saw my surprise. “Like your friend Mee-Kyong,” the Old Woman confessed, her craggy voice lifting with an air of youthful gaiety, “I also was once blinded by love and imagined it was enough to overcome any of our religious or ideological differences.
“My parents were heart-broken. My beloved officer was as whole heartedly atheist as they were devoutly God-fearers. They begged me not to marry him, but at this point the matchmakers were obsolete; it was the children who chose their spouses. This decorated, atheistic officer and I were married in Pyongyang, and by the time I was twenty-two, I had borne my husband two healthy boys.”
I pictured my cellmate as a young mother. Traces of maternal beauty still radiated from the Old Woman’s wrinkled face. I imagined her voice as it must have been decades ago, light and airy as
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