Since its founding, North Korea has always had an elaborate bureaucracy for artistic production, organised within the Korean Workers party’s agitation and propaganda department. This framework was set up in emulation of the Soviet system under Stalin. Over time, this artistic bureaucracy has been increasingly adapted to promote the cult of personality surrounding the first leader Kim Il-sung and his descendants.
Among the many cultural products designed to promote the regime, one of the most important is literature. Aspiring writers in North Korea must register with the Korean Writers’ Union and participate in annual writing workshops. The KWU has offices in every province in the country. KWU editors evaluate each work on its ideological merits before allowing its publication in one of the party’s own literary journals. There are particularly strict rules regarding how the leaders and the party may be depicted in literature.
A writer’s life is highly competitive. Literary success means becoming a “professional revolutionary” with lots of perks: a three-month “creativity leave” every year, permission to travel freely around the country and special housing privileges.
Kim Ju-sŏng was one such aspiring writer. A “zainichi” (Japan-born ethnic Korean), he “returned” to North Korea in 1976 at age 16 as part of a wave of emigration encouraged by pro-North Korean groups in Japan and lived in the country for 28 years before defecting to South Korea. The zainichi returnees were an important propaganda tool as well as a source of income and foreign technology for the North Korean regime. Due to their foreign connections they enjoyed a relatively higher standard of living, but they also faced suspicion from the regime and prejudice from ordinary North Koreans.
Below are three excerpts from Kim’s memoir, Tobenai kaeru: Kitachōsen sennō bungaku no jittai (The Frog that Couldn’t Jump: The Reality of North Korea’s Brainwashing Literature), translated by Meredith Shaw. In it, he describes working at his local KWU branch as an office assistant. The first excerpt begins as he is meeting with his superior shortly after starting the job.
“By the way, how are you managing with the 100-copy collection?”
“Huh? What do you mean, the 100-copy collection?”
“The books in the safe. Don’t neglect your library duties. It’d be a disaster if anything leaked to the outside.”
I set off for the library at a run. There were books in that safe? I had no idea. I figured, at best, it would be a stash of treatises by the leaders on literary theory, or else records of secret directives for KWU eyes only. It turned out that the 100-copy collection was where the union stored translated copies of foreign novels and reference books that writers could access.
With the speed of a bank robber, I yanked out my key, turned the lock and opened the safe. Inside, tightly packed together, were nearly 70 translated copies of foreign novels. Seeing them, I crumpled to the floor in shock.
The first title to jump out at me was Seichō Matsumoto’s Points and Lines, a Japanese psychological thriller published in 1970. With growing excitement, I fumbled through the stack. There was Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, O Henry’s The Last Leaf, Alexandre Dumas fils’ The Lady of the Camellias, Takiji Kobayashi’s Crab Cannery Ship, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron, Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind; and, most exciting of all for me, Seiichi Morimura’s Proof of the Man, a Japanese detective novel that tells the story of a manhunt from Tokyo to New York.
I had joined the KWU in the late 1980s. At that time, the only foreign literature ordinary North Koreans could access was that of other socialist nations, chiefly the USSR and China. I had read Russian writers like Maxim Gorky, Anton Chekhov and Leo Tolstoy, as well as the Chinese classic The True Story of Ah Q by Lu Xun. Occasionally, translations of classics like Shakespeare’s works were published. But nobody even dreamed of seeing literature from enemy countries such as the US and Japan.
Some zainichi returnees like myself had brought books from Japan, which we passed around secretly. One of these was Proof of the Man. Upon finding a Korean-language copy in the 100-copy collection, I was struck by the quality of the translation. I later learned that it had been done by a zainichi acquaintance of mine who worked as a translator.
“Those sneaky bastards. If we ordinary citizens were to read this we’d be put away for political crimes, but they get to enjoy it all in secret,” my zainichi friend grumbled when I showed him.
“You can’t tell anyone about this. I’d get arrested.”
“Hey, they don’t have any graphic novels, do they? I’d love to see Golgo 13, Blackjack, or Captain Tsubasa again.”
Having stumbled upon this windfall, I devoured the contents of the 100-copy collection. My favourite was Guy de Maupassant. I was deeply impressed by his short stories The Necklace and Boule de Suif and used them as models for my own work.
Any mismanagement of the 100-copy collection would be prosecuted as a political crime, since it would in effect be distributing capitalist reactionary materials to the public. I don’t understand the logic, but I’ve heard that the Narcotics Control Law deems it a greater crime to sell or transport illegal materials than to consume them.
Use of the 100-copy collection was restricted exclusively to our writers, and lending to civilians was illegal. But somehow a rumour got out, and I was besieged with requests. Most came from party bureaucrats or their children, and it was hard to refuse them. The most popular request was for Proof of the Man. The three-volume set was ragged and dog-eared with use.
One time a funny thing happened. A big shot from the KWP administration bureau asked to borrow the book. His section controlled party advancement and appointments, so I wasn’t about to refuse him. (Of course, it also didn’t hurt that he passed me a carton of Mild Seven cigarettes.)
More than a month passed and I hadn’t got it back. To my increasingly pointed reminders, he always asked for “just a little more time”. The 100-copy collection had to undergo an annual inspection, at which time all the books had to be in order. An inspector was dispatched from the central KWU organisation, and if even one volume was missing, there could be dire consequences. If I was unlucky, I might be expelled from the KWU or even face legal prosecution.
With the inspector’s visit just a week away, I grew concerned enough to visit the official’s home. However powerful he may be, the 100-copy collection fell under the purview of the party’s propaganda and agitation department, and thus was beyond the reach of local cadres. If I let things get out of control, I could forget about becoming a writer – I’d be lucky if I wasn’t sent to some remote farm for the rest of my days. Summoning my courage, I arrived at the party officials’ exclusive apartment block and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” a young woman’s voice chirped at the same instant the door opened. The delicious aroma of roasting meat assailed me. Before my eyes was a pale young beauty in her 20s.
“I’m from the KWU. Is the comrade director at home?”
“Ah, you’re here about the book? Come on in. My father’s not home yet. He’s gone to Pyongyang on business.”
“In that case, I’ll come another time. If you could get the book back within a week, I’d be much obliged.” But my feet just kept right on moving into the entryway.
I’d heard that the official had a daughter attending the University of Fine Art, but I’d never met her before. I forgot all about the book, enchanted by her radiant beauty and smile, and allowed her to draw me into the home.
“I heard your union has many diverting books. I’m a great lover of books myself, my father is always bringing them for me.”
It was the first time I’d ever been inside a party official’s home. Emboldened by my curiosity, I looked around as she chattered. It was equivalent to a four-bedroom, quite luxurious by North Korean standards of the time. In the parlour was a leather sofa, a Hitachi colour TV with a VCR and impressive speakers – in other words, posh digs. I was always hearing that party cadres lived incredibly well, but I’d never imagined it was this fabulous.
Suddenly, three more beauties appeared in the entryway. They were all friends of the director’s daughter from the university. The sight of them arrayed around me was quite breathtaking.
“You are a novelist? But you’re so young, and tall.”
“Oh, no. I’m just a common citizen who hopes to become a novelist someday.”
They giggled in unison as I joined them on the sofa.
“What’s so funny? Do I have something on my face?”
At my side, the director’s daughter punched me lightly on the shoulder. “La, ‘citizen’… There’s no need to use such stuffy terms. Do we look like peasants to you?” She punched the remote control, and a South Korean music video appeared on the screen.
A cup of coffee appeared before me. The scent of Nescafé Gold Blend filled my nostrils. Sitting there, watching the South Korean singer Kim Jong-hwan belt out the ballad Reason for Existence, I felt like questioning my own existence. What are these people? Is this still North Korea?
Nowadays, whenever people ask my nationality, I always reply that I’m an alien from the planet Baltan. But the elites of North Korea are from a completely different galaxy.
Feeling like a man bewitched, I suddenly wanted to get the hell out of there. It was terrifying to sit there blithely doing things that under ordinary circumstances would get me shot.
“Listen, about that book … Do you have it here?”
“Yes, it’s here. We’ll be finished by tonight actually. I was just about to return it.”
It shortly became clear what she meant by “finished”. The beautiful girls all took out their school notebooks, and in each one I saw Proof of the Man written out word for word.
“Hold on – have you been copying this book?”
“Oh, the story’s just so moving and lovely. These two are in the drama department and they wanted to show it to all their friends. And it’s just so complicated getting books from the 100-copy collection.”
“Maitta!” I swore in Japanese without thinking.
“Huh? What’s that mean?”
“Nothing. But this is a real mess you’ve made. If you’re found out, we’re all screwed.”
“Oh, nonsense. We’re all daughters of party officials, they won’t arrest us. But why is it wrong to read such a wonderful book? It’s the same with songs, too. Isn’t it natural for a frog in a well to want to see the wider world?”
“A frog in a well … Really, you tadpoles are something else. Look, just keep this whole thing under wraps, and try to get it all done tonight, OK?”
The beautiful tadpoles kept their promise and protected the secret. Proof of the Man was returned in good order. As for the hand-written copies, I have no idea what became of them. I can only imagine they went some way toward changing the mindset of the younger generation and fertilising a new revolutionary consciousness.
I believe the reason my writing received poor evaluations lay primarily in my choice of genre. All of my stories took place in Japan, or had zainichi as the main characters. In North Korea these were dismissed as “foreign works”, the catch-all term for anything about the wider world. Like anywhere, in North Korean literary circles there is a fair amount of specialisation, and each writer has his or her own style and character.
The most highly regarded genre, it goes without saying, is No 1 literature – that is, works about members of the ruling Kim family. This is not a genre that just anybody can write. In order of esteem, the genres of North Korean literature are:
1) No 1 works: stories about the achievements and personalities of the Kim family.
2) Anti-Japan partisan works AKA revolutionary works: stories set within the colonial-era independence movement.
3) War works: stories set during the Korean war.
4) Historical works: stories set during the Yi, Koguryo or Koryo dynasties.
5) Real-life works: stories about ordinary society from the postwar to the present.
6) South Korean works: stories set in South Korea.
7) Foreign works: stories set anywhere outside Korea.
I was involved with foreign works. Aside from No 1 works, writers had free choice of any genre, and we were also free to move around and experiment between genres. But only the most elite, accomplished writers were permitted to produce No 1 works.
Of course, writing is not limited to fiction; there were writers specialising in poetry, children’s literature, plays, translation and film scriptwriting. I produced many works of fiction, but all fell within the “foreign” genre, and thus were considered ideologically and politically inferior to, say, partisan or real-life works.
As an aside, I’d like to briefly describe the KWU organisation. At the top is the chairman, followed by the vice-chairmen in charge of fiction and poetry, respectively. Below that are separate divisions for fiction, poetry, theatre, foreign literature in translation, children’s literature and production for the masses. From the 1980s, a new renaissance came to North Korea, known as the “film revolution”, which brought big changes to the KWU as well. It was reorganised under the General Literary Arts Union with separate but equal divisions for Korean Literature Production and Korean Film Literature Production. This was based on Kim Jong-il’s policy of encouraging competition by putting literature and film on equal footing.
I entered the KWU at a time when this competition between film and literature was at its peak. Because Kim Jong-il was such a passionate film buff, the literature writers were always treated as doormats by the screenwriters. From then on, film and literature developed separately as instruments of state persuasion.
At any rate, I repeatedly failed to win any literary awards – the key to career advancement – despite diligently carrying out my KWU assignments. I waited patiently for my chance at admission to the main university writing program.
That chance came and went twice as I worked at the KWU. Both times I received recommendations and was permitted to take the entrance exam, but both times I failed. Why I failed, despite receiving good marks and being highly recommended, was something I came to understand later.
Japan is known as a country of bibliophiles, with detective novels and historical fiction particularly popular. North Korea also has many books, though they are not what you would call popular. The overwhelming majority – indeed, almost all of them – are books glorifying the Kim family.
Aside from the many books and treatises attributed to Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il themselves, there are also “morality testimonies” idolising the two Kims.
These are first-person accounts by individuals who have had personal encounters with the leaders.
In South Korea, I am sometimes asked if I ever met Kim Il-sung or Kim Jong-il. I reply: “If I had, I would not have left the country.”
“Why?” they ask. “Are such people monitored more closely?”
“Not at all. In fact, they receive special benefits. In one fell swoop their lives become rose-coloured – rainbow-coloured, even. In North Korea, the Kims are gods. If you receive the favour of the gods, your whole life changes, doesn’t it?”
As for precisely how one’s life changes, that varies from case to case, but it is never short of miraculous.
I believe the Kim dynasty’s formula for governing basically boils down to “extreme contrasts”. Put simply, by singling out one person as a sacrificial lamb, you train 10,000 others to behave. And by bestowing miraculous good fortune on to one, you draw the devotion of another 10,000. It’s the classic carrot-and-stick approach.
The sticks can take many forms, but most notable are the countless purges. But what of the carrots?
As leaders of the nation, the Kims have always travelled the country conducting “on-the-spot guidance”. During these tours, individuals who encounter the leaders are divided into two categories: witnesses and interviewees.
A witness might be someone who saw the leader up close or got included in a group photo with him. Out of countless witnesses, a few are blessed to become interviewees – meaning people who actually exchanged words with the leader. In other words, one’s level of treatment depends on whether or not one actually “spoke with God”.
For example, suppose the leader visits a factory somewhere. The local party organisation will have decided beforehand which people will be granted an audience with the great man – typically the factory managers and model workers – and these become witnesses. Should one of those witnesses manage to converse with Kim, that person becomes an interviewee. The rest of the factory workers are usually sent home early or shuttled somewhere out of the way during the encounter. Some factories leave people working during guidance visits, but those workers would be told: “The general is coming through here, don’t you dare turn around.”
I’ve heard of factories that shoved workers into a storage locker when one of the Kims dropped by unexpectedly. So it’s not like just anybody can become a witness.
For those who do, the rewards are various, but a commemorative photograph with the leader is standard. This photograph serves as the interviewee’s “license”; it is beautifully framed and hung prominently in the home like a family heirloom. If you acquire such a portrait, from that moment on the local party takes special care of your family. This can mean more rapid promotion at work, a bigger home or permission to send your kids to better schools.
For interviewees, the rewards are several degrees greater. It varies depending on the content of the conversation, but the greatest reward I’ve heard of included a permit to move to Pyongyang, a luxury apartment and a Mercedes-Benz.
The witnesses and interviewees who receive such miracles are thus spread throughout the country, fervently proselytising about the largesse of the Kim family to their friends and neighbours. These encounters with the godlike Kims are memorialised through those “morality testimonies”.
These stories take two basic forms: those written by the witnesses themselves, and those recounted by one of us writers.
I’ll give you an example.
Late one night, a car braked suddenly on the streets of Pyongyang.
“What is it, General?” the cadre riding shotgun turned with concern to Kim Jong-il in the back seat.
“That light in that apartment window over there. I wonder who’s still awake at this late hour. Let’s go find out.”
“But General, your guards are not with us, and we haven’t cleared it with the events bureau. Why don’t I at least check it out first, while you wait in the car?”
“You’re saying I need protecting from something, at this late hour? Will you not be satisfied unless you wake up a bunch of people and make a big fuss for my benefit? Like the Great Leader Kim Il-sung always said, ‘A leader who does not trust his people is a leader who does not trust himself.’ The Great Leader’s government is a just government that gives everything for the people.”
With that, the General left the car and headed toward the still-lit apartment. His faithful aide looked after him with misty eyes, moved by the sight of the Leader carrying on his late father’s motto, “Serve the people as heaven”.
“Who is it?” said the woman who answered the door at his knock.
“I am Kim Jong-il. I saw that your light was on so very late and wondered what you were doing.”
Suddenly confronted by the general, the lady of the house was unable to move. Sensing her sudden change in mood, her husband rushed over, followed by their two daughters, a twentysomething and a 10-year-old. Everyone promptly burst into tears of joy.
Kim Jong-il tried to calm them. “Hush, now, your neighbours are sleeping. If it’s not too much of an intrusion, might I enter and have a word with you?”
And so the general joined this very ordinary family at their table. “Now, tell me what on earth you are all doing up so late?”
Nobody answered; they all just sat with downcast eyes, fighting back tears. Just as the general was wondering if perhaps someone had died or there’d been some calamity, the younger daughter spoke up.
“General, Father’s going to become a party member tomorrow. We’re all just so happy we can’t possibly sleep.” Then, as if pulled by an invisible trigger, the whole group burst into tears at once. Realising that these were tears of joy, the general sighed with relief.
He looked about the room. In one corner someone had been ironing a suit, and the elder daughter held a card case that she had been embroidering with colourful nylon thread, clearly meant for the father to carry his party membership card in.
“And what were you doing?” he asked the younger daughter, gesturing for her to sit on his lap.
“It’s a secret, I haven’t told anybody yet.”
“Will you share your secret just with me? I promise not to tell.”
“Really? Then let’s go to my room. Everybody else keep out!”
“Hey munchkin, you’re being rude to the general. Get back here,” her father said, trying to stop her.
But Kim Jong-il just waved him off with a smile. “That’s all right, I’ve got kids of my own, you know.”
Entering the girl’s room, the general found a colourful bouquet of azaleas lying on a chair. “And what have we here?”
“They’re the flowers I’m going to put at the Great Leader’s statue tomorrow. For the past 10 days I’ve been wishing for them to bloom, and they did!”
“Where did you find them?”
“Outside the city, with my friends. We had to walk really far, way up in the mountains.”
“And why did you choose to offer azaleas?”
“As a thank you for my father becoming a party member. Since there’s not much else I can do, I thought I could at least offer the Great Leader his favourite flowers. But …”
“But what? You can tell me.”
“I don’t know what else to offer him!” And she burst into tears.
The general held her tightly and stroked her hair. “That’s all right, your thoughtfulness is enough. These azaleas that you made bloom with the warmth of your feeling are the most beautiful treasure in the world.”
The story ends there. There may be an epilogue stating that a few days later the family received several new appliances and pieces of furniture as gifts from Kim Jong-il. The father got rapidly promoted, and the younger daughter grew up to become a high-level party official.
That should give you some idea of a typical “morality testimony”. In fact, I just made it up, deploying the particular creative skills that are unique to North Korean writers. But there are countless others following this basic pattern.
This piece first appeared in issue 10 of the Dial
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