Somewhere Inside Part 3

Gore was relentless from the start. He told me of his close friends.h.i.+p with Deputy Secretary of State Jim Steinberg, who was the princ.i.p.al deputy to the secretary of state. In other words, he was the person who had her ear. Gore said he was speaking with Steinberg regularly, and it was determined early on that the best way to handle the situation was to get China to help persuade the North Koreans to let the girls go. China was an ally of North Korea, and North Korea relied on it for its economic survival. Within days, Gore had reached out to a number of high-ranking Chinese officials, including the Chinese amba.s.sador to the United States, Zhou Wenzhong. From early conversations, it seemed as if China was game to help.

But I wasn't content to stop there, and I started furiously looking for anyone with knowledge of North Korea. A few names came up repeatedly. One was Bill Richardson, the governor of New Mexico. He has had more successes than any other American in negotiating the release of Americans from North Korea. From his days as a member of Congress, Governor Richardson has been active in U.S.North Korean affairs. In 1996 he helped rescue Evan Hunziker, a young man who was accused of, but not tried for, espionage when he swam naked from the Chinese border into North Korea. Plagued by years of mental illness, Hunziker committed suicide a month after his return to the United States. Most recently, in April 2007, Governor Richardson made his sixth trip to the Communist country to recover the remains of American servicemen killed in the Korean War. More than thirty-three thousand American troops died in the Korean War from 1950 to 1953, and more than eighty-one hundred are still listed as missing.

I had never met Governor Richardson, but I was initially hesitant to reach out to him because of the controversy that had surrounded him in the weeks after Barack Obama won the presidential election. The president-elect offered him the position of commerce secretary, but Governor Richardson abruptly withdrew his nomination when an investigation into some questionable business dealings in his home state arose. He would be exonerated in August 2009, but this was still March, and I wasn't sure if the Obama administration would welcome the governor's partic.i.p.ation.

Making things even more complicated, when Richardson dropped out of the 2008 presidential race, he endorsed Barack Obama instead of Hillary Clinton. According to press reports, this upset former President Bill Clinton, a longtime friend of Richardson's, who first appointed him amba.s.sador to the United Nations and later secretary of energy in his administration. Now Hillary Clinton was the secretary of state. It seemed that, by all accounts, Richardson had fallen out of favor with the powers that be.

Still, a friend gave me the governor's contact information, and he responded to my call immediately. He sounded like someone who was unsure of how he stood with the administration, but he said he would try to help us as a private citizen. I liked Governor Richardson from the start. He seemed more like a regular guy than any other politician I'd ever met.

He asked me if the State Department had a plan for how to deal with our situation, and I told him that Beijing was being solicited for a.s.sistance. "The North Koreans hate dealing with China!" he tersely warned. "Trust me, the North Koreans will become very upset if the U.S. tries to involve China in any way."

He went on to say something that would be repeated to me by a number of ardent North Korea watchers: "What they [the North Koreans] want is to deal directly with the United States. North Korea is insulted by the six-party talks."

Begun in August 2003, the six-party talks are a negotiating process involving six nations-North Korea, the United States, South Korea, j.a.pan, China, and Russia-to bring about a peaceful resolution to the security concerns provoked by North Korea's nuclear ambitions.

Governor Richardson promised to call the State Department to offer his perspective on China's involvement and what he believed North Korea wanted. He also said he would reach out to his contact in North Korea's Foreign Ministry to see if he could get any information about our case.

Several days after our first conversation and just over a week after Laura and Euna's initial detainment, Richardson told me that both President Obama and Secretary Clinton had officially asked him to take on our case. They also asked him to maintain a low profile, given the sensitivities among the countries that neighbor North Korea.

"I'm telling you that they called me because I have already been advising you," the governor explained. "You can't say anything to anyone. Okay?" He went on to say that he'd told the State Department to cut China out of the process.

Governor Richardson felt confident that he could secure the girls' release. He said he was going to begin making overtures to his North Korean contacts and let them know that he would be point man for any negotiations should they happen. He also made sure to note that he was going to tell them he was prepared to jump on a plane to Pyongyang immediately. It gave us some relief to know that Governor Richardson was working on our behalf and that he still maintained his North Korean connections. At the end of our conversation, he reminded me that he had never failed to bring people home from North Korea and he had no reason to believe that this time would be any different.

CHAPTER THREE.

going to pyongyang LAURA.

THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE we were still at the motel, a doctor came to my room to check and sanitize my wound. As he removed the bandage, the room went dark. Another power outage. An official moved to the window to let in some light, and as he pulled the curtain aside, the entire rod of black fabric came cras.h.i.+ng down and natural light flooded the room, creating a hazy glow. we were still at the motel, a doctor came to my room to check and sanitize my wound. As he removed the bandage, the room went dark. Another power outage. An official moved to the window to let in some light, and as he pulled the curtain aside, the entire rod of black fabric came cras.h.i.+ng down and natural light flooded the room, creating a hazy glow.

After the doctor finished his work, I was left in the room alone. I sat and peered out the window. About fifteen yards away, I could see an electric train filled with downcast commuters. Also, there appeared to be a factory off in the distance and row upon row of small, ramshackle houses.

A few hours later we set off again on the dusty ride to Pyongyang. Euna and I clutched each other's hands in fear and kept our eyes closed. Early on, while traveling up a mountain road, the car's engine began to fail. We pulled off to the side, and when the escorts left the car, I lifted my head and looked around. People were walking and riding their bikes, but it was eerily quiet. People didn't seem to be talking to one another, just going along their way. Finally, we were on the road again.

By nightfall, we entered a small town and pulled up to a dilapidated gray building. The streets were dark and empty. The dim glow of candlelight shone through some windows of what looked to be a three-story apartment complex or dormitory; the others were pitch-black. There was no electricity. We were led into what looked like a family's kitchen and living room. The only decorations on the walls were portraits of North Korea's current leader, Kim Jong Il, and his father, the previous leader of North Korea since its founding in 1948, Kim Il Sung. It was hard to tell if this was a home that doubled as a restaurant or if our escorts had arranged for the woman of the house to prepare a meal for us. The room was spa.r.s.e, with just a low folding table in the center. We were each given a plastic box of rice, an egg, and kimchi, along with a bowl of seafood soup. A skinny kitten roamed around the room and rubbed up against our feet, waiting for sc.r.a.ps.

As I picked out the bones from the fish in the soup, the officials commented on how well I was able to use chopsticks with my left hand. Every time I've gone to Asia, people have commented about my being left-handed. In some Asian cultures, left-handedness is not desirable, and many parents force their children to use their right hand instead. Tonight I wondered if being left-handed made me seem even more peculiar to the authorities. Here I was-a left-handed, black-and-blue-bruised American of Chinese ancestry who could barely speak Chinese. I felt relieved that I at least had Euna to help communicate.

After the meal, we drove for roughly twelve more hours before pulling up to what appeared to be a government building. Another SUV was waiting in the parking lot, and it was clear that meant they were separating Euna and me. Suddenly my mind was swirling with questions. Would we ever see each other again? Were they going to let one of us go?

At this point Euna and I were allowed to use the restroom in the government office before beginning the next leg of the journey. We squeezed each other tightly and told each other to be strong. Without Euna, I was alone and lost.

I was taken to the new car, squashed between three officials in the backseat, and then we were off. I tried to make myself seem as small as possible and not take up too much room. Periodically a man in the front seat shone a flashlight onto my face to make sure I was looking down and my eyes were closed. I shuddered in fear each time the sharp rays penetrated my eyelids.

The distance from the border region where we were apprehended to the capital city is roughly three hundred and fifty miles. Our journey, over winding, rocky mountain paths and narrow dirt roads, ended up taking around twenty-four hours over the course of two days.

All of a sudden I could feel that we were driving on paved roads for the first time since we began the trip. My eyes had been shut for the past five hours. Finally I could sense the vehicle go up a steep driveway and heard a guard dog bark ferociously.

When I stepped out of the car and opened my eyes, I saw that it was early morning and could feel the raw wintry air. It didn't get any warmer when I entered the two-story building. A large chandelier hung in the entryway illuminating a giant mural of Chairman Kim Jong Il walking through a park on a brisk autumn day. Kim's austere image and that of his father are constants throughout the country, but especially in the capital.

As I looked at his iconic image on the wall, I wondered if Kim knew we had been taken captive in his country. I had known before our apprehension that there was a lot of speculation about Kim's deteriorating health after the stroke he suffered in 2008. Now it was unclear if Kim was the one calling the shots or if his ruling generals would dictate our fate. I didn't know which would be worse.

I was led into a corner room with portraits of the father and son hanging high on a wall. A stern-looking official with the face of an aging bulldog rose from behind a desk and started looking me over from head to toe. I bowed toward him politely. Two young women who appeared to be in their midtwenties followed his lead and leaped up from a couch in the corner to peer at me with ice-cold stares. The man led me into an adjoining bedroom and began speaking to another official who gruffly translated his orders to me in Chinese. I listened intently, hoping my basic knowledge of Mandarin would be enough.

"You will stay here and rest," he instructed. "Use the bathroom to wash up. If you need anything, ask one of these girls. Do you understand?"

"Yes, thank you," I replied in Mandarin. The two men left the room, leaving the two women guards to watch over me.

In the bathroom, I looked in the mirror for the first time in days. I could barely recognize myself. I was pale and gaunt, my right eye was black-and-blue, and my jaw was still swollen. A bandage was wrapped around my head covering the gash. I peered down at the neck of my turtleneck sweater and began picking off bits of dried blood that were stuck there.

"Who are you?" I whispered to myself. "How could you let this happen?"

It had been nearly a week since I'd spoken with Iain. And about ten days since my last Skype conversation with Lisa. Rarely would a day go by without my speaking to at least one of them. I'd never felt more alone or confused.

Iain and I met twelve years ago when we were both in college. We had mutual friends who were all going to a concert, and a group of us gathered at Iain's apartment before heading to the Shrine Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles. I literally bounced into Iain while dancing to the electronic beat of the Chemical Brothers, the British duo that helped popularize the electronic dance movement in the 1990s. While we didn't say much to each other in the blaring hall, I felt an instant connection between us. The next day I decided to get hold of Iain's telephone number and, at the urging of my roommates, rang him up. When he answered, I was at a loss for words. "Um, hi. This is Laura. I met you last night at the concert. I think I left my driver's license at your apartment," I said nervously, all the while holding my license in my hand. We ended up talking for an hour. A week later, Iain called me and asked me out to dinner and a movie. It wasn't until our one-year anniversary that I told him I'd had my license all along.

Iain was my first serious boyfriend and the only person I felt important enough to introduce to my family. I wanted him to meet Lisa. She was my best friend, and her opinion meant more to me than anyone else's. I was afraid that she might disapprove of our age difference-Iain was ten years older than me and working on his second master's degree. Anytime I mentioned him, she skeptically brought up his age, even though she had dated plenty of older guys. But I knew she was just being my protective big sister. Lisa and I consulted each other about practically everything. If I didn't like someone she was dating, she usually ended the relations.h.i.+p soon after. I didn't want that to happen with Iain. Fortunately, she and Iain got along from the start. Over the years they'd become like brother and sister. Iain, who is Australian-British, doesn't have any family in the United States and my family quickly adopted him as their own. At this confusing, scary time, there was some consolation in knowing that he would be with my family and not alone.

I made my way to the bed, sat up against the wall, and hugged my legs against my chest to provide extra warmth. It was so cold in the room that I could see my breath. But the blanket beneath me felt unusually warm. I reached my hand inside the yellow comforter and felt the heat from an electric blanket. I scrambled to get under the covers. Just as I was getting warmed up, the electricity went out. I wrapped the blanket around me tightly, not wanting to let any of the heat get away.

Compared with the cell I'd been in before at the border, this room felt s.p.a.cious. I was grateful to be lying in a bed and to have an adjoining bathroom. And though the guards watching my every move seemed cold and intimidating, I was thankful to have some human presence.

I poked my head out from beneath the covers and s.h.i.+fted my eyes over to the guards' area. Their room was connected to mine by a pair of folding doors, which were always left open so that the guards could look in at any time. Their quarters contained two couches, a desk, a small coffee table, a bookshelf with a collection of Communist teachings, and a television set. There was also a tall, freestanding heater and air-conditioning unit, which was not working.

The two guards were sitting and reading quietly. I hadn't encountered or seen anyone like them in North Korea. There was a casualness to their attire. They both had on makeup and appeared to be well groomed. Min-Jin, the older guard, who seemed to be the one in charge, appeared to be in her late twenties. She wore black slacks, black heels, a red turtleneck sweater, and a puffy black trench coat with faux fur trim around the hood. Her hair was pulled back neatly in a ponytail. Her red sweater was the first clothing I'd seen that wasn't a dark shade or army green. Kyung-Hee, the younger guard, had a round baby face. She had short straight hair and wore black slacks, sneakers, and a light-colored jacket. Every now and again I sensed her looking over at me curiously. I decided I'd try to communicate with them.

I crawled out of bed and took a few steps toward the room where they were seated. I tried to remember the Korean phrases Euna had taught me.

"Good morning," I said, stuttering as I tried to put the words together. "I'm sorry, I don't speak Korean. Do you speak English?"

"What do you want?" Min-Jin replied in broken English and in an arrogant tone.

"Oh, you can speak English," I responded, smiling in relief. "It's nice to meet you. Do you know what is happening with me? Is someone going to come see me?"

"Just wait," she replied harshly.

Kyung-Hee shot me a stony glare. I went back to the bed and buried myself inside the covers.

I was awakened several times during the night by the dog that was growling outside. I couldn't make out any other sounds. I didn't know if I was in the capital city, in the outskirts, or somewhere else entirely. There were windows in both rooms, but the curtains remained closed. I was told not to step anywhere near the windows.

The next morning I was brought into the guards' area and told to remain standing while several authorities crowded into the room. A photographer and videographer set up their equipment and began taking pictures. The bulldog-faced official I'd met the day before entered the room and sat at the desk. In a booming voice, he began reading from a doc.u.ment in Korean. A man standing to my right translated what he was saying. But he wasn't translating into English-instead he was speaking in Mandarin. I interrupted him and explained that I didn't understand what he was saying. This seemed to confuse everyone in the room. Whatever official announcement they were making was not going as planned. I stared at the floor, nervously waiting to be told what he was saying. I could sense from his tone that he wasn't going to tell me I'd just won a ticket back home.

The photographer kept snapping pictures of me, while various authorities consulted with one another in hushed voices. Finally they called over Min-Jin, the female guard who spoke some English. Until this point, she'd seemed confident, and had an almost superior air. But now that she was being asked to perform, she suddenly became scared and vulnerable.

Once again the official began his speech, with Min-Jin translating. He said that journalists have a duty to uphold the truth, to report on stories about injustice. Then he said: "You were trying to distort the truth and spread falsehoods about the Democratic People's Republic of Korea [DPRK]. You are not a good journalist."

I was surprised that his denouncement was devoted to my job as a journalist. He actually said very little about stepping into North Korean territory. I wondered how much they knew about the report we'd been working on.

"I'm very, very sorry," I responded, in tears.

"If you confess your crimes, openly and frankly, and express regret for your actions, there may be forgiveness," the man continued. "However, if you are not honest and frank, there will be punishment. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I responded dejectedly.

"Speak up!" the man ordered.

"Yes, sir!" I loudly proclaimed. "I understand."

Then they all filed out of the room, and I was left there with the two female guards.

"Go back to your room," Min-Jin instructed. "Someone will come to see you later."

"Thank you for translating," I said. "You did a very good job." Her lips curved into a slight smile. I could tell she appreciated the compliment.

I was relieved that I hadn't been given my death sentence and decided that the mention of forgiveness was a positive sign. But the word punishment punishment echoed in my mind. What sort of punishment could I be facing? I hoped a confession and an apology would be enough to win back my freedom. echoed in my mind. What sort of punishment could I be facing? I hoped a confession and an apology would be enough to win back my freedom.

A few hours later I was ordered back into the guards' room. A man entered carrying a red notebook. He introduced himself as my investigator, Mr. Yee. I bowed to him respectfully, and he motioned for me to sit down. He was dressed in the standard black suit, with a pin showing the founding leader, Kim Il Sung, on his chest. His hair was well groomed, and he smelled of fresh soap. He looked to be in his late forties. He had a kindness in his eyes that contradicted his stern demeanor.

He sat down at the desk, lit up a cigarette, and let out a few puffs while looking me over. Using Min-Jin to translate, he explained, "I will be handling your investigation. I will visit you every day, and I expect you to cooperate fully with my investigation. I am in charge of you, so anything you need or any questions you have, you can ask me."

Min-Jin's English was so elementary that I had to ask her to repeat herself several times before I fully understood what the investigator was saying. Mr. Yee handed me a few pieces of paper and told me to write down my education, career, and family history, with the ages of my immediate and extended family, including aunts, uncles, cousins, and their spouses. He exited the room, leaving Min-Jin to instruct me.

I was confronted again with the dilemma about describing what Lisa did for a living. I figured some government workers might have Internet access here in Pyongyang and that they could easily discover the work Lisa had done in North Korea. I kept remembering the words from that morning-forgiveness and and punishment punishment-so I decided to be honest. Next to Lisa's name, I wrote: "Freelance Correspondent." However, I did not disclose that Lisa was currently working for The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Oprah Winfrey Show, or that previously she had worked for National Geographic Television, CNN, and or that previously she had worked for National Geographic Television, CNN, and The View. The View.

I was also worried about saying what my father's job had been before he retired. My dad was once a civil service employee for the U.S. Air Force at McClellan Air Force Base in Sacramento. He'd been sent to Vietnam during the war to conduct safety of flight inspections on aircraft. I didn't want to tie my family to the U.S. military in any way, thinking this might further incense the North Korean authorities. "Retired," I wrote next to his name. I purposely misspelled it "McClelan," leaving out an l, l, and I didn't say it was an air force base. and I didn't say it was an air force base.

Mr. Yee returned, this time followed by another man, Mr. Baek, who introduced himself as a university professor who had been a.s.signed to be the investigation's official translator. Mr. Baek wore a short-sleeved, checked s.h.i.+rt and slacks. I liked him the minute I saw him. He had a round, friendly face with spiky salt-and-pepper hair. It was the first time I'd seen a man wearing anything but the traditional Communist garb. His English was impeccable. Mr. Yee looked over the papers I had just filled out about my family and occupation.

"You are a journalist working for Current TV, is that correct?" he asked speaking through Mr. Baek.

"Yes, sir."

"Your husband. What does he do?"

"He works in the finance industry. He manages money."

"Can you be more specific?"

I then went into a detailed explanation of Iain's profession, something in which Mr. Yee seemed to take great interest considering that the free market does not exist in North Korean society. When translating, Mr. Baek mimicked Mr. Yee's tone with such precision that it felt as if I was speaking directly to the official without the aid of another person.

When Mr. Yee left the room for a brief moment, I felt comfortable enough to start talking to the translator, Mr. Baek.

"Sir, do you know what is happening, what this process will be like?" I inquired.

"I don't know a thing," he replied. "I was just informed today that I would be translating for this investigation. Beyond that, I don't know a thing."

"Do you know why I'm here? Do you know what I've done?" I was trying to see if the authorities knew more about the story Euna, Mitch, and I were working on than we'd said.

"I haven't a clue," he answered.

"You speak English so well," I added. "Are you from somewhere else, like Singapore?" I thought I'd picked up on a slight Singaporean accent.

"I'm from North Korea," he replied, smiling. "I work in the international affairs department at the university. It's my job to speak English well."

"Well, I'm very glad to meet you," I said. "It has been so hard to communicate with anyone here, and it's a relief to speak with someone who I know understands what I'm saying." He acknowledged my compliment by nodding, but his face was totally expressionless.

The interrogator, Mr. Yee, returned and started questioning me about what we had been doing before our arrest. I began with the same explanation I'd rehea.r.s.ed-that we were working on a story about the border region. Before I could finish my sentence, Mr. Yee jumped in.

"We know you were working on a story about defectors," he said. "Let me add that this is an investigation, and if you are not completely frank with us, you could face the worst consequences!"

I quivered in fear, while at the same time I was utterly fl.u.s.tered.

Had Euna already confessed about our doc.u.mentary? Were the North Koreans getting intelligence from the Chinese, who had perhaps detained Mitch? Regardless of where they were getting their information, I knew what I had to say.

"Yes, we were working on a story about defectors," I began. "We'd interviewed various people who had left North Korea about why they left."

"Why did you cross the border into North Korea?" Mr. Yee asked.

"We wanted to film on the river to show where defectors are crossing. We never meant to enter your country," I explained. "But the guide we had hired to help us walked across to the other side and motioned for us to follow, which we did. We returned back to China after taking only a few steps onto the soil. We didn't mean any harm. But I know that it was wrong. And I'm very, very sorry."

Mr. Yee took another puff of his cigarette, pressed the b.u.t.t into an ashtray, and got up from the desk.

"I don't believe you," he said coldly and left the room.

Again I was alone with Mr. Baek. Desperately wanting someone to confide in, I told him how scared I was and then waited to see if he would reply.

"It is a very bad time to be here," he said in perfect English. "Things are quite tense between North Korea and the U.S."

"I truly never planned on crossing the border," I explained.

"Well, I really hope everything works out and that you can go home," he said sympathetically.

"I hope so too," I replied. I felt grateful to have come in contact with Mr. Baek. I was glad he would be serving as my official translator for the investigation.

The day's session ended with Mr. Yee instructing me to write down every aspect of what we had filmed prior to our arrest. He handed me several sheets of paper, and he and Mr. Baek then left the room.

LISA.

OUR PARENTS SHOULD HAVE never been together in the first place. He was a gruff man, happiest when he was fis.h.i.+ng or hunting with the guys. She was distractingly beautiful but insecure and didn't have many friends because she had just arrived from Taiwan and knew no one in the United States other than her sister. never been together in the first place. He was a gruff man, happiest when he was fis.h.i.+ng or hunting with the guys. She was distractingly beautiful but insecure and didn't have many friends because she had just arrived from Taiwan and knew no one in the United States other than her sister.

Our father, Doug Ling, came from highly educated parents who met in Hong Kong in the 1930s. His father, H.T. Ling, was part of an elite group of Chinese students who were given permission by the government to attend university in the United States in 1920. After receiving an undergraduate degree from New York University and an MBA from the University of Colorado, H.T. was recalled to China to a.s.sist in the war effort when the j.a.panese invaded Manchuria in 1931. Doug's mother, Lien, was the daughter of missionaries in Malaysia. When she was a teenager, she went to live in Hong Kong and earned a degree in cla.s.sical music from the London School of Music program there. Lien was an unusually well-educated, well-spoken woman with a very strong voice and opinions. This impressed H.T., who was doing his compulsory military service in Hong Kong while Lien was teaching piano there. They married, had two children, and lived in the British colony until they emigrated to the United States in 1948, when Doug was eleven years old.

The Lings ended up in a small suburb outside of Sacramento, California, called Carmichael, where a few of their relatives owned a Chinese restaurant called Sun Ar. They soon learned that the locals weren't exactly friendly toward "Orientals." Even with their impressive degrees and perfectly spoken British English, H.T. and Lien had tremendous difficulty finding jobs that were commensurate with their levels of education. And it didn't help that H.T., who was descended from a long line of Chinese scholars and government officials, was a bit arrogant and refused to do anything beneath his skill set. He spent a great many years, with little success, trying to convince companies in Sacramento to hire a Chinese man for a management-level position.