Violence and Humanity: A Saga

family.

Borders

Poring over a map I had acquired about a year and a half before at the Cheorwon Peace Observatory – where you can gaze across the DMZ and into the North – I found a point of interest: a church near the dividing line. While trying to locate a taxi to take me there, I discovered the keys to the school where I worked were still in my pocket. By the time I had dropped them in the mail, it was mid-afternoon. I wanted to be at the church on the other side of the checkpoint a little before sunset.

Once we were underway, the taxi driver had only a little trouble finding the dirt road that led to my destination. As it happened, the square white concrete church was adjacent to a very small military post, or maybe it was a supply cache. I saw four or five soldiers exit a military truck and enter a nondescript building. The taxi driver was willing to wait once I realized the church was locked up, but I paid him and indicated it wasn’t necessary. It was at that moment that I got an international telephone call – from whom I can’t say, because I ignored it, assuming that my sister had read my e-mail⁹ and that she or another relative was phoning to talk me out of what I was prepared to accomplish.

Wanting to find shelter from the elements – it was a late January day in 2010 – and to avoid being noticed by the militia, I circled to the rear of the church. Built into one of the sidewalls were stairs leading to a flat roof. From the snow-laden roof and the partially exposed spire where a bell once hung, I kept watch on my surroundings, spying out into the direction the map indicated for a wall that could be climbed. Crouching within the most concealed part of the weather-beaten spire, I urged the clock on my phone to send the military men on their way and to lower the sun and assist me in my stealth. Fortunately, though, the sun seemed to stand still on the horizon for a bit after they left. This temporarily allowed me to tread through the frozen, overturned remnants of the produce fields in my path.

Once darkness had settled in, I found myself using my phone’s lamp to guide me toward the mountains. Later, the overcast sky cleared, and the moon and the snow helped me see my way. Once or twice when a vehicle crept along a long stretch of road, I concealed myself beside dung mounds, along with some scurrying, unidentifiable fauna. After a while, I encountered a well-lit bridge over a small, partially frozen river, which I thought must be a heavily guarded passage. After debating if I had the courage to cross, I made it to the other side undetected, only to find that the road led me farther toward civilization.

Changing course and heading toward the ominous black mountains, I eased myself over a frozen part of the stream. In deep woods now, woods layered with snow, I scaled the varying inclines toward a summit. As I recovered there, it was apparent this apex offered no clear views that would allow me to scope out a route north, and so it was at each successive height. In the frozen knee-deep snow I could discern trails of footprints, which I followed, assuming they had been laid down by refugees fleeing in the opposite direction. At any turn, I anticipated encountering a defector. Only after I noticed that the prints wandered and intersected did I think they might have been left by animals.

Finally, after my wet and nearly frozen feet mounted a plateau where I could scan above the treetops, they had to rest and be warmed. I used the battery of my cellphone. After learning to endure random sounds from the sudden movements around me, I reclined on low-hanging tree branches and eventually drifted into a dreamless sleep until near dawn. Now, lacking a cellphone signal, I couldn’t know the time accurately.

When I awoke, I ate a little beef jerky, along with handfuls of snow, before continuing on. At every peak I approached I was hopeful it would be the one to point me toward my destination, but that was not so. I walked up and down one side of a mountain, only to be presented with another, and then another. The dense, tall forest was disorienting. But there was an awesome, eerie and strangely encouraging sight: endless lines of barbed wire. Their presence confirmed I was heading in the right direction. I pushed on, and found that in some locations the barbed wire was stacked higher, and all manner of rubber tires and helmets were strewn along some of the mountain wedges. I marveled that everything was the way they left it.

Using a line of barbed wire as leverage, I hiked its outline uphill toward a strategic web of deep trenches on the mountainside that branched off into a series of small cement bunkers. Each cramped bunker could hold two or three people. Besides the crawl-through entrance, the only other openings were small rectangular slits. Next to them were painted diagrams of potential flight paths and the angles to position the weapons. Disconcerted by the scene – and by the thought of the fear that still lingered in those spaces – I rested in one of them only long enough to readjust my clothing, lighten my load, and eat more beef jerky.

Treading through the maze of snow-filled trenches, obviously dug by someone’s army, I was certain I was heading up the right mountain and in the right direction. Atop the mountain, I beheld a countryside panorama but was still uncertain about which parallel I was situated on. Built into the landscape were a few old and seemingly abandoned structures, made of cement, brick, and wood. The more dilapidated sheds held aged military equipment. I cautiously investigated each structure for clues about which side they belonged to but concluded nothing.

A little farther down a paved road, housed in a barnlike building, I saw an unusual object that appeared to be a large, egg-shaped pod or a blackened, cast-iron, pot-bellied oven. It was suspended somehow at waist level and attached was a heavy metal door. Off to the side was a pair of old boots. I decided that before I left I would exchange them for the worn, soaked, and flimsy patent-leather pair I was wearing.

It wasn’t until I walked farther down the paved descent that I beheld a newer structure, off in the distance to my left. A flagpole towered near the front entrance. Stopping short at the sight of a military truck, I hid in the brush long enough to see the flag of South Korea. Not wanting to be captured before reaching the other side, I rushed back toward the abandoned buildings. Figuring to spend the night there, in the former sleeping quarters, I went first for the boots. Reaching for them, I noticed they were positioned as if they had been set aside. Slowly opening the pod door revealed a young Korean in fatigues, wearing a headset and seated before an intricate equipment panel. He did not appear alarmed when our eyes met. In fact, he nonchalantly turned back to his work after I nodded, smiled, and moved to reseal the door. As I hustled toward the shelter, satellite equipment and similar gear came into view. Hidden inside, I waited, expecting at any moment to be seized.

When it became apparent no one was in pursuit, I looked desperately for some way to find warmth amid the howling winter. As a last resort, I stripped dusty, worn synthetic-fiber drapes from the windows and wrapped myself in them, head to foot. It wasn’t long before dusk suggested it was safe to rest. I stretched out on a wood platform and fought for sleep. Suddenly, lying down was causing my stomach to cramp and acid to form at the base of my throat and my jaw to tense. I thought it was the beef jerky, or maybe the water from mountain springs. As it persisted, unsettling my mind, I thought I must be fighting off lockjaw or some bacterial infection from the many rusty-barbed-wire pricks in my hands, legs, and feet.

In the morning, though, after I had consumed handfuls of snow, the symptoms subsided. Deciding that following the paved road was too risky, I exited through the trenches, resolving to make one last attempt to find the border. Despite the rain that had arrived, I maintained my pace and determination – but all for naught. A clearing at the foot of the mountain revealed a small cemetery full of burial mounds at the edge of a relatively busy road. I made my way toward a house and a vehicle on the other side of the road, in hopes of getting a ride back to the bus station in Cheorwon.

Exhausted, muddied, and not just a little disgusted with the entire situation, I greeted a gentleman who was loading his blue pickup truck. After we muddled through the language barrier, he offered to drive me to Cheorwon. I sat on the bed of the pickup. My stomach cringed as we arrived at a checkpoint. I could not hear what the driver said to the guard, but I was immediately taken into custody.

In a modular structure brightly lit with fluorescent bulbs, I was photographed and questioned. After I presented all of my documents and while waiting for the taxi driver and my school to verify my version of events, I was offered hot ramen soup, which I accepted. They concluded I was lost, an unfortunate tourist. Two young military men escorted me to the Cheorwon bus station, where local police waited for me to board the bus back to Uijeongbu.

Seated near the bus’s floor heater, I warmed up and dried my socks and pants while contemplating my three-day journey. I tried but failed and was prepared to return home before it registered that I had mailed off my keys, shipped all of my clothing, and written letters of resignation. What if those three days were just a test of my dedication?

I decided to bypass Uijeongbu and head to Itaewon, the foreigners’ paradise. I was much too dirty for the love motels, so I opted to get refreshed and cleaned up in a hotel where there was a travel agency.

On the first day there, I researched ways to enter North Korea via China. Cross-referencing flights and international airports in proximity to the Tumen River, I discovered Yanji Chaoyangchuan Airport, purchased an expedited visa and plane ticket through the travel agency, and within two days, on January 24, 2010, to be exact, was en route to China. As it happened, I was seated next to a godsend.

A middle-age Chinese woman and I instinctively engaged each other in what little of the Korean language we possessed between us. She was returning from Korea after purchasing a rice cooker and other less-expensive items. I informed her I was going to visit Tumen City.

It was mid-afternoon when we landed. Separated at customs, somehow she and I managed to reconnect as I was exiting for a taxi. Her husband, son, and mother were at the airport to meet her. After quick introductions, these strangers offered me a ride to Tumen City, even though it was miles south of their destination and there was not enough room in the compact vehicle. I was amazed and utterly grateful that I had miraculously encountered trustworthy people willing to assist me. With help from her son, a college student, the five of us were able to converse in English, Korean, and their native tongue during the hour-long trip. So effortless was our rapport that as we parked in front of the Tumen Mansion Hotel, she invited me to stay in her home with her family and dine with them, for as long as I wished. My supposedly ineluctable destiny prevented me from accepting. I made the excuse that I had to meet a friend; she, therefore, negotiated with the woman at the front desk to lower the rate and helped me order some Chinese dishes she recommended.

bang), talked with the attendant on my behalf, and offered the use of their national identification card to sign me on at no cost.

To reaffirm that I was meeting a friend, I wrote a short e-mail to Robert Park at about 7:30 p.m.: Hello Robert, I’m at the Tumen Hotel tumeldasha-hotel. Let’s meet at the Hotel. Best Regards. (Later, Robert would forward this message amidst controversy, spawning conspiracy theories.)

I said goodbye to my welcoming committee at the hotel entrance and then had a hearty meal – way too much for one person, so I left the remainder until morning. After checking out of the hotel I wandered around Tumen City, primarily in search of the river, which I found with little effort by following a road from the hotel for a short distance. People were milling about along the river’s edge between two bridges. I tried to blend in among them. Across the river were a few nondescript buildings, that’s all.

I stopped near a man teetering on the riverbank as he peered inquisitively at the frozen surface and across the river and looked for the source of the drainage sounds beneath his feet. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking. In Korean, I asked if this was the Tumen River. He answered yes, adding, Over there is North Korea.

I watched him in his observations for a while. He seemed somehow to be testing or studying the surroundings. At our position, one could step seamlessly onto the ice. I watched as he did so for several seconds before he retreated. After he had left, I attempted to mimic his daring. Despite the sounds of water draining from the city, the river’s surface was solid. Surveying the distance between each side, I stood at the most narrow section I could see and reckoned I could dash across in less than 15 seconds.

With several hours remaining before I’d see the light of a waxing gibbous moon, I located an Internet café where I could be more obscure. In one of the few remaining cubbies in the rear, I watched films online, thinking that it was sanctimonious, trite even, to review The Passion of the Christ. With no new revelation or inspiration, I wandered the city’s streets until there was darkness across the Tumen.

At the shore, I knelt for a quick prayer and proceeded slowly. I held that pace, unsure about the ice in the middle and not wanting to appear to be storming the defenses in a way that could incur artillery fire.

Halfway across the river, a young officer, appearing from behind some obstruction, directed his rifle at my head, shouting for me to stop. Another young officer joined him, holding me at gunpoint with the enthusiasm of a novice gamer. With forceful repetition and signaling with his gun, the first officer told me to kneel and directed the other officer to tie my hands behind my back. Despite his nervous fumbling, he aggressively contorted my arms and tied me tightly with some fiber strap, all the while ranting accusatorially. Intentionally ignoring their directives, I avoided indicating any proficiency in the language. I was forced to my feet and ordered, guns at my back and head, to march beside one of the officers as he pulled me onto the shore.

In a cement lean-to, I was paraded before three other officers, a prized catch, and then propped next to a wall in a room adjacent to the senior officer, who was seated before a small metal bowl of rice. The commander ordered that I be blindfolded, turned toward the wall, and searched. After confiscating my passport and other belongings, he reported my capture to the higher-ups. I was, strangely enough, excited and relieved. I had accomplished the feat. But once the senior officer was heard explaining over the primitive communication system that I was an American, the five younger officers reacted with disbelief. They moved in close to observe, and in seconds their initial shock morphed into regurgitated hate rhetoric, punctuated with jabs.

I was escorted out of the room. The blindfold was removed and I was ordered to follow the officers into a wooden lean-to. Seated around a fire and preparing a meal was a middle-age woman and a man, not in uniform, along with a few officers. As they gawked, I was marched through, untied, and ordered into a cement crawl space no larger than a doghouse and equipped with worn metal cup and a bowl. It seemed obvious this dark, earthen-bed enclosure was for absconders. Its aged wooden door kept out the firelight and its warmth. Later, an old square of cloth that looked like the padding used under carpets or insulation was tossed in. Later still, a small package of processed rice treats was delivered the same way.

For a while, I listened to a seemingly routine yet hushed exchange between the two civilians and the officers, then decided to sing. It seemed as if they needed a reminder of my presence in that lightless, beyond-freezing space. I sang some of the more mournful gospel songs to complement my complaint. When she could no longer endure it, the middle-age woman exhaustedly uttered her displeasure. The door swung open, and I was commanded to remain silent. But through the shut door, I could again be heard evoking the songs of Zion. This time, with more vehement anger and frustration, I was warned against making any noise.

Pulling my limbs under the make-shift covering, I leaned against the cold cement wall to try to sleep. Shivering and convulsing throughout the night, I tried to imagine what the conditions were like for the others who had been there. Thinking about whoever might arrive subsequently, I removed a large Chinese yuan bill from my undergarments and placed it under a rock, hoping it would be put to some altruistic use.

Having held in my urine for the entire previous evening, the first act of communication on my part, following my emergence from the cell and being handcuffed, was pantomiming my need. I was allowed a few feet of privacy while urinating on the earth in front of me. Then, in the back seat with two officers flanking me, we drove from wherever we were in Onsong County to another military post.

Again, I noted the reaction of young officers who were monitoring me when they learned of my citizenship. Typically, in the presence of other officers, their innocent curiosity turned into a willingness to engage in unprovoked hostility. Or they satisfied their curiosity by asking if I was an American and then demonstrated their disdain – and their satisfaction in finally having captured one and in getting an opportunity to speak English.

For breakfast, I was given Korean rice porridge, called jook ). I saw one of the officers preparing it for the small company when I arrived. He was cooking on the stove that was also used for the on·dol. Two of the officers watched with dismay as I ate alone, leaning against the wall of the empty living room. (Above my head were side-by-side framed pictures of Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il). They were amazed that an American enjoyed their traditional dish – it was a scheme I had learned while living in the South, a way to establish affinity.

Most in the small group of guards simply ogled. Only one of them attempted to challenge me, insisting that I remain upright over the heated area, which I did. When he began to raise his voice, his superior chastened him slightly and relieved him. This rotation continued throughout the day and into evening, until the closest English teacher to the post could be driven in.

The teacher blushed with excitement as our eyes met. He was a man of about 40 but looked older. He was brought in as a translator to the higher official, who was clad in the black Workers’ Party Mao suit, complete with Kim Il-sung lapel pin. The translator’s tan Mao suit held a pin of the national flag. They sat on the floor behind an elongated soban table, and the first round of questioning commenced.

What is your name?

My name is Mr. Gomes.

How old are you?

I’m 31 years old.

Where are you from?

I’m from America.

What is your job?

I’m an English teacher.

Where do you teach?

I was a teacher in South Korea.

How many years were you a teacher?

I taught in Korea for about two years.

Why did you stop?

I wanted to come here to teach English.

Do you know Korea and America are enemies?

I know that the war hasn’t officially ended.

Why did you come to Korea?

To teach English.

I don’t believe you. Why did you cross the border?

I was walking on the Tumen River, trying to find the border. Then your officers arrested me and brought me here.

Why did you come here?

To teach English.

You are a teacher. You are smart. Why didn’t you ask permission and get the proper documents?

I tried, but I got no response from the letters I sent to the embassies.

If you got no permission, why did you come?

I came to teach English.

We don’t need any English teachers. We have English teachers. We have Korean English teachers.

Yes, but it is also beneficial to learn from and hear native speakers, right?

No, we do not need to learn American English.

If you and America are enemies, then that is exactly what you need to learn.

Why are you here?

I’m here to teach English.

Are you here from your government?

No, I am here as a private citizen to offer my services as an English instructor.

No, you are here to challenge our government.

I do not wish to challenge anyone, but if I see something that I think is not right, I will try to do something about it. I simply want to teach English.

You could teach English in South Korea. Why did you leave there?

Because I’ve already taught English there and now I want to teach English here.

Why do you want to teach English here?

God caused me to believe that Korea is one nation of people. I pray for and believe in the reunification of Korea. As I instructed the children in the South, I also wanted to instruct the children of the North.

We don’t need English teachers. If we need them, we send for them. But you have broken our laws. You are not a teacher! You were sent here to undermine our Supreme Leader, Kim Jong-il. You are an army spy!

Southbound

When I was 13, the idea came to move as far away as I could. The only plausible option was to live with relatives in Pensacola, Fla. My grandmother’s sister, Aunt Lena, was there, and she had been a foster parent for a few years. I was surprised by how little opposition my mother offered to the plan. She telephoned my aunt and uncle the same day.

My mother and two younger sisters accompanied me to South Station in downtown Boston and waited with me until I boarded a Greyhound bus. After my mother’s last-minute hugs – and following her instructions to both me and the driver – I took a window seat a few rows back, within sight of the driver. We all waved good-bye and I watched as they drove away.

It wasn’t long after the bus began moving before I began sobbing uncontrollably. I had not thought I would cry. I didn’t want to cry. I told myself I wouldn’t, for that would betray the boldness I brandished. Besides, I had convinced myself this was to be the adventure of my imagination, one like those in the books I had read.

On many occasions, I had fantasized about running away from home, though not for any particular reason. I yearned to wander into some great destiny. It probably started around the third grade, after I was introduced to Astrid Lindgren’s The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking and continued on to Island of the Blue Dolphins, Tuck Everlasting, The Great Gilly Hopkins, and Slake’s Limbo.

But the reality of my departure for Florida had heavy consequences. I had an abysmal feeling in my gut. I felt utterly alone in the universe. More to the point, I felt abandoned (and even that isn’t a strong enough adjective). I knew making the journey was my own decision, yet the child in me grieved.

I watched the city recede from view with wonder, and the onslaught of a single thought – that I might not ever see my family again – caused me to weep the weeping that brings involuntary gasping. The harder I tried to keep from being audible and bringing attention to myself, the more wrenching were the shortness of breath and the thoughts in my head. I may have continued this way the entire trip if I had not heard this within myself: This is how it is supposed to go. You’re doing the right thing. It’s going to be OK.

Very early in the morning some two days later, I arrived at the small depot in Pensacola. No one was there to greet me. Hardly anyone at all was present in the station, and I waited until the bright sun appeared before ringing my aunt’s number.

My aunt and uncle had designed and built a house about 10 years earlier, on a private cul-de-sac. It had an in-ground pool. Arrangements were made for me to have the entryway closet and to sleep on the floor next to it. In my mind, the singular advantage I possessed was the fact I wasn’t a foster child – not officially. I exploited this before the eight or so foster children who resided there at any given time. It wasn’t until my relatives caused me to feel like an unwanted transient that I realized the foster children had an advantage: At least they could request a transfer to another home. I then knew and accepted my status and did my best to thrive.

Nigger

My mother’s admonitions about staying out of trouble – they had been delivered more than a few times over the years – returned to me as I sat in detention at Tate High in Pensacola, near the end of the first quarter of freshman year in a new school and a new state. It was my first time away from home, and I used it as an opportunity to create an alias for myself. I told the teachers and everyone else I wanted to be called Damien. Damien was a friend in Boston I had had since grade school. I knew I didn’t want to be called by my nickname, Isaac, any longer, and I was certain no one could pronounce my given name, Aijalon. In Florida, I continued to sow mischief, only I was dealing with a new set of rules and new expectations about conduct.

It was in science class one afternoon. As in any class that has a substitute teacher, the students were rebellious, testing the limits. Many of us took it as a chance to break away from our assigned seats to goof off with friends. I was seated next to a chubby guy I often joked with when an attractive junior entered the classroom to hand the substitute a message. Nudging my friend and pointing, I said, Hey, you like her?

He laughed dismissively while shaking his head no and lowering my pointing finger. The girl glared from the corners of her eyes, rolled them, and waited impatiently for the substitute’s written response. That was not good enough for me. I spoke louder, garnering the attention of more kids at the table. My friend laughingly tried to stop where he knew this was going.

Hey! I said, pointing emphatically, He likes you!

To which she responded: Nigger!

Turning on her high heels, she left. I could scarcely believe it. Never had I been called a nigger. And she spoke with such hatred. Surely, I thought, the substitute teacher would intervene. She did not.

Did she just call me a nigger?

I was out of my seat, in the hallway and going after her before I could think.

What did you call me? What did you call me? I was in her face. A crowd had gathered.

Don’t talk to me, you nigger! she said, connecting her open palm to my face.

Instinctively, I pushed her into the lockers. The substitute teacher arrived in time to prevent any further altercation. Later, in the assistant principal’s office, I knew for certain my place, especially since her word was vehemently taken over mine as to who was the first to make physical contact.

In my mind, the real offense was that she had actually used the word nigger, but we were punished only for the fight. The substitute teacher, as well other students, confirmed she struck first. Her punishment was a one-day suspension. My punishment was a three-day in-house suspension. At the time, I thought this was fair. At least I won’t miss any school assignments, I figured.

But during my suspension, I realized she had the better deal. I still had to rise early for the school bus, only to sit all day in a dingy, unkempt storage building with fellow black detainees, finishing my assignments (or fighting boredom if there were none). Our silence was strictly monitored. We had to walk quietly, and in single file, to a separate detainees’ lunch for whatever food was left over.

Sitting at a desk monitoring us was the football coach. For some reason, he chose me to retrieve his black coffee from the nurse’s office. Each time, I savored the opportunity to escape briefly from the sensory deprivation — until I realized what was being done to me. They had proven I was their nigger and needed to be taught my place, and I was powerless to defend against it.

It was then that my mother’s words returned to me. I would use my education to my advantage. I would never be made to feel inferior again. I would earn respect through success. It was time to get serious. I also knew I needed God to advance. I prayed more, motivated myself to be more studious, and looked for opportunities to advance.

Some weeks after ninth grade ended, I returned to Boston. My grandmother, Ann, had sent for me. Residing with my grandparents meant that I occasionally saw my mother, brothers, and sisters, mostly on Sundays when my grandmother prepared large meals after church. But in my mind I was no longer a part of what had been my immediate family. The break had caused me to feel separate from them – not greater or less – to feel that our lives and experiences had rendered us un-relatable.

And for my stepfather Milton and my mother, I carried around a great deal of anger and hatred. I was disappointed that my brothers and sisters had not followed my lead and left home, too. It meant nothing that there was less violence in the house after I left.

Dress-up

At Halloween when I was in sixth grade, my friend Robbie and I decided to finish our last year of trick-or-treating with all-out flair. Robbie was from Newton, the affluent suburb to which I was bused from my worlds-apart neighborhood in Boston to attend school. I stayed overnight with him when there was a late after-school function. We were good friends, even during our simultaneous fifth- and sixth-grade crushes on the most popular and beautiful girl in school.

The Halloween plot was to dress in girl’s clothing for a night of trick-or-treating and then rise while Robbie’s parents were sleeping to egg and toilet-paper our school.