All Monsters Must Die

  Copyright © 2011 Magnus Bärtås and Fredrik Ekman

  Translation copyright © 2015 Saskia Vogel

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  First published by Albert Bonniers Förlag, Stockholm, Sweden

  Published in the English language by arrangement with Bonnier Rights, Stockhom, Sweden, through the Kontext Agency, Stockholm, Sweden

  This edition published in 2015 by

  House of Anansi Press Inc.

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801

  Toronto, ON, m5v 2k4

  Tel. 416-363-4343

  Fax 416-363-1017

  www.houseofanansi.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bärtås, Magnus

  [Alla monster måste dö. English]

  All monsters must die : an excursion to North Korea / by Magnus

  Bärtås and Fredrik Ekman ; translated by Saskia Vogel.

  Translation of: Alla monster måste dö.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77089-880-6 (pbk.). — ISBN 978-1-77089-881-3 (html)

  1. Korea (North) — History. 2. Korea (North) — Social conditions. 3. Korea (North) — Description and travel. 4. Bärtås, Magnus — Travel — Korea (North). 5. Ekman, Fredrik — Travel — Korea (North). I. Ekman, Fredrik, author II. Vogel, Saskia, translator III. Title. IV. Title: Alla monster måste dö. English.

  DS935.B3713 2015 951.93 C2015-900796-8

  C2015-900797-6

  Cover design: Alysia Shewchuk

  Cover images: Magnus Bärtås

  The cost of this translation was defrayed by a subsidy from the Swedish Arts Council, gratefully acknowledged.

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: 1978

  Day 1: To Pyongyang

  Day 2: Can You Imagine?

  Day 3: Strong Water

  Day 4: The Monster

  Day 5: The Hawaiian Good Luck Sign

  Day 6: The Perfect Film

  Day 7: Back and Forth Across the Border

  Day 8: Little Boy

  Epilogue: 2008–2014

  Note on Sources and Thanks

  Bibliography

  Index

  About the Authors

  About the Translator

  “Everything starts from the individual — the body’s pleasures and pains. If you don’t see that, you misunderstand history.”

  — Mourid Barghouti

  “‘In all my days!’ the emperor said. ‘A nightingale? I’ve never heard of such a thing! Is there such a bird in my empire — in my own garden? I want it to come here and sing for me.’”

  — “The Nightingale,” Hans Christian Andersen

  PROLOGUE

  1978

  IT WAS A mid-January afternoon in Hong Kong. The South Korean actress Choi Eun-hee was strolling along the boardwalk at Repulse Bay, an exclusive resort area dominated by a long beach of golden sand in the southern part of Hong Kong Island. The area attracted wealthy investors — businessmen from around the world who wanted to be part of Hong Kong’s explosive expansion. The film industry was blossoming with Cantonese action movies, and Hong Kong had entered the age of television. Recently, two young boys had flung themselves from the seventh storey of a skyscraper in Kowloon City after watching Ultraman, a Japanese superhero series. They were convinced that they would glide above the cityscape, just like Ultraman in his red and silver costume.

  Choi Eun-hee, or Madame Choi as she was called, was a legend in South Korea. Throughout her acting career she had moved effortlessly between roles: a virtuous housewife, a fair princess, a resolute lawyer, a prostitute living in the barracks of an American military base. As one of the first female directors in South Korean cinema, she was a pioneer. Inspired by Hollywood’s studio system, she and her then husband, the director Shin Sang-ok, founded and established a film company. Shin Films produced everything from melodramas, costume dramas, horror, war movies, and musicals to “Wild East” films — the so-called “Manchurian Westerns.” In its heyday, the company employed 300 people, and had workshops, prop storage facilities, a printing house, and its own movie theatres.

  Choi Eun-hee was on her way to a business meeting with a certain Mr. Wang of Hong Kong Kumjang Film. They were going to discuss various film projects, and Mr. Wang had also pledged financial support to the South Korean film school where Madame Choi was the principal.

  THE PRESIDENT OF South Korea at the time was General Park Chung-hee. Having come to power in 1961 after a military coup d’état supported by the United States, Park had appointed himself president for life. He quickly established himself as a brutal and thick-skinned leader. In 1974, a man with North Korean sympathies attempted to assassinate the dictator while he was delivering a speech. The man fired a number of rounds before he was overpowered. The bullets missed Park, but one of them hit his wife, who was carried off stage, dying. General Park calmly continued his speech after the worst of the tumult had passed.

  Park’s callousness and severity were renowned but he also had a soft spot for melodrama. The same year he came to power, Shin and Madame’s film Evergreen Tree (Sangnoksu) was released in South Korea. Park was moved to tears by the film, calling it a national cinematic epic. Years later, in 1969, General Park was so eager to see the results of a costume drama that Shin Films was shooting that he ordered that the freshly developed negatives be driven straight to the Blue House, the presidential palace in Seoul. For a short period of time, the filmmaking couple were guests of the palace. Shin played cards with the dictator.

  NOW, IN 1978, everything had changed. The days of card games in the presidential palace in Seoul were a distant memory for Madame Choi. General Park was at the height of his autocratic power, and South Korean society had become subject to extreme authoritarian rule. No criticisms of the government could be uttered. A construction worker in Seoul had just been sentenced to six months in prison for claiming that the largest pumpkins on the peninsula could be found in North Korea. He was convicted of having praised the enemy power. While on trial he stood his ground, saying: “Everyone knows it’s true that —” He was interrupted by the judge, who told him: “Your crime is that you’ve said this in a public place.”

  The same fate could befall those who collected Soviet stamps, which could be considered an indication of Communist sympathies. Men of the cloth and intellectuals were placed under house arrest for the slightest suggestion of protest against the regime; long-haired students were captured on the streets and dragged to police stations for compulsory haircuts. As if by reflex, the police charged at every gathering that hinted at opposition. When a group of students assembled in central Seoul to hand out flyers, a large posse of police arrived on the scene and immediately let their nightsticks wail. The police didn’t notice that the flyers were just blank pages.

  MADAME CHOI HAD had a hard time arranging the me
eting with Mr. Wang, and she couldn’t understand why. He’d started off so insistent, sending her a script that he wanted her to direct, letting her know about upcoming parts in Hong Kong films, and courting her in person at the film school. Madame was flattered, but a touch concerned. She was fifty-one years old and under no illusions: her glory days were gone. Hong Kong had plenty of young, promising directors. Why did Mr. Wang want her, specifically? The film school didn’t make money, but cost all the more. She had been playing parts in South Korean television dramas, but still times were tough. She had to take what came her way.

  This was the first time that Madame had ever travelled outside of Korea. While she’d been waiting to hear from Mr. Wang, Kim Guh-wha, an employee at the Shin Films office in Hong Kong, had taken pity on her and introduced her to an acquaintance, Lee Sang-hee, also a Korean. Together they killed time shopping, lunching, and going on excursions, always accompanied by Lee’s seven-year-old daughter.

  Madame was with Lee and her daughter, strolling along, unhurried, past the glamorous Repulse Bay Hotel. Built in 1920 in the British colonial style, the storied hotel had been made famous by the Hollywood classic Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing. But after ten days in Hong Kong, Madame was tired of being a tourist and tired of waiting; she wanted to get back to the film school. She couldn’t drink in the pleasures of the afternoon. Only the odd person came walking along the shore. It was not a cold winter, but the people of Hong Kong were wrapped up in layers.

  Sailboats and motorboats were tied to the docks that jutted out from the sandy beach. When they passed one of these moorings, some of Lee’s friends called out to them. The men offered to give them a ride to the Kumjang Film offices, and that way they’d save some time. Madame assumed the men were Hong Kong Chinese. She noted their long, groomed hair — a hairstyle that hip Hong Kong Chinese people wore. They climbed aboard, but once the boat left the dock it sailed straight out into the open sea. Madame began to worry. She turned to Lee and asked what was going on. Lee didn’t answer. Instead, she calmly took out a cigarette and lit it; then she took one out for Madame and handed it to her.

  One of the men approached Madame and in shaky Korean explained that he was also a “Joseon-person,” meaning that he too was of Korean descent.

  “Where are we going?” asked Madame.

  “Into General Kim Il-sung’s great embrace,” the man responded.

  It was in that moment that she finally understood what was happening. Her heart pounded, the blood drained from her head, and she fainted.

  WHEN MADAME CAME to, her arms were bound to her body and she was being transported onto a larger boat, a cargo ship, where she was put in the captain’s quarters. Madame shouted that she had a family to take care of, and she banged her head against the wall until they stuck a needle in her arm. When she woke up, they were on the open sea, the boat careening through the waves. She heard Lee’s screams and cries coming from somewhere on the boat. Lee had led Madame straight into the trap, but she hadn’t counted on being taken away with her daughter.

  AFTER EIGHT DAYS at sea, they arrived at the North Korean harbour town of Nampo. Madame hesitantly climbed the stairs to the quay and looked around. Two functionaries in scarves and overcoats were waiting for her. One smiled courteously, and then a photographer snapped a picture that she would carry with her. She was wearing black sunglasses and a trench coat with the collar turned up. One hand was over her mouth, while the other was holding the coat closed at her chest. It was January 22, 1978, at four o’clock in the afternoon, a cold day.

  A black limousine was parked on the quay. The back door opened and a short man with an unusual hairstyle and a child-like face stepped out. He smiled expectantly and said: “Thank you for coming, Madame Choi. I’m Kim Jong-il.”

  THE SHORT MAN was President Kim Il-sung’s son, who was the head of the Propaganda and Agitation Department in North Korea. By this time, Kim Jong-il had held many posts within the Communist Party’s Central Committee and was already called “Dear Leader” and “Wise Leader.” There was no doubt that he was the favourite son.

  Madame Choi was invited to take a seat in the back of his limousine. En route to Pyongyang, he gave her a spontaneous tour, pointing out places of interest. The minister of propaganda was as happy as a hero taking her around the capital, where his father’s giant portrait adorned many buildings. Then they headed out to the countryside, where the villages were bleak. After passing fruit groves and a shooting range, they arrived at one of Kim Jong-il’s private residences, a luxurious mansion surrounded by a tall fence. Madame Choi was asked to hand over her passport and ID card.

  * * *

  ON HER FIRST morning in North Korea, Choi Eun-hee woke up to flowers from Kim Jong-il. A doctor, the same person who had given her the shot on the cargo ship, came to check on her health. He gave her vitamin injections.

  She was dressed and photographed in a hanbok, the traditional folk dress. Hanbok is the Korean equivalent of the kimono, but less refined and also often made of richly coloured fabric. A hanbok obscures the female form, making the woman wearing it radiate virtuousness. Kim Jong-il made sure the photos were sent to his father, who replied that Madame’s beauty was still intact and the joseonot — the North Korean word for hanbok — suited her well.

  Choi Eun-hee didn’t know why she had been taken to North Korea, and Kim Jong-il offered no explanation. After six days he arranged a welcome dinner. The minister of propaganda was in high spirits and talked endlessly. When he addressed his subordinates, they jumped up mid-chew, as if their chairs had given them a shock.

  “Well, Madame Choi, what do you think of my appearance?” he asked. “I’m a small, tubby dwarf, correct?”

  He laughed, and everyone else dared to join in with the laughter. Even Madame Choi couldn’t help but laugh.

  After that, she didn’t see much of him.

  MEANWHILE, MADAME’S EX-HUSBAND, the director Shin Sang-ok, was trying to establish a name for himself in the United States after his life’s work had been demolished by General Park Chung-hee. It was while living in America that he found out Madame Choi had vanished without a trace during a trip to Hong Kong. He contacted Kim Hong-wook, a former South Korean CIA chief, to help with the search for his ex-wife. Like so many others, Kim was living in exile after having fallen out of favour with General Park. After filing for permanent residency in the United States, Shin left for Hong Kong.

  In South Korea, the media and the police were in agreement that the director was behind the disappearance of Madame, and when Shin arrived in Hong Kong the South Korean authorities were immediately on his trail. Then, just six months after Choi Eun-hee’s disappearance, events repeated themselves: under the pretense of a meeting with potential financiers, Shin was kidnapped by Kim Jong-il’s agents in Hong Kong and put on a boat to North Korea.

  The year was 1978, the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

  DAY 1

  To Pyongyang

  SEPTEMBER 2008. THIRTY years have passed since Choi Eun-hee and Shin Sang-ok were kidnapped, and sixty years since North Korea became a nation. We have taken our seats on the plane at Beijing Capital International Airport, en route to Pyongyang. Small screens fold down from the ceiling. An air hostess wearing a ruby-red uniform appears on the screens, multiplies. She welcomes us aboard this Air Koryo flight, bows, and says the journey will be run on Juche-power. Then she thanks “the Great Leader Kim Il-sung” and smiles broadly.

  We look down at the magazine that has been handed out instead of the usual duty-free shopping catalogue. The cover shows a large, futuristic city in soft pastel colours — there are pistachio and pink façades, light ochre- and umber-coloured skyscrapers. Pyongyang. Here greenery is shown among the houses; there is a river and a perfect bridge. In the foreground, three smiling generations of North Koreans are looking up and beyond the border of the frame.

/>   The magazine was published in the year 97. We are on our way to a parallel universe with a different calendar.

  INSIDE THE MAGAZINE we are served up an image of the world that is totally divorced from the one we are accustomed to. Here are reports on North Korea’s successful goat farmers, recently completed cinemas, idyllic villages. Public healthcare has led to seventy- and eighty-year-old North Korean men running marathons and performing onstage. All thanks to the leader Kim Jong-il, and not least for the miraculous mineral water from Ryongkasan, which is superior to all other mineral water found around the world and even cures catarrh of the colon.

  In an article on the fishing industry there are pictures of a trawler and wooden boats where the nets are pulled up by hand. In one picture of a harbour, there are four trucks in an almost too-perfect row. When you look more closely you see that it’s the same polished truck, multiplied.

  It’s not all peachy in the magazine. One piece of reportage discusses long-range missiles, submarines armed with atomic weapons, and tens of thousands of South Korean and American soldiers who have mobilized in the South under the pretense of military exercises. These drills are in fact practice for a future attack on North Korea.

  THE LANDING STRIP at Pyongyang Sunan International Airport is enormous. The terminal isn’t as grand. Once we get inside, a VIP lane is immediately created for the Cuban ambassador and his wife. When we leave the terminal we see a pair of black Mercedes together with a welcoming committee holding flower arrangements for the Cuban emissary.

  Being part of an organized tourist trip is the only way for us to get into North Korea. You can’t travel on your own, and you can’t be a journalist or an author — but you can be an artist. Our previous books, we had explained during the visa process in Stockholm, are exclusively about art, and the functionaries at the North Korean embassy were satisfied with this. And so we were granted permission to take an eight-day grand tour of Pyongyang and the countryside. The schedule is packed: Panmunjom, Kaesong, Baekdu Mountain, and other places of which we have only vague notions.