All Monsters Must Die Read online

  We form a crowd of pale Westerners — we are all young or middle-aged men with the exception of Oksana, a Ukrainian woman with a long ponytail who lives and works in South Korea. Our cell phones are confiscated by a guide, who puts them all in a plastic bag that is taped tightly until it becomes a big plastic cocoon. Our passports are also collected.

  The chartered bus sets out on the wide, tree-lined avenues toward Pyongyang. On board is the group of people with whom we’ll be forced to spend the next eight days, from early in the morning to late at night. Our every step will be monitored and we’ll be herded back together as soon as anyone ventures a few steps in the wrong direction or lags behind. There are twenty-two of us, including two young Swedish farmers from Värmland, a district in the western countryside; three even younger men from the posh Stockholm suburb of Bromma, wearing brightly coloured polo shirts; a very large and well-built Swiss man called Bruno; a Swedish fighter pilot, who strangely enough was given a visa in spite of his military post; a happy, bald Norwegian named Trond; a tattooed baker of Czech heritage; Andrei, a wiry Russian chemist; a Gothenburger called Nils who lives in Minsk; a Ukrainian wearing camouflage pants who is Oksana’s colleague in South Korea; and Ari, a Dutch KLM employee. Elias, who is the youngest in the group, sat next to us on the plane. He was immersed in maps and took frantic notes. We thought he was writing in code, but when he saw us looking at his notebook he explained that he isn’t used to writing by hand — he grew up with computers. North Korea has been a consuming interest for him since he was thirteen. Now he’s barely twenty and this is the journey of his life. His eyes shine when he sees the rice paddies glinting beyond the avenues.

  The guides introduce themselves as Mr. Song and Ms. Kim. Ms. Kim speaks Russian when addressing the chemist, the only one in the group who doesn’t understand English and who is taking his first-ever trip abroad. Ms. Kim is twenty-one but she could just as well be fourteen, going by her looks. She wears a pink dress with slightly padded shoulders. Mr. Song, a small man with a centre parting and gummy smile, and wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and suit pants, is just a few years older than Ms. Kim. He is in charge.

  He begins by listing a number of simple housekeeping rules: we are never allowed to leave the group of our own volition; we are not allowed to take pictures without asking; we should show respect to the people we meet; we should also show respect to photographs of Kim Il-sung, the departed father of Kim Jong-il. We are absolutely not allowed to fold the airplane magazine, sit on it, or throw it away because it contains Kim Il-sung’s portrait. On second thought, it’s probably best that he collects the magazines before any accidents happen.

  North Korea can be called the world’s only necrocracy — a country that is officially run by a deceased person. In July 1994, when a tearful news anchor announced Kim Il-sung’s death on North Korean state television, mass hysteria broke out. We have seen the official mourning video on YouTube: there is crying in the schools, in the factories, at parades, and at home. Veterans in wheelchairs bawl and people in crowds hit themselves with their fists until they fall to the ground. Like a film within a film, those at home are shown casting themselves at their televisions in despair as his funeral is broadcast. These are violent scenes in which small children are crying, probably out of fear of the adults’ behaviour.

  No one knew how to fill the hole the leader left behind. For four years, the presidential post was left unoccupied. Then, in 1998, the position of president was written out of the constitution. Kim Il-sung was named Eternal President of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. The previous year, Kim Jong-il had been given the more modest title of General Secretary of the Workers’ Party of Korea, even though he was already acting as the new dictator.

  AFTER TRAVELLING THE long, orderly avenues, we enter the capital. We are driven along huge boulevards with few cars. The flat topography makes it seem like all the buildings are rising from one and the same plane. There is much greenery, large open parks, enormous monuments, boxy apartment complexes in glazed tile, and everywhere there are mosaics of Kim Il-sung. Homes, façades, and streets are worn but clean. The ground-floor windows of all residential buildings are equipped with thick metal bars.

  The lack of traffic makes it seem like the city has been taken over by pedestrians. People criss-cross the giant streets, and buses honk incessantly at jaywalkers and the occasional cyclist. We come to understand that honking is part of driving here. Even our bus driver honks as soon as anyone appears on the road.

  To our surprise, we see a large commercial billboard. It features an ad for the Hwiparam (“Whistle”) model from the domestic car manufacturer Pyeonghwa. Modelled on the Fiat Siena, named by Kim Jong-il, financed by the South Korean cult leader Moon Sun-myung, and manufactured in North Korea, the car is a remarkable, political-composite product — “a strong and beautiful car,” as it says in the ad. The factory produces a few hundred cars a year, and each vehicle is sold for a price that’s beyond the means of even wealthy North Koreans. The billboard is the first sign we see of the unholy alliance between Kim Jong-il and the super-rich Pastor Moon, best known for officiating mass wedding ceremonies between his cult followers.

  We come to a halt at a crossing and have a chance to observe a young, female traffic officer, placed like a living sculpture in the middle of the intersection. She wears a chalk-white uniform jacket, a blue skirt, and white ankle socks. She stands at attention, with a short stick in her hand, never moving from her spot. Then she quickly looks left and right, her right arm shoots up, and she turns her body ninety degrees. Frozen in this new position, she takes a nearly imperceptible sidestep with her left foot, then gives instructions to a car that she’s registered with an incredibly quick glance over her shoulder. The car passes and the woman swiftly lowers her stick while simultaneously making a half turn, straight as a nail around her own axle like a figurine in a music box. It is as if she wants to emphasize the movement of the passing cars.

  The few traffic lights we see are shut off. There seems to be a lack of electricity to power them. These traffic lights use five colours, probably the only place in the world that does.

  The bus drives us right into the heart of Pyongyang, to the Victorious Fatherland Liberation War Museum on Kim Il-sung Square, a giant building made of marble and granite. We are led into the damp, cool, hangar-like cellar where the strict, uniformed female guide presents trophies of war: helmets, uniforms, weapons, shot-down war planes, a plane that is said to have carried biological weapons, a helicopter, as well as a model of the USS Pueblo, a seized American spy ship. Each time we leave a room, the lights are turned off behind us. In the middle of the tour there’s a power outage. The guide doesn’t acknowledge it; she resolutely continues, and in the dark we clumsily orient ourselves to the banging of her heels.

  On the top floor, there is a slowly rotating viewing deck where we sit in front of a cyclorama depicting the 1950 Battle of Daejeon, which North Korean history has deemed the turning point in the Korean War. Forty artists have painted a backdrop to the display of barbed wire, bunkers, and real tanks and jeeps. It’s an astounding, illusory scene depicting a plethora of action. Some of the props are actual relics from the war, the guide says. She also says that one million people are represented on the canvas, which measures 103 metres in length by 58 metres in height. We all conclude from just a few glances that this, of course, is impossible.

  The guide doesn’t mention the reports that came out just before our arrival in Pyongyang. In South Korea, it’s been said that North Korean soldiers massacred civilians after their victory at the Battle of Daejeon. But photographs bearing “confidential” stamps and documents from the American army’s archives, which had just been released in July 2008, show that it was the South Korean troops who carried out the massacre before they retreated. Between 3,000 and 7,000 civilian men and women suspected of having Communist sympathies were killed, along with their children, and the American c
ommand was aware of the whole thing. Maybe the news hasn’t reached our guide; maybe these atrocities have long been known here. Even though the events illustrate the South’s ruthless war crimes, she doesn’t draw attention to them.

  The British journalist Alan Winnington, who followed North Korean troops during the Korean War, saw the hastily dug mass graves where hands and feet stuck out from the earth. He wrote about the events in the British Communist newspaper the Daily Worker, but was accused of lying by the American embassy in London. And the U.S. military advisor Frank Winslow recently testified that the American command was invited by the South Koreans to witness the “turkey shoot” — the name given to the mass executions carried out next to the ditches that served as graves. Winslow declined, but other officers went. A few of them photographed the events.

  In one of the pictures from the newly opened archive, a still-living teenage boy is about to tumble into a mass grave. The bodies form a grotesque jumble of arms, heads, and legs. The boy is lying on his stomach, while a soldier holds on to his bare feet. He is tied to his murdered comrade; they lie side by side. The corpse’s arm is stretched across the boy’s back as though he is seeking warmth in his sleep. They’re about to accompany each other to the grave. The photographer has caught the eye of the still-living boy. His head hangs over the edge of the grave, but his face is turned and he looks straight into the camera.

  In 2005, the South Korean government formed the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which is excavating Daejeon. It is thought that more than 100,000 Communist sympathizers were executed after war broke out in 1950. And Daejeon is just one of many places where massacres were carried out: 1,800 were killed in Suwon, 10,000 in Pusan, 25,000 in the southern part of Gyeongsang Province. In each of these places, remnants of bone are still being discovered in the soil.

  * * *

  THE BUS TAKES us to the Yanggakdo Hotel, where we are sequestered from the rest of the city. The forty-seven-storey building is situated on an island in the Taedong River, which runs through Pyongyang, dividing the city east and west. We’re not allowed to leave the island unaccompanied. There’s a greenhouse for growing vegetables, a golf course, and a movie theatre.

  As one of the few places in North Korea where foreigners are permitted, the Yanggakdo Hotel has a mythic aura. Here, sharks from the black market mix with diplomats, businessmen, shock tourists and regular tourists, various politicians, and envoys from marginal leftist groups. The Yanggakdo Hotel plays a leading role in Canadian illustrator Guy Delisle’s 2005 graphic novel Pyongyang: A Journey in North Korea. Delisle lived here for a two-month period and in his book he describes the rituals of this strange place that incubates secrets and hidden rooms. Like all foreigners, Delisle’s freedom of movement in Pyongyang was strictly limited, and so he spent many long hours in the Yanggakdo Hotel. He had found himself at the hotel after a film project he was involved with as an animator ran out of money. It’s not unusual that foreign animation projects at the edge of ruin end up in Pyongyang; here, you have the chance to finish them at a low cost. SEK Studio in central Pyongyang, where Delisle worked, is one of the world’s largest animation studios, with 1,600 employees. Animation is one of North Korea’s few successful industries — perhaps the only one after the manufacturing of weapons. Pororo the Little Penguin, a hugely popular South Korean series, is made here. Kim Jong-il is said to have personally given this show his blessing. He had long advocated on behalf of the production of animated series. There is said to be a motivational plaque outside of the Ministry of Culture in Pyongyang that reads: “make more animated films.”

  AT FIRST GLANCE, everything in the Yanggakdo Hotel is as it is in Delisle’s graphic novel: the giant sea turtle lying as if in a coma within the small, sparse aquarium just inside the entrance; the gift shop behind the elevators with its limited selection, and next to it the pictures of Kim Jong-il who, according to the plaque beneath, provides “on-the-spot guidance” around the country; the restaurants on the ground floor, which are still called Restaurant No. 1, Restaurant No. 2, and Restaurant No. 3.

  One difference is the jostling crowd in the spacious lobby; the hotel was more desolate when Delisle spent time here. The collected mass is connected to North Korea’s sixtieth anniversary celebrations. The games, the parades, and all the other manifestations of celebration will be more intensive than usual.

  Erik Cornell, Sweden’s first chargé d’affaires in Pyongyang, mentions in his book North Korea under Communism: Report of an Envoy to Paradise that in the 1970s, just thirteen or fourteen Western adults were living in Pyongyang. Today, that group amounts to about one hundred residents. Since Cornell published his book, tourism has increased. A few thousand Western tourists visit North Korea every year, whereas around 7 million tourists will visit South Korea this year.

  It’s hard to say how many Chinese, Japanese, and South Koreans visit the country. During the few years of détente between South and North Korea (from approximately 2002 to 2008), South Korean visitors flooded into special, enclosed tourist areas. But in the past years the influx has been stemmed. Average North Koreans, of course, don’t have the option of leaving the country.

  THE HOTEL ROOM looks like any other hotel room. We find ourselves high up in the building. We pull back the curtains and open the window. The sun is setting, dyeing the sky yellow. The smoke from the chimneys of the distant factories forms a veil with a red, glowing fringe where it meets the sun. As night falls, the skyscrapers on the other side of the river turn blue.

  After unpacking we run into Elias, the North Korea enthusiast, in the elevator. He is bursting with curiosity and wants to investigate everything: the hotel, the city, and the people who live here. He has already managed to wander around the island, but when he reached the bridge leading off it he was immediately stopped. Now he’s riding the elevator, trying to gain access to each floor. On some, he’s sent away.

  In the dining room, we get to talking with an American who married into a Japanese brewing family. He has a generic appearance and a perfect East Coast smile, like a model in a Gant ad. As an American, he’s allowed to stay in North Korea for just four days. So he can’t join us on the tour around the country, and has to stick to the sights in Pyongyang. He tells us about the North Korean beer Taedong, which takes its name from the mighty river that runs through Pyongyang. It tastes like a real British ale should — and for good reason. In 2000, Kim Jong-il bought an entire brewery in Trowbridge, England. As soon as the British owner was provided with a guarantee that the brewery wouldn’t be used to create biological weapons, the sale was completed. The brewery was dismantled, shipped to North Korea, and put back together. Since then, the supply of beer in North Korea has been secured.

  The North Korean Taepodong missiles are often mistakenly called “Taedong missiles.” Beer bottles and missiles, the shapes are indeed similar. In an ad on Korean Central Television (KCTV) — the North Korean state television — a tasting is conducted by laboratory personnel. The bottles float around in space and columns of foam shoot up like missiles.

  After a few Taedongs, the American confides in us about his life in Japan. His stepfather has fully accepted him — he’s next in line to take over the brewery — but there’s one problem.

  “Here’s the truth,” he says. “I don’t have a single Japanese friend.” He swallows a sip of beer with a quick grimace and looks around. He realizes the room has fallen silent. He quickly reinstates his smile and suggests that we continue talking in the panorama bar.

  When we reach the circular restaurant, which is on the forty-seventh floor of the hotel, the American immediately starts flirting with the waitresses. They smile indulgently. The restaurant is supposed to rotate, but you don’t notice. Someone places a coin on the floor and, yes, after a while we can see that the coin is farther away.

  Twilight has fallen quickly. Now it’s pitch dark. When we look out the window, we don’t see a panoramic view. The l
ights across town are shut off, and the odd single point of light doesn’t give the impression that Pyongyang is a big city. It is unknown how many people actually live here, but soon there’ll be a census. At last count, there were 2.7 million inhabitants.

  DAY 2

  Can You Imagine?

  THE WINDOWS IN our hotel room are wide open. We turned off the air conditioner overnight and let the humidity flood in. Pyongyang is cloaked in a dense fog. We can hear voices on loudspeakers in the distance. We stand by the windows, and after a while we start to make out indeterminate movements on the boulevard on the other side of the Taedong River. Details become discernible: we see hundreds of tanks slowly moving forward in a line like a parade of woodlice, while a stream of people, many holding red flags, heads in the opposite direction. The people hurry along, the voices on the loudspeakers urging them on between interludes of revolutionary music.

  WE EAT BREAKFAST in Restaurant No. 1. Two omelette chefs crowned with exaggeratedly tall toques have their own table at the far end of the room. Deeply focused, they beat the eggs with slim wooden spoons. There’s also a buffet displaying everything from continental breakfast to kimchi. The graphic novelist Guy Delisle had plenty of time to ponder at breakfast. He concluded that the toothpicks on the table must have been hand-carved. We don’t see any of these toothpicks, but we do enjoy the omelettes. They are outstanding.

  The American turns up, but avoids making eye contact. He sits at another table.

  THE BUS TAKES us through the city, where masses of people are performing tasks early this Sunday morning. One woman squats down and scrubs the cobblestones on a traffic island with a root brush and water. Other people are plucking something from the grass-covered viaducts. Members of the Korean Youth Corps wear red kerchiefs and walk in a row, and other groups move in unison too. Every other person seems to be wearing a uniform, and not only the brown Home Guard uniform. In addition to the police, the military police, and the traffic police, even those who maintain the roads wear uniforms.