Escape from North Korea (27 page)

STOCKHOLDERS

LET MY PEOPLE GO

T
he story of the new underground railroad would not be complete without a look at the people outside China who help make it run. These are the funders, PR people, and political activists who shore up the rescuers working in China. Call it the railroad's back office.

With its traditions of grassroots political activism and private charity, the United States is home to many outspoken and effective advocates in behalf of the North Korean refugees. It is also home to many of the money men. A large number, though by no means all, are Korean-American. American activism in behalf of North Koreans took off in the mid-1990s as refugees started to pour into China and word of their plight began to seep out. The backers of the original Underground Railroad were called “stockholders.” Today, we'd change three letters of that word and call them “stakeholders.”

As with the nineteenth-century abolitionists who supported the Underground Railroad, much of support in the United States for the new underground railroad centers on churches. The Korean-American churches take their moral authority from the Bible, and God's exhortation in the Book of Exodus:
Let my people go
.
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One such congregation is Hana Presbyterian Church in Beltsville, Maryland. It is an example of a congregation of Korean-Americans who are committed, engaged, and political. The members of the congregation demonstrate their commitment in two ways: providing personal support to North Korean refugees who have received political asylum in the United States and engaging in awareness-building activities in nearby Washington, D.C.

Hana Presbyterian is a small, steepled church perched atop a gentle hill in a suburban community an hour's drive from Capitol Hill. It's set in a prosperous residential area, surrounded by spacious houses positioned on generous lots. On a snowy December Saturday, the neighborhood is quiet except for the traffic turning in and out of the church parking lot.

Hana Presbyterian is a Korean-American church, but on Saturday mornings the church makes its sanctuary available to a congregation of Philippine-Americans who lack their own house of worship. When I arrive at a side door, the Filipinos' worship service has just ended and the congregants are jostling each other in a narrow back hallway as they head to the fellowship hall for a potluck lunch that the ladies are laying out. A cheery gentleman formally attired in a three-piece suit waves me in the direction of the church office. “Pastor Lee is waiting for you,” he tells me.

Heemoon Lee greets me with a smile and a handshake. He is not wearing a traditional, stiff clerical collar, but a more up-to-date collarless shirt—the kind that men older than he is will remember as Nehru shirts. Unlike many South Korean men his age, Pastor Lee does not dye his hair, which is abundant, wavy, and silvery.

The pastor was born in South Korea in 1958 and arrived in the United States in 1986, when he joined a sister who had settled in Minneapolis. Like many Korean families, his was divided by the Korean War. In his case, the physical division of the family was due to an ideological rift. During the Korean War, Pastor Lee's father renounced his family because he did not share the Communist beliefs of his older brother, Pastor Lee's uncle. That uncle, along with other members of the extended Lee family, were killed by South Korean soldiers during the war because of their support for Kim Il Sung and his Communist ideals. Pastor Lee's father did not reveal this family history to his son until after the boy had graduated from high school. The knowledge of that bloody event and that people in his own family had supported the enemy was too big a burden, Lee's father felt, to place on a child.

Pastor Lee's family history explains in part his decision to focus his work on North Korea. “I made up my mind to become an instrument of unification,” he said. “I was called by God to work for unification and help the North Korean people.”
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The church's name reflects that goal, and the flock he leads shares their pastor's work. Pastor Lee explains that
hana
is the Korean word for “one.” In the context of the church's name, the word carries two meanings: First, the members of the church are one people, joined together to worship in the name of Jesus Christ. Second, the congregation is working toward the day when the divided nation of Korea once again will be one country. The church's eloquent, succinct mission statement says it all: “Rescue. Help. Mission. Educate.”

Pastor Lee himself does not work on the new underground railroad, but he is well acquainted with many Americans and South Koreans who do. Under his leadership, Hana Presbyterian's congregation raises money to support specific rescue missions in China. The church is also active in raising awareness at home. It works to educate Korean-Americans and the American public at large about
the plight of North Koreans in China. The church is a member of the North Korea Freedom Coalition, of which Pastor Lee has served as vice chairman. The coalition, run by a Washington, D.C., dynamo, Suzanne Scholte, was established in 2003 to promote policies in Washington and Seoul that will aid North Korean refugees in China and shed light on the human rights abuses perpetrated by the Kim family regime. It lobbies on Capitol Hill, and it hosts an annual weeklong conference that brings together activists for rallies, networking and public-information sessions.

The coalition, with Pastor Lee, helped organize Korean-American support for the North Korean Human Rights Act. That legislation was passed by the U.S. Congress in 2004 and signed into law by President George W. Bush. Members of Hana Presbyterian keep up the drumbeat through letter-writing campaigns to the White House, members of Congress, and the United Nations. Like many Korean-Americans, Pastor Lee and Hana's congregation are dissatisfied with the imperfect implementation of the North Korean Human Rights Act. They especially want to see more North Korean refugees admitted to the United States.

Hana Presbyterian's most immediate ministry is the intensive, day-to-day assistance it provides to a small number of North Koreans who traveled out of China on the new underground railroad and who have received political asylum in the United States. One hundred twenty-eight North Koreans settled in the United States between 2006 and early 2012. Eight are parishioners at Hana Presbyterian, and the church has helped several others who have now moved on. The North Korean refugees rely on the church for everything from housing to jobs to personal counseling. Church members offer the refugees an array of services. Members provide English lessons, drive the refugees to and from work, and advise them about coping with everyday tasks that can be bewildering to newcomers, such as grocery shopping and operating a washing machine. Next door to the church, on the other side of the parking lot, is the mission
house. It is a split-level home that has been divided into private living spaces for the North Koreans.

The Jo family—a mother and two daughters—has agreed to meet me, and Pastor Lee escorts me to the mission house. We go out the church's back door and forge a path through the snow-covered parking lot as we walk the few steps to the house. The Jo women are living in a room at the back of the house that looks like it originally served as a family room. It is large, wood-paneled, and cheerful. Before entering, we take off our shoes, Korean-style, and put on slippers that the Jos have put out for us.

Their room is warm and inviting. Three single beds along the walls are made up with spreads and cushions to serve as sofas. There is a TV perched on a cabinet. A crimson-and-white Harvard banner is placed at a jaunty angle on a wall next to a bookshelf. The room appears not to have a closet, and the women's clothing hangs from a line strung neatly across one corner of the room. As we sit down, the mother asks her younger daughter, Grace, to bring us coffee.
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The Jos were originally a family of eight. The mother, Han Song-hwa, and her two daughters are the only three who survived. Another daughter disappeared one day when she was walking to the market in their hometown in North Korea; the family fears she was kidnapped and sold as a bride in China. The father died in a prison camp, where he was interned after being arrested in China and repatriated to North Korea. Mrs. Han's mother, who lived with the family, died of starvation. So did the Jo family's two small sons. One boy was five years old at the time of his death; the other was two months old. The baby died in the arms of his sister Grace, who was eight years old at the time. After the baby's death, Mrs. Han took her surviving daughters and fled to China, where they lived for ten years. In China, they were arrested and repatriated twice. In both cases, they survived prison terms in North Korea and then returned to China. An American pastor helped them reach the United States.

For all their past hardships, the Jo family seems to be thriving in the U.S. Their new life is hardest on Mrs. Han, who has health problems and spends most of her time at home and at the church next door. She seems worn out after her years of working to preserve her family in North Korea and China. Building a new life in the United States may be beyond her capabilities.

But her daughters are flourishing. The older girl, Jin-hye, is in her early twenties. She is studying English, working part-time at a local video store, and doing outreach work with the North Korea Freedom Coalition. She is energetic, outspoken, and impassioned. Not long after we met, she gave a speech to a group of Korean-American students at Princeton University. She urged the students to speak out about North Korea's abuse of its citizens. “When older people hear about tragedies, they cry because they do not have the ability to do something,” she said. “When younger people hear, they think about what they can do.”
Say
something, she implored the Princetonians.
Do
something.
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Grace is still a teenager and in high school. Her English-language skills already are excellent, and her grades are good. The Harvard pennant hanging in the family's quarters reflects her ambitions. In aspiring to an Ivy League education, she is much like Korean-Americans her age. Jin-hye was not able to attend school when the family was hiding in China and received little formal education. She seems proud of Grace and envious of the educational opportunities open to her sister.

Pastor Lee calls the Jo sisters exceptional and gives them a high compliment by comparing the girls to himself when he was a young newcomer to America. Most North Koreans have a far more difficult time settling into life in the United States, he says. But he puts the Jo sisters in the category of immigrants who are likely to succeed. He attributes their ease in fitting into American society to the fact that they lived for so many years in China, where they acquired personal skills that helped prepare them for life in the United States. North
Koreans who arrive directly from North Korea after only brief stays in China have a harder time adjusting to the freedom of choice available in every aspect of American life, he says. They also tend to lack initiative. They just want to be told what to do.

That can pose a problem for Hana's congregation. The Americans have to guard against providing too much help for the new arrivals. Independence and self-sufficiency, not permanent dependence on the good folks of Hana Presbyterian, are the optimal goals. The North Koreans “have to learn to do it by themselves,” the pastor says. “I tell them, we can provide housing, but you have to help yourself. I share my experience. When I first came to this country, I had to take two buses to work. Five hours. Two and a half hours each way. I received just $4.25 an hour in pay.”

Hama Presbyterian is not unique among Korean-American churches in the depth of its commitment to a free North Korea. Nor is it unique in the time and energy its pastor and congregation devote to helping the North Koreans who have settled in the United States. Other Korean-American congregations are similarly devoted to the cause. They assist refugees who live in their neighborhoods and conduct awareness-raising activities.

Churches are also a significant venue for raising money for the new underground railroad. They generally do so in response to specific appeals to help North Koreans who are on the run. Typical is Lee Jun-won, a small businessman who owns a hair salon in Queens, New York. Lee is not a rich man, but he donated $10,000 from his personal savings to rescue the Seo family of four when a member of his congregation issued a plea for help.

Thanks to Lee's assistance, the Seos eventually made it to the United States through China and then Vietnam. When I visited the Seos's apartment in upstate New York, I noticed a large framed
photograph hanging on the wall of their living room. It was a picture of the hairdresser welcoming the family at JFK Airport in New York City. One of the Seo sons called my attention to the picture on the evening I visited the family. He cited it as an example of the difference between the United States and North Korea. In North Korea, he said, every household is required to hang official portraits of Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il on their walls, where they serve as objects of daily veneration. In America, he said with pride, he and his family can choose for themselves how to decorate their living room. They can even put a photograph of themselves and their friends on their walls if they wish. For this young man, the hairdresser's photo on the wall of his home was a significant statement—a symbol of his liberation.
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