North Korea: survival means slavery

Many North Koreans are so desperate to escape the country that they are prepared to risk their lives

The Tumen River, which divides China from North Korea, was frozen solid. We peered across to the North Korean side: the border guards' wooden huts emitted no smoke, suggesting that they were unheated. Outside, it was -16° Celsius. A wolf-like dog scampered along the river, leaving pad-prints in the snow. There were human footprints, too - evidence of a patrol, maybe, or of refugees who had fled at night, so desperate to leave North Korea that they would risk freezing to death or being shot.

Some chance it across the river on their own, hiding in the mountains on the Chinese side, hoping to find farm work in exchange for food. A small number manage to link up with church networks that smuggle people through China and eventually to South Korea. For many women, however, the choice is stark: to die of hunger in North Korea or be sold into slavery in China.

So poor are farmers in this remote part of Manchuria that local women refuse to marry them, preferring to try their luck in the small town of Huanqing or the nearby city of Yanji. As an alternative, Chinese families buy North Korean women from the snakehead gangs that operate along the Tumen and Yalu Rivers. With the one-child policy now creating an overall shortage of young women in China, the demand for North Korean refugee brides is certain to increase.

The driver took us 15 miles inside China to a bleak, snow-cloaked village. The only living creatures outside, under the leaden grey sky, were a few tethered cattle. It was the middle of the morning, but the village was silent. A wooden window frame swung unevenly on rusting hinges; snow covered the piles of firewood stacked against barn walls.

We walked up a frozen mud pathway to a shabby brick house, thatched with twigs. Inside, it was warm, the concrete floor covered in yellow plastic sheeting and heated by a wood burner underneath. Two women sat on the hot floor among the men who had bought them. The younger one was pretty, her smooth hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she smiled as she played with her five-year-old son. The driver had told us earlier that she had cost the equivalent of £130. The older one, who said she was 52, must have been cheaper, because she was already beyond childbearing age when she arrived. Her function was to cook and work in the fields. She had a mouthful of gold teeth. Neither would reveal her name or allow her face to be photographed.

"If the North Koreans find out I'm here, they will say I'm a traitor and they'll kill me," said the younger one. The older woman told her story first. "When I was in North Korea, I was sick and couldn't work, " she said. "My husband had died. The government put me and my children in a camp. When my son died, I was with him. There wasn't enough food, so he went to scavenge whatever people threw away on the streets and ate it. He got sick from eating garbage. He was in the hospital for five days before he died. He was 17. Now I have no family left in North Korea." Her reasoning was simple. "I escaped from North Korea because there was no food. My husband died. My son died. I didn't want to die, so I came to China."

It is hard to imagine a situation so desperate that you would conclude being sold was your least worst option, but that was her decision. "Someone in North Korea told me that I could come to China and marry into a Chinese family," she said. "I crossed the Tumen River and lived with a family in Tumen town for three days. I said that I wanted to be far away from the border, and they told me people are bought and sold in Shandong, so they sent me there."

She said a North Korean man had sold her to a Han Chinese family, but she could not speak the language and grew ever more miserable. "I lived there for three months but I couldn't talk to anybody in that Han family. They didn't give me a lot of food either. I worked on the farm. Then somebody brought me here to this family. I don't know how much money he sold me for. Those people are middlemen."

At this point our driver interrupted. "Don't use the word 'sold'," he said. "Just say you got married." He had told us he knew where the North Koreans were hiding, because he and his brother sometimes picked them up at the border and drove them inland, or were hired to take them further afield. We wondered if he was employed by the traffickers; driving journalists to meet the refugees was just another part of the business.

The younger woman was reluctant to talk. "I've lived in this village for five years, and I'm afraid to be caught by the police," she said. She indicated our camera, which we were carefully not pointing at her face. "I'm afraid of television, too," she said, looking at the floor.

The police had caught her when she was six months pregnant, but her new family paid a bribe to stop her being deported. "I think the police let me go because I was pregnant."

Refugees who have reached South Korea tell stories of pregnant women sent back to North Korea from China being forced to abort or even murder their newborns. Although many Chinese families in the border area are ethnically Korean, the regime in Pyongyang is obsessed with racial purity and believes that the children of Chinese fathers are contaminated. "Whenever I hear police cars, my heart jumps, and when they come, I just run out and hide," said the younger woman. "As long as I'm not caught by the police, I'll just stay here with my son and live a quiet life. Life is not easy in China, but I just want to live like this, and not get caught."

The Chinese government regards the North Koreans not as refugees needing help, but as illegal aliens. It will not allow the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) access to the border area, and limits the number of South Korean diplomats in the region, for fear they will encourage North Koreans to seek asylum. "The Chinese government flat-out refuses to recognise North Koreans as refugees," says Ron Redmond, chief spokesman for UNHCR. "But of course we help them; we've helped North Koreans reach South Korea. Nobody knows how many refugees there are: estimates have ranged from 30,000 to 300,000. " In 2005 an American Christian pastor, Philip Buck, was arrested in Yanji and held for 18 months on charges of "people smuggling". He was part of the "Seoul train" that takes refugees out of North Korea and China through Mongolia and Thailand to safety.

The Chinese authorities detain North Koreans in a monolithic yellow concrete block with small windows staring out across the river from a hilltop just outside Tumen. Every few weeks they load detainees into vans and take them across the bridge, where they are handed over to the border guards under a portrait of North Korea's "President for Eternity", Kim Il-sung, who died in 1994.

In the late 1990s, hunger in North Korea became so acute that the country appealed for food aid and the UN World Food Programme stepped in. It is estimated that roughly two million people died. Now China and South Korea donate food, most of which is believed to reach the military and the elite in Pyongyang, while the WFP continues a smaller programme. "We have identified 1.9 million people dependent on food aid in North Korea," says Robin Lodge, a WFP spokesman. "At present we are feeding 740,000. Our funding is such that we believe we can continue feeding them until June this year."

Sanctions worsen hunger

In an anonymous block of flats in the mean little town of Huanqing, we met a family - mother, father, teenage son and daughter - that had been caught trying to take food to relatives back home. A Chinese Christian who would give his name only as "Mr Kim" took us to the flat which served as their refuge and their prison. "We're fine here, except we dare not go out," said the mother. She said Mr Kim brought them food and other necessities.

For five years the family had lived as a group of itinerant beggars, wandering around North Korea looking for food, because food distribution at the coal mine where the father had worked was inadequate. Their memory of dates and details was vague, but they said they crossed over into China in 2005. "For almost a year we lived in a tent in the mountains," said the father. They found the Christian network and converted. Then they began to worry about relatives back home, so they decided to join other Christians taking food back across the border.

Within days they were caught. Under interrogation, their friends confessed to being Christians and were jailed as political prisoners. The women were released and the father managed to resist confession, but the son was transferred back to their home town of Gosang.

"I was detained for another 20 days. There were 150 people in a cell 150 square metres large," he said. "Men were kept in the cell and women in the corridor." They were fed, but that was not enough. "Many prisoners got skin diseases," he said. "There was no medicine, and I saw many dead people in the cell."

It was not clear why he had been released, nor how the family had been reunited in China. Now Mr Kim was hoping to smuggle all four of them to Beijing and eventually to South Korea. When asked about relatives back home, mother and daughter started to cry. Although UN sanctions imposed after North Korea's nuclear test last year target luxury goods, Mr Kim's concern was that further economic pressure could send starvation levels back to those of the late 1990s. "The other day, I met some North Koreans who have only just arrived," he said. "They are ready for another economic crisis. There will be a second Hardship Long March this year."

In the past few years the North Korean economy has been prised open and increasing numbers of Chinese traders are doing business in Pyongyang, but the Chinese fear that if Japan and the US move too harshly against North Korea over its nuclear programme, the regime will become unstable and millions will surge across the border. "If more refugees flee to China, the Chinese government will send them back," said Mr Kim. "They won't change their policies."

On the outskirts of the village, we tramped through the snow to meet a family of three that had arrived last spring and had been living in the mountains, working in exchange for food on a farm where they catch and kill toads for traditional medicine. The parents told a now familiar story: their son had died of starvation last year, so they decided to come to China with their remaining child, a 13-year-old girl. As we talked, she played with a puppy - her only entertainment, because she cannot go to school in China.

No one knows how many other children like her are hiding in the villages and the mountains of north-eastern China, condemned to live as permanent fugitives for the crime of trying to survive.

Lindsey Hilsum is China correspondent for "Channel 4 News"

North Korea: the facts of life

Healthcare and education are provided according to government assessment of an individual's and family's political loyalty.
Usually only children of the elite are allowed to go to college and hold prominent jobs.
Between 1996 and 2005 more than $2bn of food aid was delivered to NK.
37 per cent of young children are clinically malnourished.
Approximately one-third of mothers are malnourished and anaemic.
A citizen can be sentenced, without judicial process, to a life of "hard labour" in mining, timber-cutting, or farming.
In 2003, the government announced that it would refrain from executing criminals in public.
In 2004, a government campaign called on men to keep their hair short, stressing the "negative effects" of long hair on "human intelligence development".
Research by Lucy Knight
Sources: Human Rights Watch, Amnesty, WFP

Lindsey Hilsum is China Correspondent for Channel 4 News. She has previously reported extensively from Africa, the Middle East, the Balkans and Latin America.
Martin O’Neill for New Statesman
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1966 and all that

A year of World Cup glory, meeting Paul McCartney and eating placenta.

Fifty years ago this Saturday, on 30 July 1966, I was at Wembley. I have my ticket and my programme to prove it. I also have my 1966 ­diary, which I am looking at now. I was 30, weighed ten stone and eight pounds, and my waist was 32 inches – about as hard to believe now as England winning another World Cup final.

I am still in the same house, all these decades later, but my telephone number then was GUL 4685. GUL was short for Gulliver, I can’t remember why. In my list of contacts at the end of my diary is Melvyn Bragg, who was another recent arrival in London from Cumbria, like myself and my wife, on PRO 0790. PRO stood for Prospect, I think, which was the exchange name for somewhere over the river, possibly Kew.

My office number was TER 1234. I always thought that was a great and memorable number. It’s only now, thinking about it, that I realise that TER – meaning Terminus –
probably related to King’s Cross, which the Sunday Times was near in those days.

At the top of the charts in July 1966 were the Kinks with “Sunny Afternoon”, which I can well remember, as it was so ironically chirpy, and Georgie Fame with “Getaway”. I liked Georgie Fame – low-key, cool – but I can’t remember that tune. Both were replaced in August by the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine”/“Eleanor Rigby”.

My day job in July 1966, on the Sunday Times staff, was writing the Atticus column. It still exists, but in a smaller, more skittery format. Previous incumbents included Ian Fleming, John Buchan and Sacheverell Sitwell, who was reputed to have got free Mateus rosé for life after giving the wine its first mention in an English newspaper.

I had been on the paper since 1960, after spending two years as a so-called graduate trainee journalist, mainly in Manchester, which was a laugh. There was no training and there were no lessons in law. You had a mentor for a few weeks and then you got on with it.

In my first few years as the boy on Atticus, I never had my name in the paper. I had to write dreary paragraphs about who might be our next man in Washington, or the bishop of London, or the master of Balliol, as if I cared. I wanted to write about footballers, gritty northern novelists, pop stars.

When I started at the Sunday Times, I felt for a while that people were prejudiced against me, because I was northern and working class and had gone to grammar school and a provincial university (Durham). Everyone else seemed to have been at Oxbridge and gone to public school.

But this prejudice was all in my head, imagined, just as it had been when I used to go from Durham to visit my girlfriend, Margaret – whom I married in 1960 – at Oxford. I was convinced that some of her posh friends were being condescending ­towards me. Total nonsense, but I had a chip on my shoulder for some years. Gone, all gone, just like my 32-inch waist. (I am now 12 stone and the new shorts I bought last week have a 38-inch waist. Oh, the horror.) If anything, these past 50 years, any prejudice has been in my favour.

Harold Wilson was the prime minister in 1966. His northern accent was even stronger than mine. I still have a letter from him, dated 21 March 1963, after I interviewed him for Atticus. In the letter, he ­describes the 1938 FA Cup final in which Preston beat Huddersfield Town 1-0, scoring in the last minute of extra time. At the bottom of the page, in handwriting, he’d added: “after hitting the crossbar”.

What I remember most about the interview was George Brown, who was deputy to
Wilson as Labour leader at the time, hanging around outside his office, drunk. Marcia Williams, Wilson’s secretary, was going around tut-tutting, making faces, complaining about George. I thought she shouldn’t have done, not in front of me, as I was a total stranger and a hack. (I don’t think we called ourselves hacks in those days, which is the normal, half-ironic self-description today.)

Harold was a football man and also a real know-all, forever boasting about his memory for facts and figures. The contents of this letter illustrate both aspects of his character. It led me later to collect a letter or autograph from every prime minister, going back to Robert Walpole. Only took me ten years.

There is a myth that England’s 1966 win helped Labour stay in power – which does not quite stand up. The general election was in March – four months before the final. But Wilson did milk England’s victory, identifying himself and the nation with our English champions.

It is possible that the reverse effect happened in 1970, when Wilson was chucked out and Edward Heath came in. England’s defeat at the 1970 World Cup by West Germany was just four days before the June general election.

***

I got my ticket for the 1966 World Cup final – for one of the best seats, priced at £5 – from my friend James Bredin, now dead, who was the boss of Border Television. Based in Carlisle, Border covered the Scottish Borders and the Isle of Man. It was a thriving, thrusting regional ITV station, now also deceased.

James’s chauffeur came to pick me up and waited for us after the match, a sign of the importance and affluence of even minor ITV stations. Border contributed quite a bit to the network, such as Mr and Mrs, starring Derek Batey, who presented 450 editions of this very popular national show. Batey was a local lad who started his show business life as an amateur ventriloquist in the little market town of Brampton, Cumbria, before becoming Carlisle’s Mr Show Business. He was so polished – lush hair, shiny suits, so starry, so glittery – that I always wondered why he was not in London, in the West End.

Border TV also produced some excellent documentaries that were networked across the ITV region, two of which I presented. One was about walking along Hadrian’s Wall and the other was about George Stephenson. For a while in the 1970s, I began to think I was going to become a TV presenter, despite being not much good. I was lousy at acting, which you need for television, and disliked asking questions to which I already knew the answers. And it took so much time. For each programme, we spent eight weeks on location with a crew of eight, just to make a one-hour documentary. Now they
do docs in a week with just two people.

For half an hour, I also imagined that I was going to become a playwright. In 1967, I had a play in the BBC’s Wednesday Play slot, awfully prestigious at the time, called The Playground. It was one of those shows that were filmed live and then wiped, so I have never seen it since, nor has anybody else. I blamed that for blighting my playwriting career, though till I was looking in my 1966 diary and saw that I was working on that play, I’d forgotten about its existence. As we go through life, we forget all the paths not trodden.

I’ve boasted endlessly about being at the 1966 Wembley final, and it was so exciting, but I can’t remember many of the details. I must have been aware of Geoff Hurst’s second goal being a bit dodgy, as there were loud complaints from the German fans, but as Sir Geoff, as he then wasn’t, went on to score a third goal, it didn’t really matter. At the time, I considered that the England-Portugal semi-final had been a better game, with our Bobby Charlton scoring two goals against one from Eusebio, but of course winning a final is winning a final and the excitement and the patriotic pride continued for weeks and months. We felt as if it had been our right to win – after all, did we not give the game to the world, lay down the first rules, show all those foreigners how to play our game?

The result was that we usually ignored all the new ideas and developments that were emerging from Europe and South America, carrying on with our old ways, stuffing our faces with steak before a game and knocking back six pints afterwards, a bit like Alf Tupper in the Rover comic. He lived on fish and chips, but on the race track he could beat anyone.

Those funny Continental players started playing in funny lightweight boots, more like slippers or ballet shoes, which seemed barmy to us. How we scoffed. How can you play properly, far less kick someone properly, unless your ankles are encased in hard leather as tough as steel? Who cared if they weighed a ton, especially in wet weather? We Brits were tough.

The top First Division stars of 1966 earned about £200 a week, including bonuses, and lived in £20,000 houses, semi-detached, on new estates with Tudor overtones. The top players drove Jaguars. But most were lucky to afford a Ford Cortina. I had one myself for a while. Awfully smart, or so I thought at the time.

Their basic wages were little more than double that of the best-paid working men, such as a foreman bricklayer or a successful plumber. Their neighbours on their estates were bank mangers or salesmen, a higher scale socially than their own background, but still fairly modest. Not like today. Footballers don’t even have neighbours any more. They are cocooned in their own gated mansions, with personal staff, gardeners, nannies, accountants, lawyers, agents.

Yet despite their modest lifestyles in those days, there were celebrity players, such as Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton and, before them, Billy Wright, all household names, loved and admired, recognised everywhere.

None of them had an agent in 1966. The nearest thing to it was the system that operated if a team got to the FA Cup final. They would then agree to divvy up the peripheral proceeds, such as money from giving newspaper interviews, posing for staged corny photographs, opening shops, or selling their spare tickets to touts (which they were not supposed to do). They’d appoint some dodgy friend of one of the senior players to arrange the deals and collect the monies for them. Times, they always change. Otherwise, what’s the point, eh?

***

In 1966, two big events occurred in my personal life. In May that year, my son, Jake, was born – at home, in what is now our kitchen. He arrived so quickly that the midwife hadn’t turned up yet and he emerged with the cord twisted around his neck. I managed to untie it, which I have maintained since kept him alive (a trick I had learned at fathers’ classes).

Fathers’ classes – wow, what a novelty that was in the 1960s. Who says we were all chauvinist pigs back then? (Today’s young, female star writers at the New Statesman, probably.) I attended my first ones, at the Royal Free Hospital in 1964, when our firstborn, Caitlin, was about to arrive. I remember immediately thinking when the invite came that I would get 1,000 words out of this – which I did, for the Sunday Times women’s pages.

Also at those first-ever fathers’ classes at the Royal Free was a young BBC producer whose wife was also about to give birth: Wilfred De’Ath. He, too, was desperate to get a piece out of it. (He now writes occasionally for the Oldie, and he appears to be down and out and living in France.)

After Jake’s birth, I got the midwife to give me the placenta and I ate it, fried with onions. Tasted like liver. Another 1,000 words.

The other event of note in my ever-so-exciting life in 1966 was meeting Paul McCartney. When “Eleanor Rigby” came out, I thought the words – not just the tune – were so wonderful. Possibly the best poetry of the year, I said, as if I knew anything about poetry. I went to see him for Atticus in his new house in St John’s Wood, which he still has, being a very conservative feller. I talked to him about the background to the lyrics, as opposed to his hair, which interviewers were still asking him about.

A few months later, at the end of 1966, I went to see him again, wearing a different cap, as a screenwriter. I’d had a novel published the previous year, Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush, which was being made into a film, with Clive Donner directing. We went to see Paul at his house and discussed with him if he would do the theme tune. He turned us down in the end but it was while I was with him that I suggested that there should be a proper biography of the Beatles. He said Brian (Epstein, the band’s manager) would have to agree – and there and then sat me down and helped me write a suitable arse-licking letter to him.

I eventually saw Brian, after several cancellations, at his home in Belgravia and he played me the acetate of “Strawberry Fields Forever”. I was astounded. It seemed to break every rule of what was then considered pop music. I wondered if all Beatles fans
would take to it. But I could see that it was amazing and perhaps the Beatles weren’t finished, which was what some people were saying in 1966. At my publisher, Heinemann, which paid me £3,000 for the book, there was one director who maintained the Beatles bubble was about to burst.

Brian agreed to my project and offered a clause in the contract that we had not requested or even thought of. He said he would not give any other writer access to the Beatles for two years after my book came out. This was 1966. The book came out in 1968. Two years later, in 1970, the Beatles were no more. Without realising it at the time, I became the only authorised ­biographer of the Beatles.

***

So, 1966, a big year for me, so glad I kept that diary, and also a big year for the nation. I thought at the time that the Beatles were bound to fade, eventually, while England surely would dominate world football from now on. After their humbling by Iceland at this year’s World Cup, I now realise that England will never win the World Cup again in my life, what’s left of it. And probably not even another game.

The only way to rationalise it is to tell ourselves that we are ahead of the game. We are rubbish, but in turn it will happen to all the other so-called advanced nations.

You could say Brexit is a bit like that. We are ahead of the other leading European nations in going it alone, even though it is depressing and awful and shameful. We are advanced in wilfully turning ourselves into a rubbish nation. We are leading the way, as ever. Inger-land, Inger-land.

Hunter Davies’s memoir of the postwar years, “The Co-op’s Got Bananas!” (Simon & Schuster), was published in April, followed by “Lakeland: a Personal Journal” (Head of Zeus). His final book on the Fab Four, “The Beatles Book” (Ebury), will be published on 1 September

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue