At Beijing University, 1972
On December 11, Kim Il-sung's Selected Works suddenly appeared on the shelves of our reading room. The next day, several black Mercedes-Benz limousines disgorged nine neatly dressed North Koreans. There were two women and seven men, all in their early twenties.Three were going to study Chinese, three English and three French. I pitied them. It was bad enough studying Chinese in China during the Cultural Revolution, but English and French? The North Koreans had little choice. They literally weren't on speaking terms with most Western countries.
Unlike Erica and me, who did our best to blend in, the North Koreans had no intention of slumming. The last thing they wanted was to be mistaken for were Chinese Communists. They felt infinitely superior. All children of senior officials, they didn't want Chinese roommates and used their dormitory rooms only for the noon siesta. Each day after classes they were driven back to their embassy. I suppose neither country wanted their nationals getting too friendly. What if they compared notes on personality cults? Ostensibly friends, about all the two Communist nations agreed on was the evils of U.S. imperialism. Behind the scenes, they quarreled over everything else: the Soviet Union, agricultural collectivization, nuclear weapons and whose great leader was greatest.
The women reminded me of Salvation Army matrons in their prim navy suits. The men looked like Star Trek extras in their high-necked Kim Il-sung suits. Although the Chinese has mostly stopped wearing Mao badges by 1972, the North Koreans each wore a discreet Kim badge just above their hearts. Back in 1972, Erica and I must have been the only Westerners in the world lunching daily with North Koreans.
The North Koreans treated Erica and me as if we had a contagious disease. Even though I spoke English, Chinese and some French, they rarely spoke to me. Only one was friendly, but maybe he was crazy. His English teacher told me that during classes he made facial contortions, then burst out laughing for no apparent reason. Of course, anyone would go a little nuts with the strain of finally getting out of Pyongyang, only to land in the midst of the Cultural Revolution.
I nicknamed him Skirts because he kept making passes at Erica and me. Once while I was washing the dishes after supper, he invited me for a stroll. I pointed to a dish towel and told him to start drying. He patted me on my behind and left. Whenever the school took us to model operas and hockey games, Skirts maneuvered to sit next to Erica or me. I learned to give him a sharp elbow when he leaned across the armrest, trying to paste his face against mine. Once he dropped into my room and said with a leer, "I think you are beautiful." [My Chinese roommate] Scarlet was shocked.
When I registered a protest, the school was not interested. As a socialist sibling, North Korea was untouchable. ... "The Korean and Chinese peoples are like lips and teeth," said Cadre Huang, my handler at the Foreign Students Office. It was his inscrutable way of telling me to get lost.
. . .
As for Skirts, he later became a senior official in North Korea's defense ministry. I think of him whenever I hear about the latest nuclear-inspection crisis in Pyongyang.
--Jan Wong, Red China Blues
Unlike Erica and me, who did our best to blend in, the North Koreans had no intention of slumming. The last thing they wanted was to be mistaken for were Chinese Communists. They felt infinitely superior. All children of senior officials, they didn't want Chinese roommates and used their dormitory rooms only for the noon siesta. Each day after classes they were driven back to their embassy. I suppose neither country wanted their nationals getting too friendly. What if they compared notes on personality cults? Ostensibly friends, about all the two Communist nations agreed on was the evils of U.S. imperialism. Behind the scenes, they quarreled over everything else: the Soviet Union, agricultural collectivization, nuclear weapons and whose great leader was greatest.
The women reminded me of Salvation Army matrons in their prim navy suits. The men looked like Star Trek extras in their high-necked Kim Il-sung suits. Although the Chinese has mostly stopped wearing Mao badges by 1972, the North Koreans each wore a discreet Kim badge just above their hearts. Back in 1972, Erica and I must have been the only Westerners in the world lunching daily with North Koreans.
The North Koreans treated Erica and me as if we had a contagious disease. Even though I spoke English, Chinese and some French, they rarely spoke to me. Only one was friendly, but maybe he was crazy. His English teacher told me that during classes he made facial contortions, then burst out laughing for no apparent reason. Of course, anyone would go a little nuts with the strain of finally getting out of Pyongyang, only to land in the midst of the Cultural Revolution.
I nicknamed him Skirts because he kept making passes at Erica and me. Once while I was washing the dishes after supper, he invited me for a stroll. I pointed to a dish towel and told him to start drying. He patted me on my behind and left. Whenever the school took us to model operas and hockey games, Skirts maneuvered to sit next to Erica or me. I learned to give him a sharp elbow when he leaned across the armrest, trying to paste his face against mine. Once he dropped into my room and said with a leer, "I think you are beautiful." [My Chinese roommate] Scarlet was shocked.
When I registered a protest, the school was not interested. As a socialist sibling, North Korea was untouchable. ... "The Korean and Chinese peoples are like lips and teeth," said Cadre Huang, my handler at the Foreign Students Office. It was his inscrutable way of telling me to get lost.
. . .
As for Skirts, he later became a senior official in North Korea's defense ministry. I think of him whenever I hear about the latest nuclear-inspection crisis in Pyongyang.
--Jan Wong, Red China Blues