Somewhere Inside Part 4

The responsibility for taking care of the family fell on Lien and young Doug. At first they were unable to get any locals to rent them a home, but eventually they were permitted to live behind someone's main house in a converted chicken coop. With the little money they had, the family took over the restaurant Sun Ar. Lien taught piano in the mornings and cooked in the restaurant at night. Doug worked slavishly in the kitchen, seven days a week. He reported to the restaurant right after school ended, which meant that he never went to a high school football game; he never went to a prom. To avoid being teased by the kids in his blue-collar community, he developed a sharp wit and a foul mouth. Somehow, making f.u.c.k, G.o.dd.a.m.n, f.u.c.k, G.o.dd.a.m.n, and and s.h.i.t s.h.i.t a regular part of his speech allowed him to fit in better, even if it shocked and dismayed his highfalutin parents. He could make his friends laugh, particularly when he'd deride other races, including his own. He laughed when his cla.s.smates referred to him as "Chinaman," even though it made him seethe inside. a regular part of his speech allowed him to fit in better, even if it shocked and dismayed his highfalutin parents. He could make his friends laugh, particularly when he'd deride other races, including his own. He laughed when his cla.s.smates referred to him as "Chinaman," even though it made him seethe inside.

One day when Lien was on a trip to downtown Sacramento to purchase bean sprouts for the restaurant, she met a factory worker named Mrs. w.a.n.g who had just recently come to the United States with her two daughters, who were twenty-two and twenty. The three women were literally fresh off the boat; they didn't speak any English, only Taiwanese and Mandarin. So another factory worker served as interpreter for Mrs. w.a.n.g and Lien, who spoke only Cantonese and English. The worker told Lien that Mrs. w.a.n.g's younger daughter was quite beautiful and that her mother was pressuring her to marry. At the time, Doug, who was thirty-one years old, was dating a Caucasian woman, which bitterly displeased Lien. She suggested that Mrs. w.a.n.g's daughter Mary meet her son, Doug.

This was our mother, Mary. She was the middle of seven children and the loneliest. Her father was uneducated, but for a time he had been one of the richest and most powerful men in Tainan City, Taiwan. His name was w.a.n.g, but he was known as Black Dragon and he was one of the leaders of Tainan City's underground. He owned hotels, some of which were fronts for brothels and casinos. These side businesses paid him handsome returns. During the j.a.panese occupation of Taiwan, his businesses serviced j.a.panese soldiers, even though he hated them. His authority was such that local politicians running for office had to seek his approval if they had any hope of claiming victory.

When he was twenty-four years old, w.a.n.g noticed a shy but beautiful country girl at the spring festival. He couldn't take his eyes off her and sent for someone to recruit her. Rather than putting her to work, he made her his first wife when she was nineteen years old. They eventually had seven children together over the course of twenty years. But only two of their offspring really mattered-the boys. During his marriage to Mrs. w.a.n.g, w.a.n.g took on two concubines with whom he fathered twelve children. w.a.n.g claimed a total of nineteen offspring, but it was rumored that many more children bore his genes. Mary's only contact with her father was when he came to their house, patted the girls on their heads, and gave them a few dollars. He spent most of his time with his other wives and the other women he paid. Mary's mother grew to hate her husband and warned little Mary to be cautious of men. Mrs. w.a.n.g never knew what love felt like, and her fourth daughter would never know it either. Her mother's words always stayed with her-never trust men.

Mrs. w.a.n.g ran one of Black Dragon's legitimate hotels. w.a.n.g's second wife ran the ones in which brothels operated. From time to time, Mrs. w.a.n.g would have to drop things off at the second wife's hotel. The things she saw there disgusted her, and she grew increasingly resentful as the years went by. She tried to shield her girls from the scenes of debauchery that surrounded them, but it was no use. On a few occasions Mary was sent to take things to the different businesses. Listless and tired workingwomen frequented some of the hotels. Young Mary once saw a woman with red lips crying in a room. She wanted to help the woman, but she was only a little girl and her mother told her to stay away from "them."

Later that day, police officers and an ambulance arrived. The woman that Mary saw crying had hanged herself. The ambulance workers carried out the body, which was covered in a sheet. The only things visible were the woman's high-heeled shoes. Mary never forgot what she saw. It made her heart hurt. Mrs. w.a.n.g began to stash away large sums of money in places where no one else could find it. She knew that one day she would find a way to take her children, leave, and never come back.

The year Mary finished high school, her father lost his entire fortune to gambling and could no longer support his families. Mrs. w.a.n.g saw this as an opportunity to leave. Her eldest daughter, Jeanie, had gone to the United States and married an American citizen. Mrs. w.a.n.g temporarily left her three youngest children with an aunt and took Mary and her sister Ruth to live with Jeanie and her husband in Sacramento.

Mary and Doug's first meeting was pretty awkward, considering that they knew their parents had as much as married them off. But he did find her attractive, albeit too skinny. They could not have been more different. Doug was content with a simple existence of fishing with the boys and eating his meals in front of the TV. Mary was ambitious. She loved nice clothes and wanted to see the world. On top of it all, they could barely communicate. Mary had difficulty with English, so for the most part they just smiled and exchanged polite gestures.

Doug was on his best behavior, but that didn't last long. He was ten years older, and he'd already had a lot of experience going to bars. On their first dates, he brought Mary along, but she hated the scene and didn't like Doug's friends. She thought they were cra.s.s and rude. She didn't drink; he drank a lot. They started going to movies where they didn't have to talk much. Four months later, on March 8, 1969, they were married.

Their first year of marriage was decent enough. Doug had been working as a supervisor at McClellan Air Force Base in Sacramento, and Mary went to school to learn English while working on the weekends as a waitress at a local Chinese restaurant.

They hardly saw each other. Their inability to fully understand each other prevented them from developing a real intimacy. Even so, he came to love her. She, on the other hand, could never forget her mother's words to her, "Never trust men." She couldn't love.

Life was just perfunctory: they worked all day, and at night when they were home, they watched TV. This went on for years, and eventually Doug started going out more with the guys, hitting up the bars a couple of nights a week. He came home smelling of beer, talking loudly, and rambling on about how much he loved his wife. Then he would stumble around until he eventually pa.s.sed out in bed. This made Mary feel lonelier than ever, so she decided it was time to bring a new friend into the world. On August 30, 1973, I was born.

I was only two years old when my mother's belly started growing bigger and bigger. I recall Mom telling me that my baby brother or sister was inside of her, and the thought of it sent such a shock through me that I still remember it to this day. It was amazing. I kissed my mom's tummy and talked to it all the time. I knew it was a girl; it just had to be a girl-that's how much I wanted a sister. On December 1, 1976, Laura came into my life.

From the day she arrived, I remember feeling like we were a team. I was glad I wouldn't have to deal with the family drama by myself, even if Laura was a baby for much of it. Just knowing I had a partner made things a bit easier to bear, especially because our parents fought throughout our childhood.

Mom wanted to do things like go to the movies and try new and different restaurants. Dad hated movies and would only eat in the same Chinese restaurants. Plus, Dad worked all the time, and on the nights when he'd come home early, he'd crack open a beer or two and sit in front of the TV for the rest of the night. Mom seemed detached and depressed a lot. But none of this meant they were bad parents. Despite the tumult in their relationship, both of our parents were nothing but loving to us all of our lives. Some of my fondest memories include the nights when, with her melodious voice, Mom would sing us to sleep. She always sang the same song, "Edelweiss," from the musical The Sound of Music The Sound of Music. Of course, because of her difficulty with English, it always came out "A dell voice." To this day, Laura and I still sing it that way.

On the nights that he worked late, Dad would return home and tiptoe into our room thinking we were asleep. He would lean down and give both of us little pecks on the forehead and whisper, "Daddy loves you." I loved the way his p.r.i.c.kly mustache felt on my skin; I loved how much he loved us.

I was seven years old and Laura was four when our mother and father finally decided to go their separate ways. We stayed in Sacramento with our father because our parents didn't want to uproot us from our school and community. Plus, we had Grandma. Dad's mother, Lien, lived with us until she was struck by senility when we were teenagers; she was our source of stability. Grandma was a self-a.s.sertive woman, particularly when it came to her faith. She always felt the need to "save" people, which sometimes embarra.s.sed us. It was hard enough to be among the only Asian kids in our community, but Grandma would make the neighborhood kids sit through obligatory Bible study whenever they'd come over. She would make us memorize verses and quiz us from time to time on what they meant. Needless to say, our house wasn't the most popular destination for kids.

Grandma thought Halloween was a pagan holiday, so every year on October 31, she would turn off the lights in front of the house and make Laura and me sing church hymns at the top of our lungs to drown out any doorbell sounds. We were the only kids who came to school the next day with no candy. Even so, other than each other, our grandmother was the most important person in the world to us. She taught Laura and me to respect ourselves and to become highly self-sufficient. Most important, she taught us how to be strong women.

We were everything to her. The two things that Grandma loved most were G.o.d and her granddaughters. When we were teenagers, the nice people at the nursing home would tell us that the only names our grandmother ever brought up were Laura's and mine.

"Where's Lisa and Laura?" she would ask each morning. "Are Lisa and Laura coming to see me today?"

We lost her in 1991.

Our mom moved to L.A. shortly after the divorce. She started working as an office manager in a law firm and moved up the corporate ladder quickly. We saw her fairly often. She would fly to Sacramento at least once a month and stay for three days to a week at her sister's home. During the hours when Dad was at work, Mom would hang out with us in the house. We loved when she would bring us cool clothes from L.A., and all the kids envied our stylish new wardrobe. The clothes masked a lot of sadness. We would have given it all up in a second to have both of our parents together and happy.

Laura and I became seasoned travelers at very early ages because Dad would put us on a plane to spend the summers with our mom down south. A lot of the flight attendants came to know us; we were two little girls on a very big plane. Having each other made the hard parts so much easier.

Despite our challenging beginnings, Laura and I remained very close to both of our parents. They were both victims of circ.u.mstances that were larger than they were, and Laura and I have always been proud of the way they tackled so many of the issues that confronted them as young people. In the end, our parents' divorce may have been the best thing to happen to us because they were so unhappy with each other. But when we were going through it, it was a nightmare. I think Laura was too young to remember most of the dark and ugly episodes that occurred when we were kids, but I wasn't. Holes in the walls and broken objects litter many of my childhood memories. As the sounds of yelling and shrieking cries were coming from downstairs, I would look over at the baby girl and think-I just want to protect her.

Now we were all grown up, and she was in trouble.

LAURA.

OVER THE NEXT DAYS and nights, I fell into what seemed like a black hole that included daily interrogations, psychological intimidation, and virtual isolation. Some nights after I'd been grilled all day about my past jobs and other a.s.signments, I curled up into a ball in a dark corner of my room and sobbed profusely, wishing I could make myself small enough to just disappear. I feared I might never see my sister, my parents, and Iain ever again. I hated myself for putting my family through such pain. and nights, I fell into what seemed like a black hole that included daily interrogations, psychological intimidation, and virtual isolation. Some nights after I'd been grilled all day about my past jobs and other a.s.signments, I curled up into a ball in a dark corner of my room and sobbed profusely, wishing I could make myself small enough to just disappear. I feared I might never see my sister, my parents, and Iain ever again. I hated myself for putting my family through such pain.

For a few days, I was worried that I might actually be pregnant. Although I couldn't bear the thought of giving birth and raising a child in a North Korean prison, a part of me hoped I had a baby inside me. It made me feel less alone thinking that I might be carrying a child. I also thought that being pregnant might cause the North Korean authorities to be more sympathetic to my situation. Maybe this child is a gift from G.o.d, Maybe this child is a gift from G.o.d, I thought. I thought. Perhaps I was meant to get pregnant here so the baby could save Euna and me by giving the authorities the compa.s.sion to release us. Perhaps I was meant to get pregnant here so the baby could save Euna and me by giving the authorities the compa.s.sion to release us.

Days later, whatever fears or fantasies I had were put to rest. Any chance of being pregnant was gone. I was both relieved and demoralized. It crushed my heart to think I might never get to start a family with Iain. Though he was anxious to have a child, Iain had been patient with me while I pushed aside the idea of having a baby and instead focused on my career. Now, I thought, the chance might be gone forever.

I tried my best to keep my mind from wandering and longing for my family. I knew I needed to concentrate on the investigation so I could satisfy the authorities with my answers. I also wanted to be careful not to endanger any of our defector contacts or get myself in any more trouble than I already was.

During one interrogation session, Mr. Yee started asking me about my or my company's ties to the U.S. government.

"Al Gore is your chairman," he began. "So is your company connected to the government?"

"No, not at all," I answered. "Vice President Gore wanted to start this company so that all people would have a voice in the media, not just the big corporations. It's a network where anyone can partic.i.p.ate. For example, if you disagree with what's happening in North Korea, you can comment about it on our Web site. And if you agree and support the North Korean government, you can voice your opinion too."

"Then who is funding your project here? Are you receiving money from the U.S. government to produce this doc.u.mentary?" he asked.

I knew what he was asking and was afraid he might think that the company or I was being bankrolled by the CIA. I tried hard to convince him there was no connection whatsoever to the U.S. government. I went into a detailed explanation of the U.S. cable business, the media conglomerates, and advertising. He seemed genuinely intrigued and often interrupted me to ask questions about how advertis.e.m.e.nts work and about the various tiers of cable packages that consumers can choose from. Still, the question of whether or not the U.S. government was involved in our doc.u.mentary would continue to rear its head multiple times throughout the investigation.

EVERY FEW DAYS a doctor and nurse visited me and cleaned my head wound. The doctor, a slim man with a nervous twitch, often gave off loud sighs as he inspected the area, causing me to worry. But each time, he a.s.sured me there was nothing to be alarmed about. The nurse transferred a cotton pad soaked in alcohol to his metal tong, and he rubbed that around the wound. Every time the alcohol touched the affected area, it would feel like a thousand needles sticking me. Rather than st.i.tching the gash, the doctor preferred to let it close up on its own. a doctor and nurse visited me and cleaned my head wound. The doctor, a slim man with a nervous twitch, often gave off loud sighs as he inspected the area, causing me to worry. But each time, he a.s.sured me there was nothing to be alarmed about. The nurse transferred a cotton pad soaked in alcohol to his metal tong, and he rubbed that around the wound. Every time the alcohol touched the affected area, it would feel like a thousand needles sticking me. Rather than st.i.tching the gash, the doctor preferred to let it close up on its own.

Since the beating, I had been having frequent headaches. When Mr. Yee asked me how I was feeling, I told him about the shooting pains in my upper left lobe.

"You're young. You will get better over time," he replied. "I wish you hadn't resisted when the soldiers apprehended you. You know what happens when you resist arrest in the United States, don't you? It goes on your police report."

All I could do was nod in agreement, even though I was fuming inside. There was nothing to be gained from showing him my fury. Still, I didn't want him to report that I had opposed the soldiers on the border. I stopped myself from blurting out, "In the United States, police brutality is a crime!" But I couldn't just sit there and accept this lie. "I did not resist, sir," I said defiantly. "Do you really think a girl of my size would challenge a fierce soldier with a rifle?"

Mr. Yee never accused me of resisting arrest again, and I refrained from complaining about my throbbing head.

Each day these rigorous interrogation sessions became a delicate balancing act. I tried to answer the questions while being careful to avoid revealing information that might endanger our sources or the interview subjects who had opened up their lives to us. Early on in the questioning, I told Mr. Yee that our team had received guidance from a pastor who worked in Seoul. Pastor Chun Ki-Won and his network, the Durihana Mission, have helped hundreds of North Korean defectors escape from northern China via a so-called underground railroad that takes defectors through treacherous terrain in countries including Laos and Thailand. Once inside these countries, defectors apply for amnesty through the South Korean diplomatic mission. If their request is granted, they are flown to Seoul to begin new lives.

The North Korean regime sees Chun as an enemy. I knew I needed to confess our connection to him because he was such a central figure in our project. But I feigned having no recollection of his name or that of his missionary group. I could tell this was frustrating to Mr. Yee, who kept asking me how I could forget the name of someone with whom we'd worked so closely.

"How can you call yourself a journalist and not even know the name of someone you interviewed?" he asked.

"Korean names are very difficult for me to remember," I said. "That's why I just called him Pastor the whole time."

Mr. Yee questioned me about Chun for two full days, and as time went on, he became increasingly annoyed that I would not divulge his ident.i.ty.

"We already know his name," he finally said on the second day. "His name is Chun Ki-Won."

I tried to hide any sign of acknowledgment. Irritated, he asked, "Do you want to still deny that Chun is the person who helped you? Might I add that when you are speaking to me, you are not speaking to me as your investigator, you are speaking to the DPRK law!"

"I honestly don't remember his name," I said. "If that's what you say his name is, then I'm sure you must know what you're talking about. All I know is that I called him Pastor, and since I am speaking to DPRK law, I don't want to lie."

Mr. Yee then put forward a question I had been dreading. "Have you ever been to North Korea before?" he asked.

I a.s.sumed it wouldn't be long before they learned about a visit I had made to Pyongyang in 2002 while working for Channel One News. I, along with Mitch Koss and a Korean-American correspondent, applied for tourist visas during the North's Arirang Festival, a gymnastics and artistic production celebrating the late leader Kim Il Sung. The show features thousands of children, each holding up and flipping colored cards in unison to create ma.s.sive mosaic pictures. In one instance, the entire side of North Korea's May Day Stadium might show a scene with North Korean soldiers standing victorious, but with a quick flip of thousands of cards, the picture might change to a gleaming portrait of Kim Il Sung. All the while, tens of thousands of dancers perform intricate routines set to patriotic music on the stadium grounds. Along with attending the highly ch.o.r.eographed performance, our tour group was taken to some of the main monuments, statues, museums, and sights that are the country's pride. During the five-day tour, we were never allowed to roam around alone; even walking across the street from our hotel was forbidden.

"Yes, I have been to Pyongyang," I answered despondently. I explained that we were working for an educational program and wanted to introduce Channel One's student audience to the culture of North Korea.

"So you lied and came here as a tourist, not as a journalist?" he asked.

"We knew we wouldn't be admitted as journalists. I know it doesn't make it right, but I am aware of many journalists who have applied to come here posing as tourists," I explained. "You have such an impressive intelligence network here," I said, trying to be flattering, but also trying to make a point about how lax their security was. "You must know that journalists apply for these tours." I could tell that he was slightly flummoxed by my comment.

Just then, Min-Jin came into the room and asked what size clothes I wear. She said she was going to get me some underwear. I told her I wear a small, perhaps even extra small, and that made her look me up and down with a skeptical eye. The thought of them buying me clothes made me feel ill, particularly because it seemed to indicate that I would not be leaving North Korea anytime soon. Then Mr. Yee reinforced my fears.

"The guard is going to get you some underwear because this is where you may be staying for a while," he said. "How many pairs do you think she should buy? If you do not cooperate with me, I may need to tell her to buy you ten pairs because you may be here for a very long time!"

Later that evening, Min-Jin came into my room carrying some underwear. Recalling Mr. Yee's threat to keep me in North Korea, I was relieved when she handed me just two pairs. I looked at the tag and saw they were size large. But when I tried them on, they were a little snug on my thin frame. I then realized why the guard had given me a skeptical look earlier when I told her my size. My measurements might be small by Western standards, but compared with the average North Korean, I am enormous. I was also given some long cotton leggings and a top to wear as pajamas. I wore these underneath my clothing throughout the day to help keep warm. Although receiving these items seemed to be a sign that I was going to be held captive for a while longer, I was happy to have some clean garments.

I was also grateful to be given three meals a day. Normally, each meal consisted of a bowl of rice, a small plate of vegetables, and a little piece of fried or steamed fish. Sometimes they brought me a bowl of noodles, goulash, or dumplings. While the portions were a fraction of a normal Western meal, I felt lucky to have something to eat when millions of North Koreans are reportedly going hungry. Malnutrition has led to stunting and mental r.e.t.a.r.dation. Studies done on escapees from North Korea have shown that, on average, teenage boys in North Korea are five inches shorter and weigh twenty-five pounds less than their South Korean counterparts. What I was being served was probably elaborate compared with normal standards for North Koreans, particularly those living outside the capital.

I ate in the guards' area at a wooden coffee table. During the first few days of my confinement, I ate in silence. But slowly I began to feel more comfortable with my guards, and I was desperate for some human interaction beyond the investigation. I wanted to talk to them, and after several days, they seemed to loosen up. During one dinner, I tried to strike up a conversation with Min-Jin.

"You're very pretty," I said. Her cheeks turned a rosy hue.

"No," she replied. "I'm too short."

We started making small talk and chitchatting about everyday things. I stayed away from politics or anything that might be viewed as subversive. Like most twenty-something women anywhere in the world, she seemed most interested in talking about guys and relationships. She asked if it was true that Western men and women like to get drunk at bars and go home and sleep with one another.

"Um, yes, that does happen," I responded with an amused grin. "Where did you hear this?"

"A foreign tourist told me," she replied with a smile.

"Does that ever happen here?" I asked.

"Of course not," she said wide-eyed. "We are not like you in the West."

She then proceeded to mimic a man in a bar by licking her tongue over her lips with a perverted grin. I returned the expression with my own salacious imitation. We both burst into giggles.

She wanted to know what my husband looked like, how long we'd been married, and how we met. It was hard for me to talk about Iain without getting emotional. He was the love of my life. In the twelve years we'd known each other, we'd argued maybe five times. We still were excited to see each other every day. I thought about the last meal we had together. We'd just bought a house so we were trying to save money and eat at home more often. Iain normally did the cooking because, frankly, I'm just not good at it. To surprise him, I had struggled to put together a dinner of beef vegetable soup. I spent the whole day laboring over it, only to miscalculate the amount of salt needed. When we sat down that night to eat dinner, I watched nervously as Iain took the first spoonful. He tried to hide an obvious gag and ended up choking from the excessive salt. He didn't want to make me feel bad and told me it was delicious. When I took a taste, I had to spit it out because it was horrible. It was typical of Iain not to hurt my feelings because he knew how hard I had worked. I insisted that we toss out the soup and head over to Henry's Tacos instead.

I told Min-Jin that Iain and I met at a concert while in college. I couldn't figure out how to describe the sounds of the Chemical Brothers. Just then, Min-Jin started singing some Western songs, beginning with "My Heart Will Go On," by Celine Dion. It seemed that everyone, no matter how isolated their society is, knows the movie t.i.tanic t.i.tanic and the song that goes with it. and the song that goes with it.

"Do you know what hip-hop is?" I asked. She looked confused. "It's like rap music," I continued.

"Oh, yes!" she replied and jumped up from the couch where she was sprawled out. "Is this rap music?" she asked and began to bounce up and down with her arms spread out. "Yo, yo, yo!" she chanted before keeling over laughing.

We were two young women from opposite worlds sharing a moment of levity. It was the first time I had felt anything other than fear and sadness during my captivity. But then Kyung-Hee walked into the room. Her cold, bemused expression extinguished any bit of cheerfulness in the air. I proceeded to pick at the remainder of my meal in silence as Min-Jin slumped back into her chair.

The next day Min-Jin was noticeably more reserved. When I tried to talk to her, she was curt and unresponsive. I figured she must have overstepped her bounds with me and had either been reprimanded by Kyung-Hee or didn't want to cross the line again for fear of being punished.

EACH DAY I I DREADED DREADED the daily questioning from Mr. Yee. I would sit on my bed in nervous antic.i.p.ation of his visits. My stomach began to churn anytime I heard footsteps approaching my room, and I prepared myself to be grilled. With his tape recorder and red notebook in hand, he wanted to know every detail about the story we were covering along the border, including whom I interviewed, what questions I asked, and what was said. Even though it was grueling, I found myself thinking of trivial details that could prolong the process and give my family and government more time to act. the daily questioning from Mr. Yee. I would sit on my bed in nervous antic.i.p.ation of his visits. My stomach began to churn anytime I heard footsteps approaching my room, and I prepared myself to be grilled. With his tape recorder and red notebook in hand, he wanted to know every detail about the story we were covering along the border, including whom I interviewed, what questions I asked, and what was said. Even though it was grueling, I found myself thinking of trivial details that could prolong the process and give my family and government more time to act.

One day, about a week into the investigation, Mr. Yee asked me the question I feared the most. "So you have been to North Korea before. What about your sister? Has she ever been here?"

LISA.

LAURA'S CAPTIVITY IN NORTH KOREA was hugely alarming for me for another reason. She was being held inside a country that considered me an enemy. In 2003, after three and a half years as a cohost for the daily talk show was hugely alarming for me for another reason. She was being held inside a country that considered me an enemy. In 2003, after three and a half years as a cohost for the daily talk show The View, The View, I left the show and started working for an organization that was committed to sending me all over the world to cover stories: National Geographic Television. It was a dream job. In my first few years at National Geographic, I traveled everywhere from Nepal to China, Colombia to Egypt. But there was one country I wanted to visit the most: the place considered the most isolated in the world. Little had ever been reported from inside North Korea. And in my wildest dreams, I never thought I would get a chance to actually go there. I left the show and started working for an organization that was committed to sending me all over the world to cover stories: National Geographic Television. It was a dream job. In my first few years at National Geographic, I traveled everywhere from Nepal to China, Colombia to Egypt. But there was one country I wanted to visit the most: the place considered the most isolated in the world. Little had ever been reported from inside North Korea. And in my wildest dreams, I never thought I would get a chance to actually go there.

In June 2007, a friend from Nepal, Dr. Sanduk Ruit, a world-renowned cataract surgeon, was invited by the North Korean government to set up medical camps in three North Korean cities. Knowing that I had always wanted to go there, Dr. Ruit asked me if I'd like to be part of his team. The catch was that I was never to say I was a journalist. Ruit convinced the North Korean emba.s.sy in Nepal that I was a vital part of his group and that he needed me to doc.u.ment the surgical procedures for training purposes on video. I was therefore permitted to bring a camera and the necessary equipment. I was told I would be the only American inside North Korea at the time, as all foreign nongovernmental organizations and food groups had recently been expelled from the country.

Upon arrival in Pyongyang, we all had to turn our cell phones over to the authorities for storage during our stay in the country. I was told that because North Korea considers itself still at war with the United States and South Korea, cell-phone activity could be detected by satellite. Therefore, no one in the country was permitted to have one. That's what we were told anyway. We had between six and eight government officials a.s.signed to us to monitor our every move-they even stayed in the guesthouses where we were lodged. It didn't take long before I fully understood how the North Korean government maintained its stranglehold over its people. I felt as if everyone was watching me, and it seemed everyone was watching one another.

For the twelve days we were in North Korea, we worked in hospitals in the cities of Pyongyang, Pyongsong, and Sariwon. Though we were in operating rooms for most of our visit, we were given a unique window into North Korea's health-care system and medical facilities. I would have to describe the latter as antiquated and basic. Dr. Ruit had to bring all of the equipment he needed, including generators to deal with the frequent power outages that occurred throughout our visit.

Cataracts develop for many reasons, but the most common are those induced by old age, malnourishment, and excessive exposure to ultraviolet light. Although the camps were set up to treat cataracts, the number of people who showed up with other maladies like head pain, body aches, and dizziness, among other things, was an indication of the extreme conditions and lack of proper treatment.

In the developed world, cataract operations are common-place-people typically have cataracts removed in the very early stages before they start to impede vision. In poor countries where medical treatment and technology are not readily available, people with severe cataracts can go totally blind. When this happens, they cease being productive members of society and become a strain on their families and communities. Often that leads them to be cast out and ostracized.

While we were in the country, thousands of people came to have their eyes checked, including young children. Dr. Ruit or one of his trainees performed the twenty-five-minute operation on those with bona fide cataracts. In the end, a thousand surgeries were performed over twelve days. People who had been blind for as long as ten years had their sight entirely restored. It was miraculous. But it wasn't Dr. Ruit and his team who were thanked for performing the work necessary to give people their vision back.

Once their operation was complete, patients were asked to go into the large waiting room to rest for at least twelve hours. Two hundred people would be in the room waiting for their eye patches to be removed. One by one, Dr. Ruit's staff peeled away the bandages from the formerly blind patients' eyes. Once the bandages were removed, every single person would become hysterical and rush to the gigantic portrait of North Korea's despotic leader, Kim Jong Il, to thank him for curing them of blindness. Like robots, hundreds of people collapsed in tears before the image of Chairman Kim, whom the North Korean people affectionately call "Dear Leader." It was as if the doctor weren't even there.

I was purportedly doc.u.menting the teaching process, and I asked the North Korean officials if I could follow a recovered patient home to see how she navigated with her sight restored. Initially, my inquiry was met with looks of confusion. Everyone seemed to be wondering, Why would she want to do that? Why would she want to do that? But to my surprise, after a lengthy discussion, they agreed. But to my surprise, after a lengthy discussion, they agreed.

I was taken to the home of an older woman who lived with her son, his wife, and their two young daughters. It was a decent-sized one-bedroom apartment in a three-story walk-up. There were no beds in the home because everyone in the family slept on the heated floor in the living room. I was told that this was typical. They had a television and a large stereo system that looked like a boom box with big speakers. There wasn't a family photo to be seen, only those of the Dear Leader and his father, the "Great Leader," Kim Il Sung. All over the apartment, there were small photos and large photos of them, some translated into watercolor paintings and others into oils. There was the Dear One riding horses, leading a parade, and walking among flowers. I asked if they thought the Dear Leader ever did anything wrong. The entire family seemed stupefied, and my North Korean government escorts looked completely befuddled. It was obvious that my question had never been asked before, so they just sat and stared at me for five of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life.

Sariwon was the last stop on our three-city medical mission. Several hours south of Pyongyang by car, it was a nice, well-maintained city with clean, wide streets, parks, and large sprawling fields. In the first two cities we'd been in, I was told that I could only jog laps around the inside perimeter of the guesthouse property. Sariwon was less populated, so the government officials said I could jog on the road around the hotel as long as I didn't veer off onto other streets.

It was about 7:00 A.M A.M., and the air was brisk. I could smell smoke from the fires that people burned to heat their homes at night. At this early hour, people were walking to school and to work. Even though the streets were wide and vast, the whole time I was there I saw few bicycles and even fewer cars. I jogged past three girls who were clearly fascinated by me. They wore monochromatic tracksuits and their haircuts were short and boyish. They looked like athletes.

On my third lap around the hotel, the girls started following me as I ran. All three kept up with me for about ten minutes until two of them dropped off. The tallest of the three girls maintained a decent pace, even pa.s.sing me a few times. I started running faster, and then she picked up the pace and pa.s.sed me. Whenever I'd step ahead, the girl would speed up. And as soon as I pa.s.sed her, she'd run past me. At a certain point, we were running at full speed. We were going so fast that people in the town rushed to watch us, and then it became a race. The whole time I was thinking, I'm running for America! I'm running for America! I could see in her face that she was running for her country. Neither of us would give in-except at a certain point, after completing an entire lap at full speed, we both stopped simultaneously. We were panting so ferociously we could hardly stand up straight. Between breaths, we caught each other's eyes, and all of a sudden the two of us burst into laughter. For a moment we were just two young women having a funny moment. It was nice. I could see in her face that she was running for her country. Neither of us would give in-except at a certain point, after completing an entire lap at full speed, we both stopped simultaneously. We were panting so ferociously we could hardly stand up straight. Between breaths, we caught each other's eyes, and all of a sudden the two of us burst into laughter. For a moment we were just two young women having a funny moment. It was nice.

On the night before leaving the country, I was asked to hand over all the tapes I had shot of the "training," so they could be individually screened by government officers. I had antic.i.p.ated this, so I hid a couple of tapes in the underwear pouch of my suitcase. The resulting doc.u.mentary revealed an unprecedented and critical look into North Korea's crippled health-care system and the extreme indoctrination under which the people there live.

After breakfast on the morning of my departure, I got into a conversation with one of the North Korean official minders a.s.signed to watch over us. Of all of them, he was the sternest and most defiant about North Korea's strength in the face of hardship. He was nearly six feet tall, with sharp cheekbones and a military-style crew cut. He was called Kwon.

"We are a small country, but we are all we need," he explained.

He told me that as soon as we left the country, he and the rest of the minders would join their brothers and sisters and head to the countryside to harvest rice. Every citizen of North Korea, whether a government official, bus driver, or street cleaner, is obligated to work in the fields during harvest season. Kwon said it was "for the good of our nation."

"In your country, all you think of is yourself," Kwon continued, then launching into a tirade about the sorry state of affairs in America.

"Your president [it was George W. Bush at the time] invades other countries for their oil so Americans can drive their big fancy cars, and then he calls other countries 'evil.'" Kwon was referring to President Bush's characterization of North Korea as part of an "Axis of Evil" with Iran and Iraq in his 2002 State of the Union Address. Kwon went on to ask, "Who is the evil one?"

I think I surprised him when I told him that, though I was an American, I was very much opposed to the war in Iraq. But at least, I said, "I can express that publicly in my country."

After a slight pause, Kwon retorted with something that surprised me. "My country and your country had a chance for more normalized relations under Clinton. We like him."