Your name is the first thing they take.
Then they take your freedom.
They take your health.
They take away the presence of other people.
They take your clothes.
And your hair.
And finally, they take away the daylight.
Drip by drip, like a faucet slowly running dry, you’re left with nothing but your own mind and body—and both of those will eventually be stamped out by this place.
Every morning at 8 am, they call for “42.” When I stand up, I’m not allowed to look at the guards. I have to get up, put my hands behind my back and follow them to the interrogation room. I can see the shadows of the guards, but I’m careful to never appear as though I’m looking at them.
Even though the same thing happens every day, each day, I am still so afraid. Each time they call out for “42,” they beat and kick me. It hurts the most when they hit my ears. My ears ring for hours—sometimes days.
But for now, at least I’m alive.
The interrogation that never ends
I’m in the interrogation room for an hour each morning. Every day, they ask the same questions.
“Why were you in China?”
“Who did you meet?”
“Did you go to church?”
“Did you have a Bible?”
“Did you meet any South Koreans?”
“Are you a Christian?”
After they are done with me, they bring me back to my cell. My cell is warm during the day and cold at night—and in the winter or summer, the temperature can be unbearable. It’s so small, I can barely lie down.
But I’m not allowed to lie down much, anyway. I have to sit on my knees, with closed fists. I’m not even allowed to open them. The place I live now is not fit for any human—but to the guards, I am not a human. I’m less than an animal. I’m locked in this cage, the heavy door and locks slamming closed behind me, echoing in the dim light that never gets brighter in this place.
I am in solitary confinement, because they suspect the truth. They can see through my denials in the interrogation room.
Because I love Jesus.
Am I a Christian? Yes. But I have to pretend. If I admit I was helped by Chinese Christians, I will be killed—either quickly …
… or slowly.
The first Christian I ever knew was my grandfather—even though I had no idea at the time. On Sundays, he often told me to leave the house and play outside. I didn’t understand why and didn’t want to, but he forced me to.
When I fled to China because of the famine in North Korea, I met other Christians for the first time. I was touched by them. They never really spoke about the gospel, but I participated in their worship services. Then, one night, I dreamed of my grandfather. I saw him sitting in a circle with other men. There was a Bible in the middle and all of them were praying.
In my dream, I shouted at him: “I am a believer too!”
I gave my life to Jesus.
Somehow, mysteriously, I realized I came from a Christian family … in North Korea.
One day, I was walking along the street in China and a black car pulled up next to me. I thought the man wanted to ask for directions, but the driver and other men stepped out of the vehicle and grabbed me.
I resisted but couldn’t get away. They pushed me into the car and, when the door closed and the car drove away, I realized my life was over.
After a few weeks in a Chinese prison cell, I was handed over to the North Korean authorities. They brought me to this detention center. I had to strip off all my clothes and they searched every part of my body to see if I had hidden anything, money especially.
They shaved all my hair off and brought me to this prison cell.
I was ordered to put on different clothes that didn’t fit and didn’t match. Probably from a previous prisoner. That’s where my name came from—the number 42 was printed on my prison jumpsuit. I was just another in a line of Prisoner 42s. I wondered: What happened to the previous Prisoner 42? Was she dead? Had she been executed, starved or beaten to death—or simply wasted away, like a faucet finally shut off? I supposed she could have been alive—but that was doubtful. Anyone who has ever heard about North Korean prisons knows merely surviving is a heroic tale.
Alone and never alone
I’m so alone here. I know there are other prisoners. I can hear their voices, but I never see them. The only thing I see are the shadows of the guards, and the light from the sun and moon as they pass over the small window of my cell.
All I can do is pray. Pray and sing in my heart. Never out loud, only in my heart. I sing a song I wrote in my head:
My heart longs for my Father in this prison
Although the road to truth is steep and narrow
A bright future will be revealed when I continue
Without faith, calamity will strike in this road
Allow me to go forth toward the fortress
Although there may be much grief and complications
How could I follow in the footsteps of my God?
With tears my heart longs for my Father in this prison
Father, please accept this sinful daughter
Please protect me in Your mountain fortress and under Your shield
Take me under Your wings of peace
Father’s voice that comes from the sky
Guide me to Your blessings daily
It’s been a year now. I don’t know how long I will survive. One day, they will call me and I won’t move. I will have died in here, in the dark. They will dispose of my body and the first new prisoner who comes in will take my prison clothes and become the new Prisoner 42 and will wear my clothes.
Will they survive this hell?
Will they be bruised in the same places I’m bruised?
Will they cry out to God—the only One who seems to see what’s happening to us in here?
Will they die here, like me?
Courtesy: The Presence Magazine