The Red Years: Forbidden Poems from Inside North Korea 9781786996602, 9781350225626, 9781786996619

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
About the Author
About the Translator
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Acknowledgments
Preface Poem
Introduction
1. Barren Earth
A New Arirang for the North
Green Leaves, Falling
Blizzard
Bloody Fall
Virgin Window
Song of the Fire Swallows
Chajabi (The Hitchhiker)
O You Ugly, White Snow
The Mill on the Mountain
New Seongcheon Station
2. Exhausted Heart
Song of the Red People
Song of the Circlers
Toads
Not a Song About Our Backgrounds
Idol
50 Red Years
The Song of the Five Thieves
Stepmother
Tin Kim’s “Song”
Hate-red
Red Locomotive
Night at the Military Camp
Affliction in the Red House
3. Longing for You, My Love
Single-minded Devotion
Long, Long Winter Nights
Ah! KBS Social Education Channel
My Love
I Love You So Much
Please Take this One Message
Blow, South Wind
Life with Loneliness
I Awaited You, My Love
4. Attached to a Life
Youth is a Forking Road
O Azaleas
Song of Life
Pine Tree
Thoughts of Mother
Woman of Pure Love
Oak Tree in Winter
A Man
Your Love
5. Wishes
Bandi (Firefly)
Landscape White with Snow
Why I Love Wildflowers
Me Alone
The Whistling Man
Today
Of the World Where People Live
Live with an Open Heart
Sow Love, Reap Love
A Dream
Afterword
Notes

Citation preview

Praise for Bandi’s The Accusation

“Fascinating and chilling. Heartfelt and heartbreaking.” Margaret Atwood “A fierce indictment of life in the totalitarian North.”

New York Times “Powerful insights into a world behind walls.”

Guardian “Its very existence is still a hopeful symbol that change is inevitable, if not imminent.”

Vice “Spare, direct, unflinching and bitterly angry.”

Observer “Bandi [presents] a world in which North Koreans are nuanced: broken-hearted, idealistic, still full of life.”

Times Literary Supplement “Courageous and confounding ... It’s a quiet privilege to be given access to the voiceless by listening to such vivid and uncompromised storytelling.”

New Statesman

The Red Years

About the author Bandi (b. 1950), who writes under the pseudonym that means “firefly,” followed his parents to China to take refuge during the Korean War. He spent his youth in China before returning to North Korea, where he became affiliated with the Chosun Writers’ League Central Committee. Bandi came to prominence in the 1970s as his work was published in North Korean magazines. The focus of Bandi’s writing changed forever after the deaths of many people close to him during the so-called Arduous March, which began with the death of Kim Il-sung in 1994. The experiences of this time made him resolve to share with the outside world a true likeness of the harsh North Korean society as he himself saw it. Though life in North Korea was lived behind an iron curtain, Bandi held fast to the belief that his writing would have its day, and he had produced a considerable body of work by the time a relative living in Hamheung province came in secret to see him and tell him her plans to escape. Bandi was aware that he could not try to escape himself, for he had a wife and children, but three days later, when his relative left, he gave her the manuscript he had in his possession. The relative, who accepted the task of smuggling out the manuscript explained to him that, as there was no guarantee she herself would be able to get away safely, she would prepare her escape route and then return to collect it. Several months

later, an unfamiliar youth came to Bandi’s house for the manuscript and he was able to smuggle it out of the country. The first part of the manuscript—seven short stories—was published in South Korea, then by Grove Press in English as The Accusation, and it became an international sensation. The second part of the manuscript, linked to the first, is this collection of poignant poems, The Red Years. —Do Hee-yun Representative of the Citizens’ Coalition for Human Rights of Abductees & North Korean Refugees

Do Hee-yun is the representative for the Citizens’ Coalition for Human Rights of Abductees and North Korean Refugees (CHNK). He was instrumental in arranging for Bandi’s manuscripts to be smuggled out of North Korea, and has been a tireless proponent of Bandi since their publication.

About the translator Heinz Insu Fenkl, born in 1960 in Bupyeong, Korea, is a novelist, translator, and editor. His most recent short story, “Five Arrows,” was published in The New Yorker. His autobiographical novel, Memories of My Ghost Brother, was named a Barnes & Noble “Discover Great New Writers” selection in 1996 and a PEN/Hemingway Award finalist in 1997, and his most recent prose translation, Yi Mun-yol’s short story, “An Anonymous Island,” was published in The New Yorker—the first Korean fiction to appear in that publication. Fenkl was guest editor for the special section on North Korea in the journal AZALEA, published by Harvard’s Korea Institute. His translation of the classic 17th-century Korean Buddhist novel The Nine Cloud Dream by Kim Man-jung (Penguin Classics) was published in 2019 and his second novel, Skull Water, will be published by Graywolf in 2020. He teaches creative writing and Asian studies at the State University of New York, New Paltz.

The Red Years POEMS

Bandi translated by Heinz Insu Fenkl

The Red Years – Poems was first published in 2019 by Zed Books Ltd, The Foundry, 17 Oval Way, London SE11 5RR, UK. www.zedbooks.net Copyright © Bandi & Happy Unification Road 2019 English Translation © 2019 Heinz Insu Fenkl The right of Bandi and Heinz Insu Fenkl to be identified as the author and translator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 Typeset in Haarlemmer MT by seagulls.net Cover design by Alice Marwick All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of Zed Books Ltd. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN ISBN ISBN ISBN

978-1-78699-660-2 pb 978-1-78699-661-9 pdf 978-1-78699-662-6 epub 978-1-78699-663-3 mobi

Contents

Acknowledgments

xv

Preface Poem

1

Introduction:

3

Translating Bandi Heinz Insu Fenkl 1. Barren Earth A New Arirang for the North

8

Green Leaves, Falling

9

Blizzard

10

Bloody Fall

11

Virgin Window

12

Song of the Fire Swallows

13

Chajabi (The Hitchhiker)

14

O You Ugly, White Snow

15

The Mill on the Mountain

16

New Seongcheon Station

17

2. Exhausted Heart Song of the Red People

20

Song of the Circlers

21

Toads

22

Not a Song About Our Backgrounds

23

Idol

24

50 Red Years

25

The Song of the Five Thieves

26

Stepmother

27

Tin Kim’s “Song”

28

Hate-red

29

Red Locomotive

30

Night at the Military Camp

31

Affliction in the Red House

32

3. Longing for You, My Love Single-minded Devotion

34

Long, Long Winter Nights

35

Ah! KBS Social Education Channel

36

My Love

37

I Love You So Much

38

Please Take this One Message

39

Blow, South Wind

40

Life with Loneliness

41

I Awaited You, My Love

42

4. Attached to a Life Youth is a Forking Road

44

O Azaleas

45

Song of Life

46

Pine Tree

47

Thoughts of Mother

48

Woman of Pure Love

49

Oak Tree in Winter

50

A Man

51

Your Love

52

5. Wishes Bandi (Firefly)

54

Landscape White with Snow

55

Why I Love Wildflowers

56

Me Alone

57

The Whistling Man

58

Today

59

Of the World Where People Live

60

Live with an Open Heart

61

Sow Love, Reap Love

62

A Dream

63

Afterword:

65

Bandi’s Dream Do Hee-yun Notes

69

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Barbara Zitwer for allowing me the privilege of translating The Red Years. Thanks also to Do Hee-yun for trusting me with the responsibility of conveying Bandi’s poems in English and to Mythili Rao for featuring Bandi’s work on The New Yorker Raido Hour. To Bella Dalton-Fenkl and Tiff Scott go special thanks for being first readers and proofreaders. Thanks to Anne, without whom I would never have endeavored to engage with the Modernist poetic tradition; and, of course, to Bandi, I express my gratitude for taking the profound risk and responsibility of writing these poems and releasing them to the outside world. May the world listen.

xv

Preface Poem

Fifty years in this northern land I’ve lived as a talking machine a man under a yoke, and with no talent but with fierce indignation not with pen and ink but with bones dipped in blood and tears this is what I have written. Though they be dry as desert and coarse as grassland miserable as affliction and primitive as stone-age tools, Reader! I beseech you—read my words.

1

Introduction Translating Bandi In the West, we are preoccupied with the issue of identity along with authenticity and individual authorship, and so Bandi’s first book was vetted cautiously through consultation with various experts before it was published. But that caution, I think, was ultimately misdirected. The publication of Bandi’s work, regardless of its specific provenance, jeopardizes many people in terrifyingly real terms. As an English professor, I often have to remind my American students that in other countries, and at other times in history, writers actually risked their lives to write what was meaningful to them. Publishing is not always about fame or money as we in the West tend to assume so cynically these days in the security of democracy and relative affluence. There are still numerous places where imprisonment, torture, and execution are things a writer must carefully consider before putting pen to paper, and North Korea is at the top of that list. From my reading of his writing, Bandi is certainly a North Korean writer. I, myself, grew up in South Korea during the presidency of Park Chung-hee, a general who took power after a military coup. It was his regime that set the stage for South Korea’s “economic miracle,” which led, after several setbacks, to South Korea’s current status in the developed world. But the political climate was oppressive in the 1960s and early 1970s when I grew up there. One of my relatives, a school teacher, had to live in hiding at home for years, unable to go out in public

3

for fear of being arrested because he had not done his requisite service in the national guard. It was through his tutoring that I first learned the Korean alphabet. One of my uncles, who was originally from the North (and accidentally became a bigamist because he was separated from his first family during the outbreak of the Korean War), was a charismatic storyteller and raconteur who would spontaneously break into song and dance to punctuate his tall tales. Both of these men lived under terrible stress that took its toll on their families. Both of them drank and smoked constantly, and both could recite poetry and sing for hours without a break. And they could be viciously or poignantly critical of the government, but dared not express any of that in public, let alone publish a poem in a climate in which they could have ended up in prison. I thought of those relatives as I read Bandi’s poems. I remembered staying awake on winter nights in dimly-lit rooms full of tobacco smoke and the smoke of burnt meat, listening to my relatives eating, drinking, and bursting into song, accompanying each other by clapping and clicking their chopsticks against the edge of the table. It was usually the men who had these night-long drinking bouts, but during special occasions my female relatives would also be there singing tragic romantic ballads, folk songs, and pop tunes. Koreans are a deeply emotional and sentimental people who still remember and resonate with their tragic history of colonization and civil war. One of their cultural traits is the sense of han, a kind of deep grievance and unrequited longing that can leave a hungry ghost after one’s death. Poetry and song—both characterized by lyric verse—are so deeply woven into the fabric of traditional Korean life that it is one of the qualities that characterized Koreans for the ancient Chinese. It is impossible for me to imagine Korea without that music—children’s

4

rhymes on the playground, work songs in the rice paddies, national anthems at the movie theaters, hymns at churches, shamans’ chants at exorcisms. Nearly every social event included a requisite time when one had to get up and sing or dance, or do both. My reminiscences may seem at odds with the nature of Bandi’s poems, since they come from someone whose job, according to what we know about him, is to write effective propaganda. But his poems, both in form and function, are very much in keeping with Korean tradition. They are musical, sentimental, and express deeply-felt emotion. The irony is that they are by a member of the Writer’s Union—an élite writer—who has turned his skills against the state in order to expose, document, and criticize its oppressive nature. —Heinz Insu Fenkl

5

1. Barren Earth

A New Arirang for the North

Arirang, arirang, arariyo, Arirang, over the mountain passes I have eyes but I cannot see My bare feet bleeding on the gravel road Arirang, arirang, arariyo, Arirang, over the mountain passes I have ears but I cannot hear So sick and tired for all these long years Arirang, arirang, arariyo, Arirang, over the mountain passes I have a mouth but I cannot speak They put me in chains without a trial

8

Green Leaves, Falling —To the young political prisoners awaiting execution

A chill wind blows out of season outside the window. How—green leaves falling from the aspen by the fence? Clutching your withered chests, tossed in the wind, It makes my heart ache, green leaves falling, green falling. The harsh wind and rain I beat back with my tears, With hope for the future, my life a mountain of pain. The golden fall I’ve longed for, gone from my eyes, In anguish—those green leaves falling, leaves falling. The knife winds—the Red Years—have blown without cease. How much is their worth, their lives, those green shoots? In desperate times, your youthful dreams cut short in the dust— I will not forget you, piteous green leaves falling, leaves falling.

9

Blizzard

blizzard, blizzard, the sound of winter crying chest pounding, sobbing, the sound of winter crying spring, summer, fall, and winter—four seasons, and only you weeping—the indignity of your unfortunate fate never knowing soft flowers, green leaves, ripe fruit only frost, and snow, born of cold north wind your whole life huddling, cringing, shivering weeping—the indignity of your unfortunate fate blizzard, blizzard, the sound of winter crying chest pounding, sobbing, the sound of winter crying try to tear it up, throw it out, your unfortunate fate running, spewing blood, in the sound of winter crying

10

Bloody Fall

Mountains all around, and at every patch of scorched earth the sound of hunted birds—I am burning, sick to the heart, my breath numb, number. Why is this season the color of blood? Ah, it’s just Bloody Fall in the North. At night at the waterside, by the fire-fields, the sound of hunted game heralds the day, voices hoarse, and on that gruesome summit even the cuckoo and azalea vomit blood. Ah, it’s just Bloody Fall in the North.

11

Virgin Window

This night, as the autumn rain beats against the window, I pound, too, until my knuckles bleed, Until the pain, fresh and green, turns gray, The window of my heart, I’ve not opened, even once. Outside, in the world, birds fly, flowers bloom, But I’m lonely, so lonely, and I pound, Savage red nails hammering deep, The window of my heart, I’ve not opened, even once. What I will regret is the green light shattered, The door I’d not open though I wanted, desired, Pounding, pounding, until the burst of blood— The window needs opening, now, though it break.

12

Song of the Flower Swallows

Feathered in rags, our faces crow-black, we’re the Flower Swallows—how genteel that term. Call us beggars and Communism’s blamed, so the Workers’ Party hung on us that elegant name. Jihjihbehbeh recently hatched, jihjihbehbeh Workers’ Party’s spawn. Child swallow, grown swallow, senior swallow, married swallow, under the bridge we rummage through trash, seeking food—there and here—a place to sleep—here and there migrating, just like our avian namesakes. Jihjihbehbeh recently hatched, jihjihbehbeh Workers’ Party’s spawn. Blue swallows leave with their hatchlings each year, but we Flower Swallows, flocks of us, stretching out each day every place, every space, everywhere, we swarm. We are Fire Swallows and the North is our world. Jihjihbehbeh recently hatched, jihjihbehbeh Workers’ Party’s spawn.

13

Chajabi (The Hitchhiker)   Driver ajoshi, please stop the car. I have cigarettes—Barts, Tangyos—all sorts. I waited for a train whose breath went dead And set out to walk this hundred ri.   Driver ajoshi, let’s ride together. Don’t you see my money flapping? Frost underfoot, on this night road, how long To walk—to walk a hundred ri so far from home?   Out in the world they take airplanes, taxis! But why, in our land, must we hitch our rides? Take me with you, take me all the way. Take me away from this sickening Red land  

  

14

O You Ugly, White Snow

Snow, snow, grumpy white snow, Why do you keep falling, a whole sky full, Your white blanket delighting the hills and the valleys But scaring us—we swallows who fear you? Snow, snow, ugly white snow, Why do you keep falling, till the evening smoke hangs? I see you—flake after flake—I think of my family all scattered, And under the bridge, the place where I sleep is all wet with my tears. Snow, snow, stupid white snow, Why do you fall on this earth, this ground? Were I you I would fly—flapping and flapping, I’d fly— To alight in a warm place where bellies are full.

15

The Mill on the Mountain

your clothes patched in a hundred spots they call you Mr. 100-Grain and you wail in the millhouse, the empty mill pounding out the whole of your life—kathump clattering away in the patch of scorched earth they call 100-Grain Mountain pounding, pounding, kathump, kathump pounding away in that destitute mill the hollowed-out mill at 100-Grain Mountain famous all over the world make us some rice, kathump, kathump make us some money, kathump, kathump factories, factories, 100-Grain factories farms, farms, 100-Grain farms in the tattered and torn and shattered land made by the out-of-time Communist march deep and deeper, a 1,000-Grain Mountain tattered and torn, 10,000-Grain land and the years lurch by, kathump, kathump pounding away at that destitute mill the hollowed-out mill at 100-Grain Mountain famous all over the world make us some rice, kathump, kathump make us some money, kathump, kathump

16

New Seongcheon Station

Her bundle sliced open by a pickpocket’s knife, A woman screams, and it cuts me to the heart. Ah, New Seongcheon Station, last stop of communism! Stepping over the stiff corpse of a beggar, The leaders of the Life Front walk in this clamor. Ah, New Seongcheon Station, last stop of communism! Blinded by bloody tears shed in this evil time, Even the concrete floor spews resentment. Ah, New Seongcheon Station, last stop of communism!

17

2. Exhausted Heart

Song of the Red People

Great Leader, Great Leader, you are the sky and we are just bugs. Strike us down with your furious lightning, but tell us, just tell us that you love us, and if you heed this one small wish there will be no thought of gnashing teeth. Great Leader, Great Leader, you are the whip—we are horse and oxen. Ride us, beat us, to your heart’s content, just please, please, do not let us starve or freeze, and if you heed this one small plea we’ll have no fleeting thought of crossing over. Great Leader, Great Leader, you’re iron chains and we are slaves. Rope us, bind us to your heart’s content, only, only, do not plug our eyes, ears, mouths, for if you heed this small request we shall never think to turn on you.

20

Song of the Circlers

Circling, circling, circling, circling, Listen to the song of the Workers’ Party circlers: The busy no-goal youth, the no-energy flunkies No-backbone creatures, no-success farmers, no-win women Circling ’round, ’round, side, front, and back Like the Workers’ Party bridesmaids, bumper crop to all seasons. Circling, circling, circling, circling, Listen to the song of the Workers’ Party circlers: The busy no-goal youth making ruckus for no-occasion Those enervated flunkies all jaundiced and clumping Always puffing and thumping to the bridgegroom’s tune The Workers’ Party bridesmaids, always exciting. Circling, circling, circling, circling, Listen to the song of the Workers’ Party circlers: No-backbone creatures in their closets—lumpitybumpity Useless no-win women in the kitchen—lillil la la Humoring the bridegroom—he he ha ha The Workers’ Party circles, always so peaceful.

21

Toads    The long rains go on—only you toads are thriving. Croakcroak, croakcroak! Dark, black clouds, not a spot of sun to see, But, still, you enjoy it—this world, this time. Croakcroak, croakcroak!   Soaked, bloated, by flood—your stylish red bellies. Croakcroak, croakcroak! Your asses foam in the muck, your spirits rise, And, yes, you enjoy it—this world, this time. Croakcroak, croakcroak!   The bad days go on, your mouths firm and vicious. Croakcroak, croakcroak! Swept by the deluge, this destitute land, And, still, you enjoy it—this world, this time. Croakcroak, croakcroak!

22

Not a Song About Our Backgrounds

Let’s not sing about our backgrounds. Somehow I got hold of a report card and They are the top students while I’m just barely average. And so here I go bashing their backgrounds: Your grandpa’s a cruel landholder, your daddy’s a profiteer, Your uncle’s an industrialist, and your cousin’s a cop. Let’s not sing about our backgrounds. Somehow I got employed as a clerk and They’re all smart and scheming, but my mind’s nothing to brag about. So here I go bashing their backgrounds: Your cousin’s kid is a deportee, your second cousin’s in a youth group, Your in-laws are in prison, your third cousin’s in a personality cult. Let’s not sing about our backgrounds. How will we ever get control over them When intellectuals and woodcutters are at odds? And so we stand tall on our backgrounds: My grandfather’s lineage is Mt. Baekdu, the Nakdong flows in my father’s veins, My mother’s side were murdered, and my wife’s side were martyred.

23

Idol

I am the sky, I am the sun—weep before me! Your breath, your light, do you know from whom it comes? Behold! How holy my being: Rainbows arch even in midwinter to celebrate my nativity. I am truth, I am the law—obey me without question! If I declare that water is fire, then you shall know that it is flame. Behold! How mysterious my being: When I honor my ancestors, birds flock the sky throughout the night. I am thunder, I am lightning—bow down before me! I can smash the world in a single blow! Behold! How dangerous my being: The raining heavens clear when I emerge—and I am the sun.

24

50 Red Years

Tell me, 50 Red Years, What is it you’ve given to the life of this land? The 50s, bloody, knife-wielding years of peasant struggle The 60s, sweat-soaked years under the yoke of servitude Ah, when ever have you given us a day, a single day? When have you given us even a moment of a happy life? Tell me, 50 Red Years, What is it you’ve given to the life of this land? The 70s, tear-stained under the terrible chains of oppression The 80s, damp with sighs of exhaustion, a mountain at every step Ah, when ever have you given us a day, a single day? When have you given us even a moment of a happy life? 50 Red Years, tell me, Years reckoned by trickery, times measured with whips The 90s now, breathless with the final struggle Ah, I pray that never, never again in this land Never shall the Red Years come again to this land

25

The Song of the Five Thieves

Family, O family, family, O family, O end of the world, Breaking through the dark heart to find the song of the Five Thieves. Like a moonlit snake slithering over the wall, washing beans by lightning, You nick it so well, so well, the public funds, the public food, The Party boldly shouting as it devours us. You bureaucrats, location unknown, recklessly consuming. Like an elephant eats cookies, like a rock crab hides its eyestalks, You gulp it all down, even what the people have squirreled away. The state political department, invisible, hunting stealthily, And the security department, so securely, weaseling around. Here a thief, there a thief—even a king looks small among you— And Fatty Kim, the worst thief on Heaven and Earth, squats down, Squashing factories, farms, the whole countryside, under a single cheek of his ass, And in broad daylight he bites off chunks to devour at his whim. Family, O family, family, O family, O end of the world, Breaking through the dark heart to find the song of the Five Thieves.

26

Stepmother

Though you spit on my smiling face, I still call you mother. Though you slap my puzzled cheek, I remember you as mother Because I long for a bosom to embrace me, for a human touch. Though you spit on me, though you beat me, I’ll follow you forever as mother. Though you throw me out in the winter night, I refuse to see the truth. Though you fling rice from the spatula, I taste its sweetness Because I long for a bosom to embrace me, for a human touch. Though you cast me out, though you starve me, I’ll follow you forever as mother. I believed you would accept me if only my affection was deep enough. I did not know your contempt would echo, through me, down to my son. Truly, I did not know—truly, I did not, My stepmother, the Workers’ Party, you sheet of ice on frozen ground.

27

Tin Kim’s “Song”

Our people are a very good people Just a tap on the reins and we know what it means Left, right, forward—we give it our all All my life, nurtured by knife and by gun Not a squeak of complaint, I’m a very good people Our people are a very good people Just twitch the whip and we know what it means The gravel road, the precipice, we climb with our all All my life, nurtured by knife and by gun Not a squeak of complaint, I’m a very good people Our people are a very good people Though ill-clothed and ill-fed, we’ll run ten thousand li Show us off to anyone, we people stand up All my life, nurtured by knife and by gun Not a squeak of complaint, I’m a very good people

28

Hate-red

Even so, the red twilight is still like silk, So why are these Red Years such a field of thorns? Ah, I like it not, even that gentle twilight, The same color as the Red Years I cannot abide. Even so, the red flowers are still quite sweet, So why are these Reds such monstrous people? Ah, I like them not, even those gentle flowers, The same color as the Reds I cannot regard The same color as the blood in our hearts, These Red Years, why so harsh as this? Ah, though my heart be bled white, I want to wash all the red from this world.

29

Red Locomotive

Twelve hours late and you dare toot your whistle Stop all that bluffing—let’s be on our way Rattle rattle, rattle rattle, train with no schedule Rattle rattle, rattle rattle, useless junk train Windows all gone, yet a dignified face You miracle, trumpet blast—be on your way Rattle rattle, rattle rattle, rag-covered train Rattle rattle, rattle rattle, lazy bum train Tear off that red flag that’s draped on your brow You’re an embarrassment—don’t make us laugh Puff puff, puff puff, rushing toward death Puff puff, puff puff, red locomotive

30

Night at the Military Camp

In ancient times, defending his country, they say General Nami had his horses drink the Tumen River dry And wore away the stones of Mt. Baekdu to sharpen his swords To strike his own people, not foreign enemies—too bad— The stones of Mt. Baekdu, the waters of Tumen, all used up. When the red blood of the people flows like a river And the beautiful land is a desolate weed field, What good will it do to unify this nation When the beasts become victors, showing their true faces As they dance on the graves of our flesh and our blood?

31

Affliction in the Red House

Swallow, white swallow dress yourself in purest white and come ’round once again to our house, the Red house. When last you came, you snatched the great bug. This time, come pluck away the little one— we are your ‘white-clad compatriots,’ after all, and you our ancestral soul. Watching and watching the evil bug, you could endure no more, and so you came; and as you came that time to snatch it away, come this time and take the little one, eviler still.

32

3. Longing for You, My Love

Single-minded Devotion

When you left me, my love, you turned and held my hand To say you’d return in time to see the azaleas bloom. Life without you is the darkest night of the moon, No point in living such a shameful life. You left in the bloom of your youth, and 40 years I’ve awaited you each day, not forgetting, my love. Now, though the hair’s gone white at my temples, My heart, waiting, is still in that flowering time. Though you never once took me to your bosom, I have loved only you; my heart has not changed, And though I die waiting, I will wait Because you are the world to me—you are life’s embrace.

34

Long, Long Winter Nights

I meet her, in delight, then wake from my dream to find the room full of darkness—only black ink— and I close my eyes once more, hoping to meet her again in sleep. There’s nothing like it—dreaming these long, long winter nights. Indeed, if I could somehow live without her, I would forget her—bury this pain— but the truth is that, without her, I could not live, parched with longing, these long, long winter nights.

35

Ah! KBS Social Education Channel

When I wandered the cold world all by myself Wrapped in the pain of lifelong separation You comforted me in my loneliness. Ah, KBS Social Education Channel, The voice of my love! Through those long, long winter nights, my pillowcase wet, As I pined for the bosom whose embrace I missed, You touched my stinging heart and warmed me. Ah, KBS Social Education Channel, The voice of my love! Whispering the vernal song, heralding the spring, Bringing to us the news of a new spring from the far mountains, You melted the icicles in my heart. Ah, KBS Social Education Channel, The voice of my love!

36

My Love

Even from that distance, you flood me with feeling

when your eyes meet mine.

Please, woman, do not tempt me. I have a love that awaits, true to me, pouring forth a fierce devotion. Beaming that smile with your painted lips, please, woman, do not tempt me. I have a love that awaits, to whom I’ve trusted all my heart. Love is two souls become eternally one— please, woman, do not tempt me. If in this life we cannot meet, I have a love I must meet in death.

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I Love You So Much

That road into my village, which I watch constantly— Let it blind both my eyes, it would be all right with me. I love you so much, I am happy just to wait Even if waiting is all I can do. Fooled a thousand times and a hundred more By the sound of the wind rattling the gate, I am fine. I love you so much, I am happy just to wait Even if waiting is all I can do. Though I may get news that you will never come, Still, I will come out to the road each day. I love you so much, I am happy just to wait Even if waiting is all I can do.

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Please Take this One Message

O bird, flying free in the boundless sky, Where are you flying, flapping your wings? My love is there too, in that distant sky— Don’t go alone, let’s fly together. But no, no, my body is in a cage of steel. So fly away, bird, on those flapping wings, and tell her That if I die my spirit will find her; please, Take this one message to my love for me.

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Blow, South Wind

When the south wind blows, the touch of my lover’s breath, My heart folds everything aside, we fit together as one Ah! My body, desire, melting into you Blow, south wind, and never stop Eyes closed, my arms outstretched to embrace you, Tears well up, my innermost thoughts bursting Ah! My body, desire, melting into you Blow, south wind, and never stop South wind, spring wind, wind of flowers, wind of birds The fluttering wings of my lover—let me ride you Ah! My body, desire, melting into you Blow, south wind, and never stop

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Life with Loneliness

Without love’s first embrace, my love has left me From loneliness, though this heart turn to ash, from loneliness. Ah, loneliness, at least I have you, or I’d already be dead in this desolate land. Eyes open, my love, eyes closed, my love, From loneliness, even if this heart all rots from loneliness. Ah, loneliness, at least I have you, or I’d already be dead in this dreary land. Till my black hair turns pure white, my lifelong love, From loneliness, though my organs all fail, from loneliness. Ah, loneliness, at least I have you, or I’d already dead in this land of living hell.

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I Awaited You, My Love

My love was not this reality She was the earth, the air That I could tread and breathe in freedom. That air, that earth—were the love I awaited. All my life I’d pictured you, until my hair turned white, And I’d called out to you in dreams, with heated blood From the North, this land, this prison without bars. The love I’d long awaited was the bosom of the South.

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4. Attached to a Life

Youth is a Forking Road

Though this fork in the road looks just like that one They lead to different places, each to each, One ending in a field of flowers The other in a quagmire Ah, youth—youth, a fork in the path of life, A fork in the road, the right way hidden The right road takes you gentle to the blooming field The wrong one spins you ’round and ’round in quagmire Take the wrong fork, and though you try it over You’ll find you can’t walk life a second time Ah, youth—youth, a fork in the path of life, A fork in the road, the right way to be found

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O Azaleas

O azaleas, from where does the new spring come? Does it walk up from the south where the blue swallows fly? Or from beneath the hard, frozen ground where your tender roots endure the harsh snow— does it come from there? O azaleas, from where does the new spring come? It is an angel, shrouded in mist and clothed in fog, who brings it, so do not cry, though you are in pain. Your twig-thin branches enduring the knife-sharp wind— that is from where it comes.

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Song of Life

Shielding your eyes from the sun, looking— What are you waiting for, just standing there? Start running toward the things you desire, Because life, life is not for long. You have kindness and goodness at your side. So why are you afraid, why hesitate? Love fiercely till you burn to ashes, Because life, life is not long. The sun and moon will rise in the sky again, But what’s it all for if you only set once? Run, achieve, make yourself shine, Because life, life is not for long.

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Pine Tree

When the sweet rain falls, when it falls so sweet, All of you are green, standing up on tip-toe— But ha haha look at you now, Sobbing and weeping at the first sign of frost. Ah, green, green, evergreen, It’s in winter that your true colors show. When the gentle breeze, when gentle it blows All of you are green and smiling— But ha haha look at you now, Chattering and shivering, your true selves exposed. Ah, green, green, evergreen, It’s in winter, too, that my true colors show.

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Thoughts of Mother

You were the lantern, the lantern that burned quietly, always beside the window where the cold wind slanted in. Though you fluttered fretfully in the draft, forever weary, with your wick-thin body you lit up the house, sprinkling the petals of your laughter at the meager dinner table. No one looked after you—you endured alone. And with the tapers out of oil, even so, dim and flickering, you burned, calmly burned, your whole body, ’til your breath expired. The unbearable suffering—you embraced it as you blazed alone, and that unspeakable loneliness—you smoldered through with no respite. You watched over five of us, all by yourself, the lantern that lit up our lives. How could I not have known all this, Mother—oh, Mother!

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Woman of Pure Love

I am a poem and you are my reader. The way you recite me, so hot with passion, makes me give, give, all of myself— ah—to you, so sweet and delightful. Read me as far and as deep as you will, and when you’ve had your fill, fling me aside into the room’s dusty corner. Poems are forsythias smiling on a precipice, and those readers, anxious, when they cannot pluck, I care not for them, whoever they are, I like them not. Ah—to be a poem and truly read! If that is to be my fate, then I wish you—only you—would be my first, and my last, reader.

1/11/2001

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Oak Tree in Winter

On the snowy mountain slope a single oak tree standing, still wearing every dead leaf and branch. Drop them, you foolish oak, let them go, that throwaway life. You can never bloom again. On the snowy mountain slope a single oak tree suffering in the harsh wind, not able to cast off its withered leaves. Discard them, those regrets, you oak. Didn’t you ever, ever give all your love away?

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A Man

Worry? What’s the use in worrying? Does it make possible the things that aren’t? Break when they beat you—why cry in advance? I’ll be laughing ’til the very moment I break. Joy can happen—like the flash of an electric bulb, And though I can’t see the water, I’ll still dig my well. Does protecting your bones make you live a thousand years? I’ll dig my own well even if this body melts away. Can you see into the distance when your head is bowed? What’s the joy in life if you see only heels? I’ll walk to my own fate even if the path is wrong. Knife-sharp precipices block my way, but I go with head held high.

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Your Love

Life, let me ask you: What is most precious? Is it love? Is it honor? Is it gold? No, no, it is freedom. I cannot live without it— Freedom is your love. Life, let me ask you: What is the one thing Whose loss would mean the end of the world? Do not forget this—it is freedom, The thing you cannot live without. Freedom—that is your love.

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5. Wishes

Bandi (Firefly)

It sickens me to see a world so stained, like speckled hail, and the pinpoint stars, that only blink on to pierce the night, spread free their once-folded wings to swim within the white moonlight. Bright moon, pale fog, a world without sin— on this night, when every variegated color has gone, the firefly of my heart also burns with light, and I try flying inside a world of white.

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Landscape White with Snow   White snow falling, snow falling, the landscape all white A dream utopia revealed to my eyes No visible flaw—not one—lamb-soft and lily fine I see a new pure world before me   White snow falling, snow falling, the landscape all white A hundred ancestors rise up in white raiment White-clad to see the smallest—the tiniest—speck of sin I see a world frost-white before me   White snow falling, snow falling, the landscape all white My heart, my mind, a slow-growing snowdrift You and I, let us embrace them, those petals of snow And make a world—soft and white—for one another

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Why I Love Wildflowers

Of all flowers I love wildflowers best because they’re like an infant’s eyes— ah, the light in an infant’s eyes. Of all flowers I love wildflowers best because they remind me of my mother’s skirt— ah, my mother’s simple skirt. Of all flowers I love wildflowers best because they make sure to cry when no one’s looking— ah, the washerwoman in the laundry house.

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Me Alone

Please leave me alone Red or blue, don’t try to color me No matter how beautiful the painted wild chrysanthemum I will judge it by the sight of those blooming on the mountainside Please leave me alone Heaven or paradise, unhand me, don’t drag me there They say the pigeons in the circus troop live in luxury But I will judge them by those who fly at will in the open sky Please leave me alone My color, my wings, leave them to me The flowers in the field are more beautiful unpainted The bird that flies highest is the one left alone

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The Whistling Man

Why tell a lie When it’s so much harder to fool others? The day I stuck to the truth, my face destroyed, I slept sweetly in a comfortable bed. Whistling hweehweehweehweehwee, My heart and mind, always, always light. Always more hurtful than others, It pains my heart to be that way. I feel good, days when I get my own beggings, But my heart is heavy when I get someone else’s. Whistling hweehweehweehweehwee, My heart and mind, always, always light. When I go out, everyone greets me. Their warm smiles make me happy. The taste of wine, calling each other to share a cup, Fragrant as honey, makes me feel ever young. Whistling hweehweehweehweehwee, My heart and mind, always, always light.

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Today

Today, the day’s memories linger, and so do tomorrow’s beautiful dreams. So smile, though you may be pained and sad. Gather up today’s laughter—make it a happy life. One fleeting day, a fragment of a lifetime, that day-to-day life I shall keep today. It’s bitter—you’re sick of it—but have a taste. Gather up today’s love—make it an exciting life. And whatever adversities or troubles pass by, draw it regretfully and do not forget. Stinging or numb, you should savor this day. Gather up today’s courage—make it a fruitful life.

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Of the World Where People Live

Grandfather constantly recalls the old days: For a man like me, life was all right. I didn’t have a TV or a computer, but We were happy then with the warmth of each other’s words. Ah, despite everything, it was a world where people could live. He says his own grandfather would also recall: Life was all right for a man like me. Products and clothes weren’t what they are now, But people’s hearts were finer, like silk, in those days. Ah, that used to be enough for a world where people could live. Though I’m not their grandfather, I want to cry out to my generation. Is a culture that has lost its humanity still civilized? A culture of greed and creature comforts, as it ¡s on, And the farther it goes, the more it tastes like the color on a painted fruit. Ah, we’re losing forever this world where people live.

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Live with an Open Heart Though you live with your yard gate always closed, Live at least with an open heart, like a fully-blown flower. Then you will brim over with the fragrance of life And the bees and butterflies of joy will come flying in without rest. Though it’s my personal world that no one else can see, I’ll live at least with a heart—open—like a window on a summer’s day, And only the bright light of life will shine in, And the green plumage of joy will grow lush. Life is ever bright for those who live with an open heart. Warm, happy, exciting, for a whole lifetime, While for those with a closed heart, life is always dark, Lonely, lonesome—a lifetime of pain.

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Sow Love, Reap Love

Plant red beans, you get red beans, plant black, you get black. They say it’s an irrefutable law of nature. Oh, ho, isn’t it the truth? You have to plant soy to harvest soy, Sow black beans to reap black beans. A room full of love bears life, a room full of hate, hate. How can it be any different when it’s a rule of life? Oh, ho, isn’t it the truth? Plant a knife and get knifed, Sow love to reap love. Smile again when they spit on your smiling face, And after they spit on you they’ll plant a kiss. Oh, ho, isn’t it the truth? They say tolerance is what makes you human. Sow love, reap love.

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A Dream   Dark and fearful, the night was long, But the new day has come, this bright new world, The bells of freedom, clamorous, ringing, The birds in the sky do their fluttering dance. Mansae, mansae, manmansae! Hail freedom!   The sound of chains and whips, those chilling sounds Gone—and the barred windows thrown open, wide open. Kick away your seats and arise, my friends. Do you not hear the sound of freedom’s bells? Mansae, mansae, manmansae! Hail freedom!   Our mouths, once packed with gravel, are open again. Let’s sing the songs we love—to our heart’s content. They took away our ears, but now they’re open, wide. Let us fill ourselves with joy, this taste, this world, so vast. Mansae, mansae, manmansae! Hail freedom!

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Afterword Bandi’s Dream With the publication of The Red Years, the second work of the dissident writer Bandi, North Korea’s Solzhenitsyn, has been released to the world. It has been five years since the publication of Bandi’s collection of short stories, The Accusation, which since that time has garnered much love from readers all over the world. ​​ twenty-seven The Accusation was published in twenty languages in countries; it won the British PEN Translation Prize and was nominated for the Andrei Sakharov Prize for Human Rights in the European Parliament. This year, The Accusation also made the long list for the Aspen Words Literary Prize. I think the reason why a literary work by a faceless dissident in North Korea attracted such international attention is because of the evocativeness of Bandi’s short stories. They depict the daily lives of the North Korean people in a way with which readers can empathize. There are no descriptions of prison camps, public executions, or torture, which are the typical images associated with North Korea (a nation synonymous with human rights violations), and yet Bandi’s stories clearly depict the horror in the lives of North Koreans and the slavelike condition in which they must struggle to survive. The Accusation was shocking for people today who take their freedom for granted like the air they breathe. This volume, the second work of Bandi’s, is not a novel, but a collection of poems through which the poet pounds on the gates of

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human conscience. In these 51 relatively short poems, one can see more clearly the author’s spirit of profound resistance as he cries out to depict exactly what conditions are like in North Korea, where the people are still living like slaves of the state. At the risk of his life, Bandi has resolved to continue his resistance, eloquently, in the land of darkness. I remember, when I was first handed Bandi’s manuscripts, being worried that the stack of faded pages might crumble to dust. I recall how I scratched my head over the unfamiliar North Korean expressions. And then there was the breathlessness of running here and there looking for a publisher, all the complications of calling on my many connections to get the manuscript overseas. These memories are very precious to me. But even during the book conferences and all the numerous interviews—mixed with the increasing gladness and joy of receiving love on every occasion—I was concerned for Bandi’s well-being, keeping my calm in the middle of everything despite my frequent misgivings, and speaking cautiously. The truth is—though nobody else knew—I had pain in my heart. Bandi’s work is a profound example of resistance and dissent. It is said that the Party members in North Korea see only what is right in front of them, and yet the people around them are suffering in terrible pain. Imagine if you are a writer, deciding to take your life into your hands, deciding to escape this condition, and even when the possibility of death is real, approaching your fear, embracing it, hoping someone might be able to use your dead body as a stepping stone to move forward toward freedom. Consider that—the face of true resistance. To those who wish to conveniently dismiss North Korea as “Hell on Earth,” I urge you to read this first English publication of Bandi’s The

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Red Years. And I hope the poems will allow you to share Bandi’s dream, which is for the liberation of the enslaved people of North Korea…. —Do Hee-yun Representative of the Citizens’ Coalition for Human Rights of Abductees & North Korean Refugees

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Notes Preface Poem The Korean for “readers” is dokja, which also sounds like “poison letters” (as in letters of the alphabet). The implication is double: the words made of these letters will perhaps be the poison that kills the oppressive regime, but they also have the potential to be fatal to the reader (since possessing them would be tantamount to a capital crime in North Korea). This type of multilayered wordplay appears throughout Bandi’s poems. It is too prevalent to gloss each occasion, so I have provided notes and background in particularly relevant instances below to explain allusions and provide context where necessary.

1. Barren Earth A New Arirang for the North Each region of Korea has its own variant of this ballad, which came into special prominence as a song of protest and commiseration during the Japanese colonial era from 1910–1945. Arirang is sung at nearly every social occasion, and people of each region are proud of their variant. There are more than 3,600 versions of the song, and it is generally considered the unofficial national anthem of both Koreas (much like Woody Guthrie’s This Land is Your Land is for the United States). The true origin of the song is unknown, and it’s a special touch of irony

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in the context of this collection of poems that the song was adapted as the official marching song of the American 7th Infrantry Division following the Korean War. Arirang is reminiscent of Christians singing Amazing Grace, though its lyrics are quite different. Both songs are sentimental, sad, and yet also comforting. It’s often the last song sung after a long night of drinking and celebration when relatives have gathered together for the Lunar holidays and will not see each other again for a long time because they are busy making a living. Song of the Fire Swallows The term “Fire Swallow” (kkotjaebi in Korean) comes from the Korean sound equivalent of the Russian term kochev’ya (кочевья), which means “nomadic” or “vagabond.” In North Korea it’s the term used to refer to wandering beggars. Swallows are a bird that everyone loves in Korea because they are quick, make people feel cheerful and they herald spring. Traditionally, it is considered good fortune to have swallows nesting under the eaves of one’s house and terrible bad luck to remove a nest. Chajabi (The Hitchhiker) Ajoshi is technically the brother of one’s father, or paternal “uncle.” The term is used as a polite way of referring to a stranger in the same way we would say “Mister.” Barts and Tangyos are cheap cigarettes that were once produced in northeast China, known more for their sulfur than tobacco flavor. Those cigarettes were favored for those in the military because it was said that they curbed sexual desire.

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The Mill on the Mountain Traditional Korean mills use a rotating wheel that make wooden hammers pound grain in a stone mortar. The refrain, with its command for rice and money, is a reference to a well-known folktale in which a young boy witnesses a gang of goblins magically producing gold and silver by hitting the ground with a large club or a mallet, chanting, “Make silver, ttukttak! Make gold, ttukttak! ” The story is usually translated as “The Goblin’s Club” or “The Goblin’s Mallet.” It ends with the virtuous younger brother becoming wealthy and the greedy older brother being pounded flat as a blanket by the goblins.

2. Exhausted Heart Song of the Red People The “Great Leader” (also known as the “Supreme Leader”) is, of course, Kim Il-sung, but the repetition of his name and the formulaic structure of the poem alludes to a beloved Korean folktale in which a young brother and sister climb a tree to escape a man-eating tiger and pray to the King of Heaven. At the end of the story, they ascend a golden rope and become the sun and moon. Toads A popular childhood game in Korea is to tap a toad with a stick until it puffs up in an attempt to scare you away.

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Idol Of the poems in this collection, this is perhaps the most dangerous for the poet (and anyone possessing the poem) because of its explicit critique of Kim Il-sung and his government. Red Locomotive Since Kim Il-sung is associated with metal and steel because of his name, the red locomotive is symbolic of both the industrial development of the state and the Great Leader himself. Affliction in the Red House In 1992 and 1993, a white swallow and magpie were seen flying into the garden of the shrine at Gumsu Mountain. The following year, Kim Ilsung died. Koreans are known as “the white-clad people” because of the traditional preference for white clothes.

3. Longing for You, My Love My Love The “woman” in this poem is the temptation to escape to the West (as denoted by the painted lips). The “love” is Korea’s reunification, which most Koreans understand will now occur sometime after they die.

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4. Attached to a Life O Azaleas “Azaleas,” by Kim Sowol, is South Korea’s best-known and best-loved poem very much in the way Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” is one of the bestknown poems in England.

5. Wishes Of the World Where People Live The “Os” in the last stanza seems rather peculiar, but it’s there to serve multiple purposes. One is to suggest a blank, as in a device for the reader to fill in the verb in: “_______s on.” The indication of an anonymous noun by the use of a single Roman letter is still a common practice, especially in South Korean literature (e.g., I had dinner with K— today.” In the poem, the O is also a circle, graphically suggesting “rolls on.” To Buddhists and Taoists, it is also the symbol of the cyclical world of samsara, also suggesting the ultimate emptiness of ego-serving greed and ambition. A Dream The exclamation “Mansae!” literally “Ten thousand years!” is a traditional Korean equivalent of “Long live!” or “Hail!” or “Viva! ” when associated with the nation or a ruler. When it is written in Chinese characters, they are the same as the Japanese “Banzai!” In ancient times the number 10,000 was used to suggest the largest number or “forever.”

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