My escape from North Korea - Part 2

By Han Song-mi

After weeks of waiting in hiding, the moment had finally come. On the night of March 19, 2011, I left my safe house and took my first steps toward the border. I had been told that North Korean soldiers, bribed with my mother’s money, would be waiting to help me cross. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with two smugglers, not soldiers, and no guarantee that I would survive the night.

As we moved toward the frozen Yalu River, fear weighed heavily on me. I knew that every step across the ice brought me closer to China, but also closer to being caught. I had heard the horror stories — escapees shot at the border, and others sent back to North Korea to face interrogation, torture or even execution. I told myself to stay calm, but when the searchlights swept over us and the dogs began barking, my escape turned into a desperate race for survival.

Gunshots rang out in the night. I slipped and plunged through the ice. The freezing water made my body go numb, but I had no time to think about the pain. If I stopped, I would die. If I hesitated, I would be caught. This was the moment when everything went wrong — and when my fight for freedom truly began.

I never knew how heavy fear could feel until that moment. Fear weighed down my legs as I walked toward the Yalu River, sat in my chest as I followed the two smugglers who were supposed to help me cross and clenched my throat as I imagined what would happen if I got caught. But fear wouldn’t save me now. I had no choice but to keep moving.

The broker had told me that North Korean soldiers would be waiting to help me cross. I believed him. My mother had paid money to a broker, and the broker had paid money to the border guards. That was how it was supposed to work.

But when I met the two people by the river, something felt wrong. They weren’t acting like North Korean soldiers. And then it hit me — they weren’t soldiers at all. They were smugglers. The broker had lied. He must have kept more of the money for himself and paid smugglers instead of real soldiers. And now, I was completely at their mercy.

We moved carefully toward the river, checking the area. There were a few houses nearby and, about 100 meters away, a guard station. Every 15 minutes, the border guards scanned the area with searchlights. I held my breath. Then — a huge searchlight shone directly on me.

I froze. The guards turned their lights toward the two smugglers, exposing all of us. Then, I heard the dogs. The border guards were shouting and their dogs started barking. They were getting closer. I felt the smugglers tense up beside me.

The male smuggler whispered, "Let’s run. If we stay, they will catch us."

We didn’t hesitate. We ran for our lives crossing from land to the icy river.

The night air was freezing, but I barely felt it. Then, I slipped and fell. I scrambled to get up. My hands stung from the impact, but there was no time to check for injuries. I started running again.

Then, I fell again. This time, I broke through the ice.

It felt like a thousand knives stabbing into my body at once. The cold was unbearable. I grabbed at the ice, trying to pull myself up. But it was too slippery. I started panicking.

The female smuggler grabbed my hands and pulled me out. I could feel the wet fabric of my clothes turning to ice against my skin, but we couldn’t stop. We had to keep running.

Then, I heard it.

Bang!

The sound echoed through the night. Then another. Bang! Bang! They were shooting at us.

I froze. I had heard that sound before. I had heard it at public executions. But this was different. This time, they were shooting at me. The female smuggler turned to me and pressed her finger to her lips, motioning for me to be quiet.

I could barely breathe. I couldn’t see the male smuggler anymore. Had they shot him? I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. All I could hear was the sound of the guards shouting and the dogs barking.

I turned my head slowly, trying to see what was happening. The guards were still on the ice. They had reached halfway across the river, but they didn’t come any further. They were hesitating. Maybe they weren’t allowed to cross into China. They stood there, cursing us, shouting that if they ever caught us, they would kill us.

Then, after 30 minutes, they finally gave up. I watched as they walked back to their guard station. The female smuggler turned to me. "It is still dangerous here. Let’s go up the mountain." She called out to the male smuggler. For a moment, there was no answer. Then, he said, "I’m fine."

We moved quietly, crossing a small street behind the river and climbing up the mountain. Then, the dogs started barking again. The border guards had returned. I held my breath. We sat down on the mountain, hidden in the darkness. From where we were, we could see the border guards, but they couldn’t see us.

I had survived the river, the ice, the soldiers and the bullets. For the first time in my life, I was outside of North Korea.

But I wasn’t free yet. I still had to trust a broker I had never met. I still had to avoid the Chinese police. I still had to find my mother. But for the first time, I could see a future for myself. I had escaped from North Korea.

Han Song-mi is a North Korean Refugee Author Fellow with Freedom Speakers International (FSI) and co-author with Casey Lartigue Jr. of her memoir, “Greenlight to Freedom: A North Korean Daughter’s Search for Her Mother and Herself.”