However, now that I think back, there was one incident from which she could have gotten a slight hint of my plan. It was the summer of 1996. I was taking care of the vegetable garden in our backyard, thinking about the destiny of our nation, when my wife approached and asked me if there were any problems.
She must have felt something was different, because she was staring at the tomato plants instead of looking at me. In any case, I swiftly denied that I had any worries because I did not want her to feel how I felt.
Then for some reason she started speaking Russian;
“We have had a good life so far. So, even if I were to die right now, what more could I want? But you, how many people follow and rely on you? From now on you have to hold it back, not for ourselves but for them.”
I did not think my wife had really read my mind; however it did surprise me a little bit and I subconsciously hinted at part of my feelings;
“A family’s life is more precious than that of an individual. A nation’s life is more precious than that of a family. And finally, the human race’s life is more precious than that of a nation.”
I answered her back quietly, also in Russian. It reminded me of the conversation between a falcon and a snake in “The Song of a Falcon,” written by Maxim Gorky in 1894. The story features the heroic death of the falcon. I wanted to tell that falcon, “You saw the blue skies. I saw the truth of history.”
I whispered my words as if I was talking to myself, and I have passed over that situation since then, thinking that my wife did not hear me. But now that I think of it, she must have heard something. When I said those things, she turned away silently with her basket of tomatoes. Her shoulders looked so drooped; I still remember it very clearly. Even though she did not exactly understand what I meant, by now she might have realized that it was some kind of hint.
Another hint came from what happened about 15 days before I left North Korea for good. That day I was burning two boxes of manuscripts I had written when my wife approached and asked me;
“Why are you burning the manuscripts you love so much?”
“I don’t think I need them anymore.”
Back then I answered like that, simply, and she did not question me any further. Not only did she know that I could not announce my ideology freely, but she also knew that I had been writing a lot of manuscripts that other people should not read.
However, it was actually a relief to me. After watching years of my philosophical thoughts turn to ashes, I went inside and distributed some valuables I had brought from my office; a camera and some fountain pens to my children. Some items were still necessary to me and my wife, but my wife did not say anything against it. Did she know how I was feeling without even asking?
At that time, I myself was obsessed with figuring out plans to save my family. The reason why I was eventually able to leave, however, was because of another voice in my mind.
“If you hesitate like this, you will never be able to leave. Then, in the future, history will rebuke you for the fact that there was not a single intellectual who justly criticized or resisted while the people were suffering enormous violence and irrationality.”
Be that as it may, now that I have arrived safely in Seoul, the first thing that comes to mind is my family, especially my wife.
“Have a safe trip…”
That day, she said goodbye with equanimity as usual and let me leave. I did not turn around once and got straight in the car, but I was holding back floods of tears.
If she had realized that my decision was not in pursuit of some kind of vulgar desire, but instead an accommodation to the call of national obligation, would it comfort her a little bit? If she knew that it was the very last devotion of an intellectual who partly contributed to the motherland’s division and reunification, would it make her feel better? Will I ever be able to meet her alive and ask her forgiveness, for I made her suffer a pain worse than death?
