It was the DPRK’s founding day and a national holiday- but no break for us. We had to continue watching movies all day long, in the spirit of the “Shock Brigades” who knew no holidays either. We had seen plenty of Shock Brigades in the movies and occasionally on the streets, too: young volunteers, building bridges, highways and high-rises. I loved the Shock Brigade girls in their cute uniforms, and I went around playfully admonishing everyone, “Shock Brigade spirit! No breaks! More movies!”
The export company people didn’t seem to possess much of that spirit, though. They wanted one rest after another. And they got them-the screenings were often interrupted by power failures.
“That’s due to the American imperialists,” Miss Choe explained. “We couldn’t build our own nuclear power station because of them. They promised to help us build light-water reactors but so far they haven’t done anything.”
Once the screenings were over for the day, we were taken to the big celebration on Kim Il Sung Square. Here, lack of electrical power wasn’t an issue. The roofs of the buildings were covered with thousands of flood lights, the brightly lit Juche Tower rising forth on the other side of the river. Having seen the children rehearsing, I was expecting a gigantic mass gymnastics display. There wasn’t one. There weren’t even any speeches.
Maybe these things had taken place earlier in the day? Although the music was the same awful revolutionary music as always, all in all it was quite a joyous party. Along with all the other foreigners in town- who ranged from tourists to diplomats, a meager 200 or so in total- we were placed on the right side of the large stone stand overlooking the square. Behind us was the Grand People’s Study House, Pyongyang’s main library, which had its own balcony. It was from here that Kim Jong-il would occasionally watch parades or celebrations like this one- although he rarely ever showed up.
Down on the square, women in traditional Korean garb danced in little circles around poles decorated with colourful ribbons. It didn’t look like much rehearsal had gone into this particular display. People just seemed to be having a good time. After a short while, the dancing circles dissipated and the participants were simply dancing freely with one another. We could join in, if we wanted. Nicolas did, having a few rounds with Miss Choe.
The party was still in full swing when Mr. Sok urged us to return to the hotel. We walked off Kim Il Sung Square through an unlit side street- the city outside of the celebration being as dark as it ever was. We encountered military vehicles and security forces blocking off the street, but were able to walk around them without any problem or questions asked. However, sporadic fist fights broke out between security staff and several young men not long after we did so. Fierce fights, as far as one could tell in the darkness. I wondered whether the confrontation was due to common citizens being refused access to the festivities.
“What about those fights?” I asked Miss Choe. “Is it people trying to get in or out?”
“What fights?” she replied. “There are no fights.”
“There are fights. Can’t you see them?” I insisted, pointing at the battle closest to us.
“Ah, you mean that,” she sighed. “That’s not fighting. Just a little…pushing for discipline.”
Nicolas left his camera case closed.
Our final day in Pyongyang. We got off to an early start, paying the customary visit to the eternal president Kim Il-sung in his state of eternal silence.
I had already seen Lenin lying dead, stuffed in his Moscow mausoleum, and this was like a visit to a bygone era. I recalled Red Square being cordoned off. At a checkpoint visitors were searched for cameras, and then ushered along a line of solemn policemen into the chilly display room. Loitering was prohibited and one had to walk by the exhibit quickly. Lenin was dressed in a suit from the 1920s. It all felt a little shabby. One could also visit the gravestones along the Kremlin wall, of Stalin, Khrushchev and Brezhnev. Following this visit with ghosts of the past, it was quite cool to have lunch at a Western burger bar on the other side of Red Square, where the new times had set in.
I had also seen Mao in his Beijing display room. No cameras were allowed there either, but the protocol was far less Spartan than in Moscow. One could buy flowers to lay nearby, or a little information booklet on the mausoleum. Dressed in his Mao suit and covered by a Chinese flag, visitors were still required to walk by the Great Helmsman quickly (or the puppet stand-in when the original Mao was undergoing restoration). The whole purpose of the exhibition seemed to be channeled toward the big souvenir shop situated behind the display room, in which every imaginable item of Mao kitsch was available: from Mao cigarette lighters (which played the tune of ‘The East is Red’ whenever in use), to Mao posters, postcards, cups, plates and lamps. There were Mao sculptures of all sizes and even Mao tea. Once through the exit, hundreds of stalls offered the Mao pilgrim everything from batteries to umbrellas, rolls of photographic films to Mickey Mouse T-shirts.
The Kumsusan Memorial Palace is a totally different affair. Hundreds of people lined up in orderly fashion at the front entrance. No individual visitors but rather army platoons, farmers’ co-operatives and factory-worker units. As always the foreigners were led to the front of the line. The actual “palace” was quite a distance away from the main entrance. There was a long passageway to traverse, after first walking over a blanket of brushes to disperse any dirt being brought in. Then it was necessary to place any cameras and metal objects into storage. A metal detector and a body search followed. Foreign coins, aluminum-wrapped cigarette packets- anything metallic that we had neglected to relinquish earlier- were then removed and taken to the storage desk by our guides. We were transported by a moving walkway to the actual palace. We had no option but to remain on it- walking was prohibited. The walkway proceeded very slowly, in order to give us time to “collect our thoughts,” as Miss Choe put it.
Once inside the marble palace, we were led into the room where the Great Leader stood- or rather, a big stone statue of him, in front of which we had to bow. Revolutionary music played; everything was very solemn. Following another cleansing procedure- this one blowing dust from our clothes and dry scalp off our heads via cold jets of air- we were ushered into the holy room where Kim Il-sung’s eternity was resting. In the centre was the holiest shrine in North Korea: Kim Il-sung himself, under glass, dressed in a suit. It was required that we see him from all sides, always stopping and bowing to him.
Behind us was a class of school girls, about fourteen-year-olds, most of them crying. Even Miss Choe shed a little tear upon seeing the Great Leader, motionless and smiling.
