In New Book, N. Korea Seen Through Defectors' Eyes Barbara Demick's book Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea opens with a nighttime satellite image of northeast Asia that shows North Korea, which has little electricity, cloaked in darkness. She says the image conveys much about the way North Korea is perceived.
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In New Book, N. Korea Seen Through Defectors' Eyes

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In New Book, N. Korea Seen Through Defectors' Eyes

In New Book, N. Korea Seen Through Defectors' Eyes

In New Book, N. Korea Seen Through Defectors' Eyes

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  • <iframe src="" width="100%" height="290" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" title="NPR embedded audio player">
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This nighttime satellite image of northeast Asia shows North Korea cloaked in darkness while its neighbors are brightly lit. Courtesy of the author hide caption

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Courtesy of the author

This nighttime satellite image of northeast Asia shows North Korea cloaked in darkness while its neighbors are brightly lit.

Courtesy of the author

Barbara Demick's book Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea opens with a nighttime satellite image of northeast Asia that shows the bright lights of South Korea and China. In the middle of the photograph is a dark spot — a nation of 23 million people that has little electricity.

"I opened with this image because I thought it conveyed a lot of our thinking about North Korea, a black hole place that we know very little about," Demick tells NPR's Melissa Block.

The book chronicles the accounts of North Koreans who defected to the South and told their stories to Demick, a Los Angeles Times reporter. They describe a country that was relatively developed until the 1980s, but then plunged into desperation when famine struck in the 1990s after the death of President Kim Il Sung. That desperation forced people to eat weeds, grass, bark, frogs and people's pets.

'Nothing To Envy'

Our father, we have nothing to envy in the world.

Our house is within the embrace of the Workers' Party.

We are all brothers and sisters.

Even if a sea of fire comes toward us, sweet children do not need to be afraid.

Our father is here.

We have nothing to envy.

-A verse from "Nothing to Envy," a song popular among North Korean children

"There was really nothing to eat. ... In a way, it's almost a post-apocalyptic scenario what happened to them," Demick says.

Among the characters in the book are a young couple, Mi-ran and Jun-sang, from the northern city of Chongjin. Demick says that in some ways their love story illustrates what North Korea was like for young people.

The couple had little privacy because of the repressive regime, but they dated for many years, taking advantage of the dark. Demick describes a chaste romance: The couple took three years to hold hands and six more years to kiss.

Eventually, when Jun-sang, who was from a relatively privileged background, went to school in the capital, Pyongyang, the couple wrote letters to each other, which took up to a month to arrive.

"It was a very Victorian romance, except in the Victorian age you had paper," Demick says. "The way [Mi-ran] described it to me, it was an ordeal even to get paper.

"She would try to find a few sheets of paper and it was always made of corn husk or some very poor material, and then the letters were taken by train to Pyongyang, but the train system was broken down and often the letters were lost. People believed that the conductors were so cold on the trains that they would take the letters and burn them to keep warm."

Mi-ran was the first to defect to South Korea, but she didn't tell Jun-sang. What she didn't realize, however, was that he too wanted to defect, but hadn't told her. Their lack of communication ultimately broke up their relationship.

A photo of a malnourished boy in a hospital bed in Hamhung, North Korea, used in Barbara Demick's book. World Food Program hide caption

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World Food Program

A photo of a malnourished boy in a hospital bed in Hamhung, North Korea, used in Barbara Demick's book.

World Food Program

For Jun-sang, the turning point came in 1998, when the country was in the midst of economic disaster and famine. He was at a train station when he heard a homeless boy singing a patriotic song, "Nothing to Envy" — from which Demick took the name for her book. Hearing that song, Demick says, made Jun-sang realize what a lie the system was.

Still, Demick says, she didn't want to portray the country as a living hell. Almost all the people she talked to had moments when they were happy.

And, she says, they all believed in their country and in themselves. She says many of them felt an underlying sadness for what was lost, though they were devastated when they discovered they had been told lies.

Many North Koreans, once they defected to the South, struggled to adjust.

"There are quite a few North Korean defectors who've done poorly after they've defected," Demick says. "There have been suicides. They find it difficult to re-create that meaning in their lives."

Excerpt: 'Nothing To Envy'

'Nothing to Envy' cover

If you look at satellite photographs of the far east by night, you'll see a large splotch curiously lacking in light. This area of darkness is the Democratic People's Republic of Korea.

Next to this mysterious black hole, South Korea, Japan, and now China fairly gleam with prosperity. Even from hundreds of miles above, the billboards, the headlights and streetlights, the neon of the fast-food chains appear as tiny white dots signifying people going about their business as twenty-first-century energy consumers. Then, in the middle of it all, an expanse of blackness nearly as large as England. It is baffling how a nation of 23 million people can appear as vacant as the oceans. North Korea is simply a blank.

Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea
By Barbara Demick
Hardcover, 336 pages
Spiegel & Grau
List price: $26

North Korea faded to black in the early 1990s. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, which had propped up its old Communist ally with cheap fuel oil, North Korea's creakily inefficient economy collapsed. Power stations rusted into ruin. The lights went out. Hungry people scaled utility poles to pilfer bits of copper wire to swap for food. When the sun drops low in the sky, the landscape fades to gray and the squat little houses are swallowed up by the night. Entire villages vanish into the dusk. Even in parts of the showcase capital of Pyongyang, you can stroll down the middle of a main street at night without being able to see the buildings on either side.

When outsiders stare into the void that is today's North Korea, they think of remote villages of Africa or Southeast Asia where the civilizing hand of electricity has not yet reached. But North Korea is not an undeveloped country; it is a country that has fallen out of the developed world. You can see the evidence of what once was and what has been lost dangling overhead alongside any major North Korean road — the skeletal wires of the rusted electrical grid that once covered the entire country.

North Koreans beyond middle age remember well when they had more electricity (and for that matter food) than their pro-American cousins in South Korea, and that compounds the indignity of spending their nights sitting in the dark. Back in the 1990s, the United States offered to help North Korea with its energy needs if it gave up its nuclear weapons program. But the deal fell apart after the Bush administration accused the North Koreans of reneging on their promises. North Koreans complain bitterly about the darkness, which they still blame on the U.S. sanctions. They can't read at night. They can't watch television. "We have no culture without electricity," a burly North Korean security guard once told me accusingly.

But the dark has advantages of its own. Especially if you are a teenager dating somebody you can't be seen with.

When adults go to bed, sometimes as early as 7:00 P.M. in winter, it is easy enough to slip out of the house. The darkness confers measures of privacy and freedom as hard to come by in North Korea as electricity. Wrapped in a magic cloak of invisibility, you can do what you like without worrying about the prying eyes of parents, neighbors, or secret police.

I met many North Koreans who told me how much they learned to love the darkness, but it was the story of one teenage girl and her boyfriend that impressed me most. She was twelve years old when she met a young man three years older from a neighboring town. Her family was low-ranking in the byzantine system of social controls in place in North Korea. To be seen in public together would damage the boy's career prospects as well as her reputation as a virtuous young woman. So their dates consisted entirely of long walks in the dark. There was nothing else to do anyway; by the time they started dating in earnest in the early 1990s, none of the restaurants or cinemas were operating because of the lack of power.

They would meet after dinner. The girl had instructed her boyfriend not to knock on the front door and risk questions from her older sisters, younger brother, or the nosy neighbors. They lived squeezed together in a long, narrow building behind which was a common outhouse shared by a dozen families. The houses were set off from the street by a white wall, just above eye level in height. The boy found a spot behind the wall where nobody would notice him as the light seeped out of the day. The clatter of the neighbors washing the dishes or using the toilet masked the sound of his footsteps. He would wait hours for her, maybe two or three. It didn't matter. The cadence of life is slower in North Korea. Nobody owned a watch.

The girl would emerge just as soon as she could extricate herself from the family. Stepping outside, she would peer into the darkness, unable to see him at first but sensing with certainty his presence. She wouldn't bother with makeup — no one needs it in the dark. Sometimes she just wore her school uniform: a royal blue skirt cut modestly below the knees, a white blouse and red bow tie, all of it made from a crinkly synthetic material. She was young enough not to fret about her appearance.

At first, they would walk in silence, then their voices would gradually rise to whispers and then to normal conversational levels as they left the village and relaxed into the night. They maintained an arm's-length distance from each other until they were sure they wouldn't be spotted.

Just outside the town, the road headed into a thicket of trees to the grounds of a hot-spring resort. It was once a resort of some renown; its 130-degree waters used to draw busloads of Chinese tourists in search of cures for arthritis and diabetes, but by now it rarely operated. The entrance featured a rectangular reflecting pond rimmed by a stone wall. The paths cutting through the grounds were lined with pine trees, Japanese maples, and the girl's favorites — the ginkgo trees that in autumn shed delicate mustard-yellow leaves in the shape of perfect Oriental fans. On the surrounding hills, the trees had been decimated by people foraging for firewood, but the trees at the hot springs were so beautiful that the locals respected them and left them alone.

Otherwise the grounds were poorly maintained. The trees were untrimmed, stone benches cracked, paving stones missing like rotten teeth. By the mid-1990s, nearly everything in North Korea was worn out, broken, malfunctioning. The country had seen better days. But the imperfections were not so glaring at night. The hot-springs pool, murky and choked with weeds, was luminous with the reflection of the sky above.

The night sky in North Korea is a sight to behold. It might be the most brilliant in Northeast Asia, the only place spared the coal dust, Gobi Desert sand, and carbon monoxide choking the rest of the continent. In the old days, North Korean factories contributed their share to the cloud cover, but no longer. No artificial lighting competes with the intensity of the stars etched into its sky.

The young couple would walk through the night, scattering ginkgo leaves in their wake. What did they talk about? Their families, their classmates, books they had read — whatever the topic, it was endlessly fascinating. Years later, when I asked the girl about the happiest memories of her life, she told me of those nights.

This is not the sort of thing that shows up in satellite photographs. Whether in CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, or in the East Asian studies department of a university, people usually analyze North Korea from afar. They don't stop to think that in the middle of this black hole, in this bleak, dark country where millions have died of starvation, there is also love.

By the time I met this girl, she was a woman, thirty-one years old. Mi-ran (as I will call her for the purposes of this book) had defected six years earlier and was living in South Korea. I had requested an interview with her for an article I was writing about North Korean defectors.

In 2004, I was posted in Seoul as bureau chief for the Los Angeles Times. My job was to cover the entire Korean peninsula. South Korea was easy. It was the thirteenth-largest economic power, a thriving if sometimes raucous democracy, with one of the most aggressive press corps in Asia. Government officials gave reporters their mobile telephone numbers and didn't mind being called at off-hours. North Korea was at the other extreme. North Korea's communications with the outside world were largely confined to tirades spat out by the Korean Central News Agency, nicknamed the "Great Vituperator" for its ridiculous bombast about the "imperialist Yankee bastards." The United States had fought on South Korea's behalf in the 1950–53 Korean War, the first great conflagration of the Cold War, and still had forty thousand troops stationed there. For North Korea, it was as though the war had never ended, the animus was so raw and fresh.

U.S. citizens were only rarely admitted to North Korea and American journalists even less frequently. When I finally got a visa to visit Pyongyang in 2005, myself and a colleague were led along a well-worn path of monuments to the glorious leadership of Kim Jong-il and his late father, Kim Il-sung. At all times, we were chaperoned by two skinny men in dark suits, both named Mr. Park. (North Korea takes the precaution of assigning two "minders" to foreign visitors, one to watch the other so that they can't be bribed.) The minders spoke the same stilted rhetoric of the official news service. ("Thanks to our dear leader Kim Jong-il" was a phrase inserted with strange regularity into our conversations.) They rarely made eye contact when they spoke to us, and I wondered if they believed what they said. What were they really thinking? Did they love their leader as much as they claimed? Did they have enough food to eat? What did they do when they came home from work? What was it like to live in the world's most repressive regime?

If I wanted answers to my questions, it was clear I wasn't going to get them inside North Korea. I had to talk to people who had left — defectors.

Excerpted from Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea by Barbara Demick. Published with permission from Spiegel & Grau.