I had been in Japan three months when the boat appeared off shore. I was standing on the beach, watching the strange vessel. It was painted red, with a strange flag at the helm.

Despite my rudimentary grasp of Japanese kana, I could not figure out what the symbols meant. They were rounder, without the slick artistry of Japanese kanji.

Naoko, my host sister, gripped my hand and said we needed to move. She whispered only one word to me, “Korea.”

I had heard the stories told about the abductions from Kashiwazaki, Niigata. There were still ghost stories told by children, saying that if you stood on the beach for too long then a ship would appear. With the North Korean ships appearing without people in them, rumors of people trying to escape, it wasn’t a shock.

I was sixteen and didn’t want to hang around to find out what the ship was filled with. Dead bodies? Ghosts? Or worse, living soldiers. Naoko seemed to think the same way, pulling me across the wet sand. We were wearing the wrong shoes, the wind tearing at us.

We didn’t make it up the hill.

We were grabbed from behind. Bags were placed over our heads. We were dragged screaming down the white sands, into some sort of boat. There we spent a grueling ten minutes crying to ourselves, cloaked in dark cloth.

Naoko grasped at my hand, her voice muffled. Then her fingers left mine and I heard the angry voices of the men. There was a splashing sound and I screamed. “No, no, don’t throw her over. Don’t.”

Her hand returned to mine after a moment, her hand wet. She leaned into me, soaking my shirt. They had tried to drown her, I knew then. These men were serious and we would not live long—or so I feared. It didn’t occur to me that they had listened, that they did this to make me happy. Out of fear? Or admiration? I could never decide. They were brainwashed to believe anything the dead leader said.

Xxx

I do not like to think about the travel to North Korea. It was filled with sickness, raw fish, and no showers. We were on a small boat, filled with men who didn’t know how to sail. Soldiers given a floating hell-hole to bring me back to North Korea.

Naoko was not taken from me, I would become hysterical if they even touched her. I think our skin would have been grafted together if we were allowed. Still, by the time we made it back to North Korea, we smelled like death and the sea.

The first thing they did was allow us to bathe. We were given two women to aid us, but I didn’t want them to touch us. They seemed fearful that I would turn on them, their slim faces young and horrified. I wondered if they were there to serve other needs, and just thrust upon us like some sort of harem girl.

Still, in the bathroom Naoko faced the door while I showered. I did the same for her, putting on the clothing given to us. We brushed our hair and teeth, feeling grateful for just a moment. Still, Naoko and I were uncertain of our fate.

In the weeks we had been on the ship, we spoke to one another. We made sure we could understand, because no one else could talk. There was an almost desperation to the way Naoko swallowed English words and threw up complex, fearful statements. It was hard to make her understand. There was nothing left to do but speak to one another and make plans.

I knew very little about North Korea, Naoko just as useless on the topic. She knew people had been kidnapped, hundreds maybe. Only thirteen were officially admitted (all Japanese).

“Sometimes… people go, they disappear,” Naoko said. “People like us.”

“Why would they want us?” I asked.

“They… like girls?” Naoko told me.

I feared we would be raped and left for dead. Or worse trapped in one of those labor camps. Maybe we would even be forced to marry some old men and have their children.

All I had heard about North Korea was terrifying. I read an article about Kim Jong Un’s old girlfriend being executed for “porn.” When I told this to Naoko, she laughed.

“Where would porn come from?” she asked.

I had to agree. In a country so void of possibility, no one would risk dying. Even breathing was death, there, I feared. The things I knew about my new “home” were slim.

They worshipped a dead ruler.

Disrespect, even in the slightest, would end in death.

Then there were the stories I had heard on the news. A man had been sentenced to 15 years hard labor for stealing a political poster. Technology didn’t exist. I had seen articles of people who snuck in cameras, trying to show the sparse unhappiness of this place. This place where I might never leave.

Naoko and I waited, fearful, rotting in our own clothes. We built up a tolerance to our fear of death, already feeling like we were walking corpses.

I told Naoko about my family, about how I just wanted to go home, how I was afraid they would say I was dead. Naoko told me the same. So by the time we got our showers in that bathroom, we almost had no more fear left to share. We just hoped we would be killed before we were forced into some weird life of labor.