Choi and his wife holding hands like teenagers.

Hay Jin, her hand on her swollen belly, her face peaceful.

And I thought, “This is enough.

This moment, this room, these people, this is enough.

” I did not know then that we only had a few weeks left.

That someone in that room had already decided to betray us, that the end was coming fast and terrible and inevitable.

But in that moment, we were happy.

We were a family.

We were the church.

One of the last times I saw my brother before everything fell apart.

We were sitting outside our house late at night.

It was early June, warm and clear.

The stars were out, brighter than you can see them in the cities.

We could hear dogs barking in the distance and the sound of the river.

Sung Min was holding his baby daughter.

She was asleep in his arms, her tiny hand curled against his chest.

He was looking down at her with such love that I felt my throat tightened.

He said something to me then.

He said that he used to think the hardest thing about being a Christian in North Korea would be the fear of death.

But he had realized that was not it.

The hardest thing was knowing that the people you love most might suffer because of your faith.

He said he prayed every night that if the time came, God would take only him, that he would spare Hijin and the children, that he would spare our mother and me.

I told him nothing was going to happen, that we had been careful, that we would be okay.

He smiled at me, a sad smile, and said he hoped I was right.

Then he looked back down at his daughter and whispered something to her.

a blessing, a prayer.

I could not hear all the words, but I heard him say, “May you know the law and may he keep you.

” That was the last normal conversation we ever had.

Two weeks later, they came for him.

The first sign that something was wrong came on a Tuesday morning in mid June.

I remember the day because it was just after the rice planting season and everyone was exhausted from working in the fields.

The air was thick and humid, the kind of weather that makes your clothes stick to your skin.

I was walking to the market when I saw Mrs.

Park, the elderly woman from our church.

She was walking fast, her head down, and when I called out to her, she did not stop.

She walked right past me like she had not heard, but I saw her eyes.

Just for a second, they flicked toward me, and in them I saw pure terror.

My stomach dropped.

I stood there in the middle of the street, people flowing around me, and I knew something had happened.

I went straight to find Sang Min.

He was at home, sitting at the small table in our main room.

Hijin was feeding the children breakfast.

Everything looked normal, but I could see the tension in my brother’s shoulders.

I asked him if something was wrong.

He looked at Hijin, then at the children, then back at me.

He said we would talk later.

That night, after our mother and Hay Jin had gone to sleep, Sunung min told me what he suspected.

One of our group, he would not tell me who, had been acting strangely for the past few weeks, missing meetings, asking odd questions about who else was involved, how many people we were, where we kept the Bibles.

Sunung Min had started to worry that this person might be compromised, that they might be working with the Boue, the Boue, the State Security Department, the secret police.

They were everywhere and nowhere.

They had informants in every neighborhood, every workplace, every family.

They listened to conversations.

They watched who met with who.

They knew things before you knew them yourself.

If someone in our group was informing, we were already finished.

It was just a matter of time.

I asked Sang Min what we were going to do.

He said he had already stopped holding meetings.

He had won the core group.

Mr.

Choy, Hin, a few others he trusted completely.

He told them to stay away, to act normal, to pray and wait.

But he would not run.

I begged him to cross into China to take Hijin and the children and go.

We could all go.

We could escape.

He shook his head.

He said if he ran, it would confirm their suspicions.

They would arrest everyone connected to him.

Our mother, Hijin’s parents, everyone in our church, everyone he had ever spoken to.

Dozens of people would suffer.

But if he stay, if he acted normal, maybe they would decide they were wrong.

Maybe whoever was informing did not have enough evidence.

Maybe we would be safe.

I see now that he was trying to protect us, that he thought if he stayed calm, if he did not panic, he could somehow keep the rest of us safe.

But he was wrong.

The next few days were agony.

Every knock on the door made my heart stop.

Every stranger in the street looked like a secret police agent.

I could not sleep.

I could barely eat.

I watched Sunung Min go about his daily work, going to his job at the warehouse, coming home, playing with his children.

And I wanted to scream at him to run, but he would not.

On the morning of June 23rd, they came.

I was not there when it happened.

I had stayed at a friend’s house the night before.

We had been drinking a little homemade alcohol that tasted like poison, and I had fallen asleep on his floor.

It was the only reason I was not arrested with the rest of my family.

Later, I learned what happened.

I heard it from neighbors who saw.

I pieced it together from whispers and fragments.

They came at dawn when people were just waking up.

Four vehicles, maybe 20 agents from the buoyu and the police.

They surrounded our house and three other houses in our neighborhood.

They pounded on the doors.

They did not wait for people to answer.

They broke the doors down.

They dragged Sunung Min out into the street in his sleeping clothes.

They dragged H Jin out holding the baby.

The two older children were crying, screaming for their father.

Our mother was crying too, begging them to tell her what was happening.

The neighbors who saw it said, “Sung Min did not resist.

He did not fight.

He let them bind his hands behind his back.

He let them push him into the vehicle, but he kept his eyes on Hijin and the children the whole time.

He kept saying something to them over and over.

The neighbors could not hear what it was.

I think he was saying he loved them.

I think he was telling them to be strong.

I think he was praying.

They searched our house.

They tore it apart.

They ripped up the floorboards.

They smashed the walls.

They dug up the courtyard.

And they found the jar, the clay jar with the Bible inside it.

I heard they held it up like a trophy, like they had f evidence of a great crime.

One of the agents was shouting, reading the charges out loud so all the neighbors could hear.

Possession of illegal religious materials.

Distribution of South Korean propaganda, conspiracy against the state.

They arrested Hin too.

They took her even though she was 8 months pregnant.

They took the children, all three of them, including the baby who was not even a year old.

They took our mother, three generations.

By the time I got home, it was midm morning.

I walked into our neighborhood and saw the crowd of people standing around our house.

The door was broken.

The inside was destroyed.

Everything we own was scattered in the street.

I asked what happened.

A woman I had known my whole life looked at me with pity and fear and told me to run.

She said the boy had been asking about me.

They had my name.

They would be back.

But I could not run.

Not yet.

I had to know what happened.

I had to find out where they had taken Sang Min.

I spent the next two days hiding and gathering information.

I slept in an abandoned building at the edge of town.

I begged for food.

I talked to people who might know something.

I learned that they had arrested 17 people that morning.

All members of our church.

They had been planning it for weeks, watching us, gathering evidence.

Someone had given them everything, names, locations, meeting times.

Someone had betrayed us completely.

I never found out who it was.

There were rumors it was a cousin of Mr.

Choy who had recently joined our group.

Others said it was someone’s coworker who had been blackmailed into informing.

It does not matter now.

Whoever it was, they destroyed us.

I learned that Sung Min and the others were being held at the local Boe facility.

I learned they were being interrogated.

I did not learn until much later what that word really meant.

The beatings, the sleep deprivation, the torture.

I learned that Hin and the children had been taken to a different place.

that our mother was with them, that they were going to be sent to a quaniso, a political prison camp.

Camp 18, someone said, or maybe camp 22.

No one knew for sure.

Three generations.

That was the law.

Sunung means crime became his children’s crime, became his wife’s crime, became his mother’s crime.

His son was 6 years old.

His daughter was four.

His baby was 8 months old.

They would grow up in a prison camp if they survived at all.

I cannot describe what I felt when I learned this.

There are no words for it.

It was like someone had reached into my chest and torn out everything inside.

I wanted to scream, but no sound would come.

I wanted to cry, but I had no tears.

I just felt hollow, empty, dead inside.

I thought about turning myself in.

I thought that if I confessed, if I told them everything, maybe they would show mercy to the children.

But I knew that was foolish.

There was no mercy.

Turning myself in would not save anyone.

It would just add one more person to the count.

Over the next week, more arrests happened.

people who had been to our meetings months ago.

People who had spoken to Sunung once or twice.

The boy was thorough.

They were casting a wide net.

I stayed hidden.

I moved from place to place.

A few people helped me.

People who were not Christians, people who just hated the government, people who thought what was happening was wrong.

They gave me food.

They let me sleep in the storage sheds.

They risk their lives for me.

One man told me I should run to China while I still could.

That there were people who helped defectors cross the border.

That if I stayed, I would eventually be caught.

But I could not leave.

Not yet.

Because on June 28, posters went up all over Rong Chon.

Public execution notices.

There were six names on the posters.

Sunung min’s name was at the top.

The execution was scheduled for June 30th, two days away.

The charges were listed under each name.

Enemy of the state.

Antisocialist religious activities.

Espionage for foreign powers.

Distribution of illegal propaganda materials.

There were photographs.

I do not know where they got the photos.

Sunung Min’s picture showed his face swollen and bruised.

His left eye was nearly shut.

There was dried blood on his lip, but his eyes were still clear, still steady, still unafraid.

I stared at that poster for a long time.

People walked past me looking at it, whispering to each other.

Some looked shocked, some looked satisfied, some looked afraid.

Everyone knew that if you showed too much sympathy for the condemned, you might be next.

I read the notice over and over.

The execution would be public.

It would be held in the Ryong Chon Stadium.

Attendance was mandatory for all citizens.

Anyone who did not attend would be questioned.

They were going to kill my brother in front of the whole town and they were going to make everyone watch.

I do not remember walking away from that poster.

I do not remember how I got back to the building where I was hiding.

I just remember sitting on the floor in the darkness, shaking, unable to think.

Part of me wanted to run right then to go to China to escape to save myself.

But a louder part of me said I had to stay.

I had to witness.

I had to see what happened to my brother.

I owed him that much.

I spent the next two days preparing.

I found old clothes that made me look different.

I borrowed a hat from someone.

I covered my face with dirt to change my appearance.

I planned where I would stand in the crowd, far enough from the front that I would not be easily seen, but close enough that I could see everything.

I prayed.

I did not know if God was listening.

I did not know if God cared, but I prayed anyway.

I prayed that Sang Min would be strong, that he would not suffer too much, that somehow, impossibly, God would save him.

But I also prayed for the strength to watch because I knew I had to.

I knew that someday someone would need to tell this story.

Someone would need to bear witness to what happened.

I did not know then that I would be that someone that I would end up here years later telling you all of this.

But maybe God knew.

Maybe that is why he kept me alive when he took everyone else.

The night before the execution, I barely slept.

I lay on the floor of an abandoned warehouse, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows move.

I thought about all the times Sung Min and I had stayed up late talking.

About how he used to tell me stories when I was small and could not sleep.

About how he taught me to fish in the river.

How he showed me how to tie my shoes.

how he protected me from bullies.

I thought about the last time we sat together under the stars, about how he helped his baby daughter, about the blessing he whispered over her.

I thought about the words he had memorized from the Bible and shared with me.

Words about not being afraid.

Words about God being with us even in the darkest valley.

Words about the resurrection and the life.

And I thought about Jesus dying on a cross between two criminals.

Forgiving the people who killed him, promising paradise to the thief who believe.

I did not know if Sung Min thought about those things too in his cell waiting for morning.

I hope he did.

I hope they gave him comfort.

When dawn came, I got up and prepared myself.

I put on the old clothes.

I pulled a hat low over my face.

I rubbed dirt on my cheeks and forehead.

I looked at myself in a broken piece of mirror and barely recognized my own face.

Then I walked toward the stadium.

The streets were full of people, all moving in the same direction.

Some walked quickly, eager to get it over with.

Some walked slowly, dragging their feet.

Some had children with them.

The government wanted even children to see this, to learn what happened to enemies of the state.

No one talked much.

There was just the sound of feet on pavement.

Thousands of people walking to witness six deaths.

I joined the crowd.

I kept my head down.

I did not make eye contact with anyone.

And I walked toward the place where my brother would die.

The stadium was not really a stadium.

It was just a large open area with concrete rises on three sides used for political rallies and public gatherings.

There was a stage at one end.

That is where they would bring the condemned.

I found a spot about halfway up the risers off to the sides.

There were already more than a thousand people there and more kept coming.

The buoyu agents were everywhere watching the crowd.

Care makingaking sure everyone who was supposed to be there was there in the front rows.

I could see families.

I recognized some of them.

The families of the condemned forced to watch their loved ones die.

I saw Sung Min’s wife, Hijin.

She was holding the baby.

The two older children sat on either side of her.

Even from a distance, I could see she had been crying.

Her face was swollen.

Her eyes were red.

Next to her was our mother.

She looked like she had aged 20 years in one week.

Her face was gray.

Her hands were shaking.

I wanted to go to them.

I wanted to hold them.

I wanted to tell them I was here that they were not alone.

But I could not.

If I revealed myself, I would be arrested too.

And then there would be no one left to tell the story.

So I stayed where I was, hidden in the crowd.

And I watched more people came.

The stadium filled 1,500 people, maybe more.

All of us forced to be there.

All of us about to witness murder called justice.

At exactly 9:00 in the morning, soldiers marched onto the stage.

Then the officials came, local party members, Bowie Buu officers, the people who had ordered this.

And then they brought out the condemned.

Six people, their hands tied behind their backs, walking slowly, guards on either sides of them.

I saw Sunung min immediately.

He was third in line.

He was thin.

He had lost weight in just one week.

His face was bruised and swollen.

He walked with a limp, but he held his head up.

Next to him was Mrs.

Park, the elderly woman from our church.

Then Mr.

Choy.

Then Mr.

Chroy’s wife.

Then two other men I recognized from our meetings.

They lined them up on the stage facing the crowd.

Behind them, they erected six wooden posts.

An official stepped forward with a loudspeaker.

He began to read the charges.

His voice echoed across the stadium, harsh and mechanical.

He called each person by name and listed their crimes.

When he got to Sunung Min, he said his name and then said, “Leader of an illegal religious group.

Distribution of 147 Bibles and Christian propaganda materials.

Espionage activities in coordination with South Korean and American hostile forces.

Corruption of the people with superstitious nonsense.

147 Bibles.

I had not known there were that many.

Sung Min must have been smuggling them for longer than I knew.

Must have been distributing them to people I never met.

The official went on.

He talked about how these criminals had betrayed the fatherland.

How they had sold their souls to foreign powers.

How they deserve death.

The crowd was silent.

We had learned to be silent at moments like this.

Then the official asked the question.

He asked each of the condemned if they would renounce their crimes, if they would confess and beg for mercy.

He started with Mrs.

Park.

She was so small and frail, standing there in her thin prison clothes.

The official asked her if she renounced her anti-state religion.

Her voice was weak.

I could barely hear it, but I heard what she said.

She said, “Justice is Lord.

” The official moved to the next person and the next.

Each one said the same thing in one way or another.

They would not renounce.

They would not confess.

They would not beg.

When he got to Sunung, I held my breath.

The official asked him, “Do you renounce your anti-state religious activities?” Sunung looked out at the crowd.

I do not know if he could see Hijgin and the children.

I do not know if he was looking for them, but he looked out at all of us.

And his voice was clear and strong.

He said, “Forgive them, father, for they know not what they do.

” Jesus words from the cross.

Sunung min was praying for the people who were about to kill him.

The crowd murmured.

The officials looked angry.

One of them stepped forward and hit Sunung Min across the face.

He staggered but did not fall.

Then they tied all six of them to the post.

The firing squad marched forward, 10 soldiers with rifles, and someone in that line of condemned believers began to sing.

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