It was Mrs.

Park.

Her voice was thin and wavering, but I knew the song immediately.

Amazing Grace.

The hymn we had sung together in whisper so many times.

One by one, the others joined her.

Sunung min’s voice rose above the rest, strong and clear.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a ratch like me.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Was blind, but now I see.

They sang in Korean, but I knew the English words, too, because Sunung min had taught them to me.

He said they were beautiful words.

Words about being safe, about being found, about seeing clearly for the first time.

The officials were shouting, trying to drown out the singing, but the condemned kept singing.

The officer in charge of the firing squad gave the order.

The soldiers raised their rifles.

The singing did not stop.

The officer gave the second order and the rifles fired.

The sound was deafening.

It echoed off the concrete walls of the stadium.

It seemed to go on forever, though it was really only a few seconds.

I saw my brother’s body jerk back against the ropes.

I saw his head drop forward.

I saw the blood.

I saw all six of them fall silent.

The singing stopped for a moment.

Everything was quiet.

The whole stadium, 1,500 people completely silent.

Then I heard crying.

Hijin had broken down completely, sobbing, clutching the baby.

The children were crying too.

Our mother had collapsed.

Someone was trying to hold her up.

The officer walked to each body and fired one more shot to make sure they were dead.

I stood there in the crowd, my hand pressed against my mouth, biting down hard to keep from screaming.

I was shaking so badly I thought I would fall, but I could not look away.

They left the bodies there on the stage.

The official announced they would remain there for 3 days as a warning to anyone else who thought about betraying the fatherland.

Then he dismissed the crowd.

People started to foul out slowly.

No one spoke.

What was there to say? I stayed until almost everyone had gone.

I could not leave my brother there alone.

Finally, a boy agent started walking toward my section, checking faces.

I had to go.

If I was caught, everything Sunung min died for would mean nothing.

I walked out of the stadium with my head down.

I walked through the streets of Riong Chon.

I walked until I reached the abandoned building where I had been hiding and then finally I collapsed.

I do not know how long I lay there on that floor.

Hours maybe.

I could not move.

I could not think.

I just lay there shaking, seeing the moment over and over again.

The rifles firing.

Sung Min’s body jerking.

The blood When it started to get dark, I forced myself to sit up.

I had to think.

I had to decide what to do.

I could not stay in Ryong Chon.

They would find me eventually.

I had to run.

But first, I had to know what happened to Hijin and the children, to our mother, to the others who had been arrested.

Over the next few days, I gathered information.

I learned that all the families of the executed had been sent to the camps the day after the execution.

Camp 18, just like I had heard.

It was one of the worst camps, a place people did not come back from.

Here, Jyn was there with the three children.

Our mother was there.

Mr.

Cho’s daughters were there, even though they were only teenagers.

I learned that in those camps most people died within a few years from starvation, from disease, from the brutal work, from the beatings.

Children did not usually survive.

I learned that I could do nothing for them.

Nothing at all.

That was when I decided to escape.

Not because I wanted to save myself, but because someone had to tell the world what happened.

Someone had to witness.

Someone had to make sure Sun means death meant something.

So I started making plans.

I contacted people who knew how to get across the border.

I gathered what little money I had.

I prepared to leave my country, my family, everything I had ever known.

I stayed one more week in Ryong Chon.

I do not know why.

Maybe I was not ready to let go.

Maybe I was hoping for a miracle.

On the third day after the execution, I went back to the stadium at night.

The bodies had been taken down, but there was still blood on the stage.

I stood there in the darkness and said goodbye to my brother.

I told him I would tell his story.

I promised him I would make sure the world knew what he died for.

Then I turned and walked away from that place.

I never went back.

I need to tell you about June 30th, 2009.

I need to tell you everything even though there are parts I wish I could forget.

Even though I still wake up some nights with the sound of gunfire in my ears.

Even though 15 years have passed and the images are still as clear as if they happened yesterday.

This is the hardest part of the story to tell, but it is the most important part because this is the part the world needs to see.

The morning was hot and humid, the kind of day where the air feels thick, hard to breathe.

I woke up before dawn in the abandoned warehouse where I had been hiding.

I had barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sungmin’s face on that poster.

bruised and swollen.

I put on the old clothes I had gathered, a worn work shirt that was too big for me, pants with holes in the knees, the head pulled low.

I looked at myself in the broken mirror again and thought, “This is what I have become.

A ghost, a shadow, someone who does not exist.

” I left the warehouse while it was still dark.

The streets were empty except for a few people hurrying to early shifts at factories.

No one paid attention to me.

I walked slowly toward the stadium.

I did not want to get there too early and stand out, but I did not want to be late either.

The boy would be watching for people who tried to avoid the execution.

Absence would be noticed, recorded, punished later.

As I got closer, I saw more people emerging from their homes, families walking together, old people moving slowly, even small children holding their parents’ hands.

We were all walking to the same place, all walking to witness death.

No one spoke.

There was just the sound of footsteps.

Hundreds of footsteps, then thousands, all moving in the same direction like a funeral procession.

The stadium came into view.

It was really just a large open space with concrete rises built up on three sides.

We used it for political rallies, for celebrations on Kim Ilang’s birthday, for public meetings.

I had been there many times before, but I had never been there for an execution.

I had heard about public executions.

Everyone in North Korea had heard about them.

They happened in every province, every city, every town.

The government used them to teach lessons, to show what happened to people who broke the rules, to keep everyone afraid.

But I had never seen one.

And I had never imagined I would see my own brother executed.

The crowd was already large when I arrived.

I would guess more than a thousand people, maybe 1,500.

The boy agents were everywhere, standing at intervals around the stadium watching.

They had clipboards.

They were checking names, making sure everyone who was supposed to be there was there.

I kept my head down and moved into the crowd.

I found a spot about halfway up the risers on the left side, not too close to the front where I might be seen clearly, not too far back where I might look like I was trying to hide.

Around me, people settled into their places.

Some sat down on the concrete, some stood.

A few talked in low whispers, but most were silent.

I looked around and saw faces I recognized.

People from our neighborhood.

People who had known Sunung mean his whole life.

People who had eaten meals at our house, who had borrowed tools from us, who had been our friends.

They would not look at me if they recognized me.

Looking at the family of a condemned person was dangerous.

It suggested sympathy.

It suggested doubt about the state’s judgment.

So I stood there alone in the crowd of 1500 and I waited.

The front rows were filling up with families.

I could see them being escorted in by guards.

They were not there by choice.

The government forced the families of condemned prisoners to watch the executions.

It was part of the punishment.

I saw Hijin before she saw me.

She was carrying the baby and the two older children walked beside her, holding onto her skirt.

A guard was pushing them forward, telling them where to sit.

She looked broken.

Her face was pale and swollen from crying.

Her hair was messy.

Her clothes were dirty.

She moved like someone in a dream, like she was not fully present.

The children looked confused and afraid.

The oldest Sang Minan was crying quietly.

The little girl was clutching her mother’s skirt and whimpering.

The baby was fussing, probably hungry.

They sat down in the second row, right in front of the stage, right where they would have a perfect view of their father’s execution.

Next to them, I saw our mother.

Two guards were holding her up.

She looked like she might collapse at any moment.

Her face was gray.

Her eyes were empty.

I wanted to run to them.

I wanted to hold them and tell them I was there, but I could not move.

I was frozen in place, watching, helpless.

Other families were brought in.

Mrs.

Park’s daughter and grandchildren.

Mr.

Choice teenage daughters crying and holding each other.

The families of the other condemned believers.

All of them forced to watch.

All of them about to see their loved ones killed.

The stadium continued to fill.

By the time the clock struck 9, there must have been close to 2,000 people there.

The largest gathering I had ever seen in Ryong Chon.

At exactly 9:00, we heard the sound of military vehicles approaching.

The crowd went completely silent.

Soldiers marched in first, maybe 30 of them in full uniform with rifles.

They formed lines on either side of the stage.

Then came the officials, party members in their neat suits.

Bovibu officers, the people who had organized this spectacle.

They took their places on the side of the stage, sitting in chairs like they were there to watch a performance.

Then the prisoners were brought in.

They came from a covered truck that had pulled up behind the stage.

Guards led them out one by one, hands tight behind their backs, moving slowly.

Mrs.

Park came first.

She was so small and frail.

She looked like a strong wind might blow her over.

But she walked with her head up.

Then came one of the other men from our church.

Then Mr.

Choy’s wife, then Mr.

Choy himself, then another believer whose name I am not sure of.

And then Smin.

My breath caught in my throat when I saw him.

He had lost so much weight in just one week.

His face was bruised and swollen, worse than in the photograph on the poster.

His left eye was nearly swollen shut.

There was a cut on his lip that had scapped over.

He walked with a limb like maybe his leg or his ribs were broken, but his head was up.

His eyes were clear, and there was something in his expression.

Not defiance exactly, but peace, a calmness that did not make sense.

They lined all six of them up on the stage facing the crowd.

The soldiers brought out six wooden poles and planted them in holes that had already been dug.

The post were about as tall as a man, rough wood.

Behind each post, I could see a dark stain on the stage floor.

All blood from previous executions.

They did not bother to clean it.

One of the officials stepped forward.

He had a loudspeaker and his voice boomed across the stadium harsh and metallic.

He began with the standard speech about the greatness of our dear leader, about the perfection of our socialist system, about the enemies who tried to corrupt and destroy us from within.

Then he started reading the charges.

He called each prisoner by name and listed their crimes.

When he called Mrs.

park.

He said she had been distributing Bibles and holding secret prayer meetings for two years, that she had corrupted the minds of the young, that she was a spy for South Korean and American imperialism.

Mrs.

Park stood there silently, her head bowed while he spoke.

He moved down the line.

Each person had similar charges.

anti-state religious activities, distribution of illegal materials, espionage, corruption of socialist ideology.

When he got to Sunmin, his voice got louder, angrier.

He called Sunmin the ring leader, the pastor of the illegal church.

He said Sunungin had smuggled 147 Bibles into North Korea from China.

That he had held dozens of illegal meetings.

That he had recruited and corrupted 23 citizens.

23.

That was more than I knew.

Sung Min had been reaching more people than he told me.

The official said Sun Min was the worst kind of traitor, that he had sold his soul to foreign powers, that he deserved the severest punishment.

The crowd was absolutely silent.

We knew we were supposed to shout in agreement to condemn the prisoners, but something held us back.

Maybe it was the heat.

Maybe it was shock.

Maybe it was that some people in that crowd knew these were good people, not criminals.

The official seemed angry at our silence.

He shouted louder, demanding that we recognize the justice of what was about to happen.

A few people in the crowd started clapping mechanically.

Others join.

Soon there was scattered applause, not enthusiastic, just the sound of people doing what they were told.

Then the official turned to the prisoners.

He walked down the line, stopping in front of each one.

He asked them if they were ready to confess their crimes, if they were ready to renounce their anti-state activities and begged for the mercy of the dear leader.

He started with Mrs.

Park.

He stood in front of her, the loudspeaker in his hand, and asked if she renounced her religion.

Mrs.

Park was silent for a moment.

I do not think anyone in that stadium was breathing.

Then she lifted her head.

Her voice was weak and shaky.

But I heard every word.

She said, “Jesus is Lord.

” The official’s face turned red.

He shouted at her, “Call her a fool.

Asked her again.

” She said it again, louder this time, “Jesus is Lord.

” He moved to the next prisoner, one of the men from our church.

Same question, same answer.

Mr.

Choice’s wife was next.

She was crying, her whole body shaking.

But when the official asked if she renounced, she shook her head and whispered that Jesus was her savior.

One by one, they all refused.

Every single one of them.

When the official got to Sunung Min, I could see the rage in his face.

He stood right in front of my brother, shouting into the loudspeaker.

Do you renounce your anti-state religious activities? Do you confess your crimes? Do you beg for mercy? Sunung Min looked at him.

Then he looked out at the crowd.

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

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

And when he spoke, his voice was clear and strong.

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

” Jesus words from the cross.

My brother was praying for the people who were about to kill him.

The crowd gasped.

I heard murmurss all around me.

The official looked like he might explode.

He stepped forward and struck Sunung Min across the face with the back of his hand.

Sunung Min’s head snapped to the side.

He staggered but did not fall.

Blood ran from his nose and mouth.

But he straightened up and looked at the official again and he smiled.

I will never forget that smile.

It was not mockery.

It was not defiance.

It was peace.

It was joy.

It was the smile of someone who knew something the rest of us did not.

The official turned away in disgust.

He bucked orders to the guards.

They moved the prisoners to the post and began tying them.

They used rough rope, wrapping it around their chest and arms, binding them tight so they could not move.

Mrs.

Spark was first, then the others, then Sung Min.

I watched as they tied my brother to that wooden post.

I watched them pull the ropes tight.

I watched him wence as the rope pressed against his ribs.

When all six were secured, the official stepped back.

He raised his hand and the firing squad marched forward.

10 soldiers, young men, maybe 18 or 20 years old.

They formed a line about 10 m from the prisoners.

They carried rifles, old models, but they would do the job.

The soldiers stood at attention.

The officer in charge buck and order and they raised the rifles aiming at the prisoners.

And that is when the sinking started.

It was Mrs.

Park.

Her voice was thin and trembling, but I recognized the melody immediately.

Amazing Grace.

She sang in Korean.

The words we had learned from the Chinese Christians.

The words we had sung together in our secret meetings in whispers, always afraid of being heard.

Now she sang them out loud in front of 2,000 people in her last moments of life.

One by one, the other prisoners joined her.

Mr.

Choyy’s voice strong and deep.

his wife’s voice high and clear even through her tears.

The other believers adding their voices.

And Sunung min’s voice rose above all arrest, strong and beautiful.

I had heard him sing this hymn a 100 times in the darkness.

Now he sang it in the light, unafraid, unashamed.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved the wretch like me.

The officials were shouting, trying to drown out the singing.

The officer in charge was yelling at the prisoners to be silent, but they kept singing.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Was blind, but now I see.

The officer in charge of the firing squad gave the first order.

The soldiers adjusted the aim, fingers on triggers.

The singing did not stop.

was grace that taught my heart to fear and grace my fierce relief.

The officer gave the second order.

How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed.

The rifles fight.

The sound was like thunder.

It shook the stadium.

It seemed to split the sky open.

I saw my brother’s body jug backward against the ropes.

I saw his head snap back.

I saw the blood bloom across his chest, dark red against his gray prison clothes.

I saw all six of them fall silent at once.

The singing stopped.

The echo of the gunfire faded, and everything was quiet.

I stood there, my hand pressed against my mouth so hard I tasted blood.

I had bitten through my own lip without realizing it.

My whole body was shaking.

My knees felt weak around me.

People were crying.

Quiet crying, careful crying.

The kind of crying you do when you are afraid of being noticed.

In the front row, Hajjin had collapsed forward, clutching the baby, sobbing so hard her whole body shook.

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

Our mother had fainted.

Someone was trying to revive her.

On the stage, the six bodies hung limp against the ropes.

The officer in charge walked to each one with his pistol drawn.

He fired a single shot into each head to make sure.

When he got to Sunung mean, I had to look away.

I could not watch that.

I had seen enough.

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