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Under the Moonlight by the Drainage Ditch… What He Saw Was North Korea’s Hunger
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“He was like a young prince of the North,” the man answered.
“I saw him on North Korean television. At first, he looked awkward and uncertain, like a boy who had inherited too much power too early. When he inspected the military, he hesitated — shyly shaking hands with soldiers and officers. But after some time, the awkwardness vanished, and arrogance set in.”
He began to speak cautiously about the early instability of Kim Jong-un’s regime.
“I overheard State Security agents talking when I was at the guesthouse. They said the saxophonist from the Unhasu Orchestra was purged. He had secretly filmed Kim’s lover. I also saw a TV news story: a female traffic officer became a ‘hero’ for reporting a bomb planted along Kim’s motorcade route. Someone had tried to kill him.”
My wife asked quietly, “What about North Korea itself? What did you see with your own eyes?”
“I was first taken to Hoeryong for questioning. It’s freezing in Hamgyong Province, but the interrogation room was warm. Later, I stayed in a guesthouse — a four-story motel-like building. Every meal came with ten side dishes. But the meat… it was just a few small pieces of beef, pork, or chicken. They served alcohol, North Korea’s finest cigarettes. They treated me well, and the officer in charge asked me to write something criticizing South Korea’s inequality.”
When he mentioned “Hoeryong,” my heart skipped a beat. “That’s my parents’ hometown,” I said.
He nodded. “I wasn’t allowed to move freely. But sometimes I got permission to go out. It looked like a rural Korean town in the 1950s or 60s. They say Pyongyang is modern now, but the countryside isn’t. People on the streets looked hungry. Their clothes were tattered and shiny at the elbows from wear. Their hair was greasy, and dandruff covered their shoulders. When I gave someone a pack of cigarettes, they bowed deeply in gratitude. The land was desolate.”
The Hoeryong my mother had described was different. She had told me about cherry blossoms covering Osan Hill in spring, petals falling like snow. She’d worked at the small, picturesque Hoeryong station. I wondered if that world still existed.
“At the guesthouse, the food improved after I complained,” he continued. “I told them, ‘In Seoul, you can eat as much meat as you want. Why only a few scraps here?’ The next day, they brought me a mountain of grilled pork. I couldn’t finish it. When I stopped eating, the staff pounced like starved animals. They said it was all because of U.S. sanctions.”
He fell silent, eyes fixed on the window as if recalling something vivid.
“But the real shock came that night.”
His voice lowered.
“I was on the third floor. I often woke up at night with insomnia. Around 2 a.m., I got up to use the bathroom. There was a window at the end of the hallway. That night, the moon was bright. I happened to look down.”
He paused, drank a sip of water.
“There was a drainage ditch in the courtyard — about 50 centimeters wide. During the day, kitchen wastewater flowed through it. But that night, it was dry.”
He looked into the air, as if replaying the memory.
“Something moved in the moonlight. At first, I thought it was a dog. But when I looked closer… it was a person.”
I held my breath.
“A man was kneeling in the ditch. Under the pale moon, I recognized him. He worked at the guesthouse. He was… eating.”
My wife gasped.
“I rubbed my eyes. But it was real. He was eating leftover food from the ditch — my leftovers. It was more pitiful than watching a stray dog rummage through garbage.”
His voice broke slightly.
“I opened the window wider. The hinges creaked. The man jerked his head up. Our eyes met in the moonlight.”
“What… what was his expression?” I asked.
“Fear. Pure fear at being caught.”
We sat in silence.
“For about 10 seconds, we just stared at each other. He froze. I couldn’t move either. Then he hugged the bowl tight to his chest and disappeared into the shadows — not running, just stumbling quickly. If he ran, the food might spill.”
He covered his face with his hands.
“The next morning, that man came to my room. His eyes were pleading: ‘Please don’t tell anyone.’”
“You didn’t report it?” my wife asked.
“How could I? He was just hungry. He was human.”
A bitter smile crept across his face.
“That night, I realized — in North Korea, everyone is hungry.”
He glanced at the rice bowls on the table, the leftovers none of us had finished.
“Even just the discarded food from a convenience store in South Korea would feed so many,” he whispered, voice trembling.
#NorthKoreaHunger #HumanRights #WitnessTestimony