Song of the Refugee

Joseph*, ready for his first day of middle school, comes back from the school uniform shop, navy suitcoat under his arm. He holds it out to his mom, who checks the sleeve length. She notes that the coat hangs down too far and the sleeves just fit. The "grandma" who'd been leading her in a Bible study reassures her, "The sleeves are just hemmed up really far. They make them like that so the kids can wear them three years and just keep letting the hem out as necessary." Mom looks pleased. This is a precious item of a quality they've not seen before. Joseph tries on the suit coat and models it for us. If my heart wasn't overflowing before, it is then.

For a long time I've wanted to work with North Korean defectors. The moment is a dream come true. I'm giddy with happiness and so is Joseph's mom. She keeps looking at the school supplies I brought along and fidgeting with the package of highlighters. I wonder if it's nerves or disbelief.

She's overcome with wonder and gratitude. How could this volunteer English teacher--and an American, at that!!--be sitting and chatting so amiably in her living room? It is completely unfathomable. Joseph confirms it: "In North Korea, I could never have even imagined having an American as my English teacher." His mom says they've been taught that Americans are to be despised and even pitied. She scoffs at the lies she's been fed all these years.

The pastor, who introduced us, keeps reminding her that I'm doing this because of my faith in God. I like to hear him make the direct connection between my faith and actions. Makes me feel less like an English teacher and more like a missionary. The mom nods but she doesn't know yet what this faith is all about. She never had a chance to learn about Jesus in North Korea.

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The next week, it's just me, Joseph, and his mom. The pastor and grandma can't come, and I worry a bit about how we'll be able to communicate without their help. But by God's grace, we do just fine. It's like magic to me that my Korean key unlocks the door to North Koreans, too.

I teach her how to make spaghetti. The first week when I tried to explain what it was, she got excited: "Aha! It must be like ramen! We eat lots of that!" I'm amazed at how little they know of the Western world.

Joseph's mom pulls kimchi and anchovies out of the refrigerator. "We never had one of these in North Korea," she says. I follow her finger around the kitchen-- the microwave, the rice cooker, the water cooler. "I've had to learn how to use all of these machines since coming here."

Meat sauce with extra chili powder is simmering next to a pot full of boiling spaghetti. Surely she must have had a stove in North Korea. I gesture toward it and ask. "Goodness, no! We had to go to the woods and bring back sticks to make a fire. That's how we cooked every day."

I feel slightly shellshocked. I've seen many documentaries about North Korea, but the apartments in the films, although spartan, looked similar to the ones here. I mention this fact, and she explains that apartments like the ones I'm suggesting are only found in Pyongyang, the capital, and even then, only by the wealthy. I struggle to assimilate the new insight. Is there really such a primitive place so close to here?

We eat spaghetti around a floor table between the kitchen and living room. Joseph sits where he can see the TV, which is hemmed in by pictures of his older brother. His brother was lost in China, probably during the father's escape (the father came first), although I couldn't quite make out the story. Who knows if he's still in China, or if he's been caught and sent back to North Korea, or if he's even alive. What a heartache the mother must carry.

We finish dinner--they loved the spaghetti, by the way. The mom refuses to let me help with dishes, and so I take a seat next to Joseph in front of the TV. I look at the pictures next to it, painful and sobering...And yet, what's that I hear over the din of cartoons? Singing.

Joseph's mom is washing dishes and singing, merrily and loudly, uninhibited in my presence. I want to help her clean up, and yet, how precious this moment is. I relish it: Sitting next to Joseph, watching TV like old pals, and listening to his mom's cheerful song. The song of the refugee.

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Today when I arrive, it's just Joseph there. He's in his pajamas and doesn't bother to change. We sit down and start to study, and then the doorbell rings. I recognize the woman and her young son, and they join us at the table as we continue to study and play English games. The woman says it'd be nice if her daughter would come quickly so she could learn English with us. Curious about who this daughter might be, I ask if she's pregnant (?!). Negative. The daughter is 10 years old and in China. "Oh?" I wonder. "Did you come from North Korea too?" She seems surprised I didn't know.

Class over, Joseph pulls on some pants (right then and there--ha!) and the 4 of us go out for some kimbap. Joseph starts to ask about the U.S. "Is your house big?" he wants to know. "Yes," I say. "Is it really big?" I pause, feeling a bit awkward and yet wanting to be honest. I imagine it from his viewpoint: "Yes, it's really big. But--" I add, "It's cheaper than the apartments here." The woman's mouth drops open. She wants to know how food and clothing prices compare.

On the way back home, Joseph points to a wide 4-story building. "Are houses in the U.S. like that?" I assure him not. "Then how about most houses compared to mine? Are they two times as big? Three times as big?" I think for a second. "Five times as big." I regret saying it and wonder if it's not an exaggeration. Why did I have to be so honest and risk making him feel disillusioned with his own nice apartment? But he doesn't seem to be. He seems merely curious about the far-off land his teacher hails from, and I offer to show him pictures next time.

Joseph's mom is home when we arrive, face bright and smiling, like usual. She's thrilled with the post-it notes we've scattered all over the house, labelling furniture and appliances, doors and windows, with their English names. Joseph asks to play the English games again, and so we play matching and Bingo while his mom takes pictures of us with her phone and texts them to her husband. She's delighted and reminds Joseph, for the umpteenth time, that he has to study hard now.

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On my way home, I realize what makes me so happy to share time with them. I can't help but think they are a chosen people. Any refugees who make it safely out of North Korea (or any destitute land) must be a chosen people. It's literally a second chance at life. Certainly there are intense hardships for defectors here, and I realize that this happy stage they're in could be culture shock's initial high. But weaving among pictures of lost children, more obvious than physical scars, more lasting than malnutrition, there is a song being sung, joyfully and persistently, from the lips of the refugee. It is a song of hope and gratitude. A song that gives thanks for the second chance, the hopeful future, a song that is thankful for the gifts of today, for all the little and big graces that are completely bonuses.

Thinking about it now, we are also a chosen people. Before we knew Christ, we were dead in our sin, a slave to our flesh, and walking in darkness without hope for the future. But now that we know Christ, we are alive and free in Him, and we walk in the light with hope for eternity. In all our trials and suffering, I hope God will give us a song that rises higher and sweeter. A song that makes people realize without a doubt: "They are a chosen people!"

"But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy hation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light." -1 Peter 2:9

*Joseph doesn't even know I've given him an English name, and yet I chose one to protect his privacy and safety. I gave him the name Joseph because I hope in faith that, like the biblical Joseph, God has chosen him from among his brothers to come to this foreign land, to raise him to a position of influence, whereby he might help his brothers when the opportunity arises.