Peter Murphy
How I Escaped from North Korea
And the crucial role the Chinese church played.
In
some ways, I imagine growing up in North Korea is like growing up
anywhere else. I had a father and mother who rarely failed to show me
love, and my older sister looked after me constantly. I caught
dragonflies with friends and waited with excitement for cartoons to come
on TV.
Then, in 1995, the worst of the Great Famine descended on the land, and the privileges of my childhood were stripped away.
When I was 12 years old, my father died of starvation. Our house was
taken away to repay a debt we owed a family friend. That year, my mother
fled to China with my sister in search of food and money. She returned a
few months later, alone. She had sold my sister into bride slavery, a
common fate for young North Korean refugees. My mother believed it would
be a better life for my sister than the one waiting back home.
I don’t know that she even knew what sex trafficking is; most brokers
highlight the benefits of being married to a Chinese man. She was hardly
the only North Korean who had to make these kinds of impossible
decisions. She continued to secretly travel to and from China until she
was caught by the North Korean government and put in prison.
With my whole family gone, I lived on the streets. And the possibility
of ever being loved started to fade for me. Before I had a chance to
decide who I was on my own terms, my identity was defined by others:
homeless, orphan, beggar. When I approached people in the food courts in
the city markets, they would swat me away like a fly. No one said, “I
see how weary and hopeless you must be.”
Look Up
At age 15, I faced a choice: I could either starve like my father, or
flee the country and hope to secure a better life outside its fortified
borders. Between the certainty of death and the chance of survival, I
chose survival.
I had heard that most North Koreans tried to cross the border into
China during the night, so I planned my escape for midday in February
2006. I slipped down the banks of the Tumen River, coated my shoes in
sandy silt for traction, and raced across the river’s icy surface to the
far shore. It was a miracle that I made it.
I fled full of hope. I was sure I would have no difficulty finding
food. I imagined Chinese families handing me their leftovers, as a bowl
of rice was nothing for them. But once in China, reality hit. Almost no
one wanted to share with me. They were irritated simply by my request
for leftovers. I was so confused. This was not what I believed people
were like.
For a few weeks, I was barely able to beg enough to survive. Then an
elderly Chinese Korean woman approached me. “I am so sorry—there is
nothing I can offer,” she said. “But you should go to a church.” She
told me to look for a building with a cross.
I had seen a red cross on the gates of a hospital in North Korea. I had
no idea what a cross had to do with church, but I followed her
directions to a corner. I saw a few buildings, but none bore a red
cross.
I stopped a man walking by. “Where can I find a cross?” I asked. “Look up.” And there it was.
This was my first time inside a church. It was late in the evening, and
a few men lingered in the modest building. “I am from North Korea,” I
said. “I don’t know anyone here and need help.” One of the men gave me
20 yuan (about $3) and told me that was all they could spare.
From that town in the northernmost part of China, I made my way to
Yanji, then to Tumen City. I wandered around until I found another
church. On the wall were written these words: Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
A neatly dressed woman greeted me with a smile—despite the fact that I
had not showered for weeks. “How may I help you?” she asked. I felt I
needed to add urgency, so instead of giving her my usual speech, I lied.
I told her I was on my way to meet my sister in another town and needed
means to get there. The woman asked me to wait in the lobby. She came
back with 50 yuan ($8) and wished me luck. It was the most cash I had
ever held in my hands.
A few days later, I returned to the church, imagining I would receive
another 50 yuan. This time, church members offered to let me stay
temporarily. This was better than what I expected. I had been sleeping
in a windowless abandoned house during winter; sleeping in an actual
room with a blanket was enticing. I agreed to stay.
A week later, I ran into the woman who had given me 50 yuan. It turned
out that she was the pastor’s wife. I was scared that she would scold me
for lying and kick me out, but she let me stay. One afternoon, I heard
members of the congregation discussing how the pastor had bad teeth but
couldn’t afford dental treatment. I thought that the lady had given me
the yuan because she had money to spare. In that moment, I realized how
much 50 yuan was for her family.
Her generous act sparked my curiosity about God. She looked so similar
to all those who had refused to give me leftover rice, yet she was
different. I started to read a Bible to know what she believed. Despite
my sincere desire to learn, I couldn’t understand it. The vocabulary,
the concept of heaven and hell—none of these made sense to me. Still, I
kept wondering about her faith.
In China, hosting a North Korean refugee is illegal, and this church
had already sheltered me for more than two weeks. I couldn’t stay
forever. One of the members located an elderly Korean Chinese woman
living in another city who was willing to take me in. She was a devoted
Christian who let me call her “Grandma.” I didn’t know how to pray, but
she encouraged me to read the Bible and taught me hymns to sing. She
gave me a new name: Joseph.
My first prayer to God was said in China, the night Grandma introduced me to a hymn:
Father, I stretch my hands to thee,
No other help I know;
If thou withdraw thyself from me,
Ah! Whither shall I go?
That night I prayed, God, I don’t know who you are or whether you exist as the Bible and Christians claim. But I need your help.
A few months after I moved into Grandma’s home, I met a South Korean
missionary who runs an underground shelter for North Koreans. Later that
year, an activist helped me relocate to the United States. I arrived in
2007 as a refugee and began attending high school in Richmond.
Different obstacles overshadowed me there. I couldn’t understand a
single word of my classes or classmates and I could barely keep up with
the stream of cultural differences. But because I was still relatively
young, I was able to learn English. I graduated in four years, and am
now attending college in New York City. I attend a church in Manhattan
to learn more about God and his world.
The hymn Grandma taught me put into words what my heart needed to say. I
had been alone in the world. At any moment, the authorities could have
arrested me and sent me back to North Korea to starve. I felt there was
no one to look after me, no one who could help. What would happen if God
withdrew himself from me too?
But what was God’s help if not the churches that sheltered me or the
woman who gave me the 50 yuan she couldn’t spare or the elderly
Christian who gave me my new name? Fleeing to China, I had lost hope in
human goodness. Finding Christians there, I found that hope again.
Caring for strangers, acting compassionately without expecting anything
in return: That is the beauty of humankind. That is the beauty of the
gospel.
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