It began with something so simple.
A dream.
Of a city like no city I had ever seen before, no city I could possibly have imagined. A city at night-time, down whose streets I floated, mesmerised, as I stared into the white headlights of cars flooding towards me, red trails following behind, more of them than I thought could be possible. Lines and rows and streams, speeding and blurring and hurrying past and around me and away into some distance, some destination, somewhere.
A dream so vivid.
Where I tilted back my head, and my eyes traced the buildings as they stretched for ever up into darkness, with windows lit orange or yellow or white. Another to my side with slatted blinds, half-drawn curtains, or windows bright with flowers in vases or pictures in frames or potted plants resting on sills.
Around me, red jostled with green on street signs showing me where to go, or pink with blue on shopfronts, flashing neon letters or symbols, advertising cinemas or rooms or food.
A dream so real that as I strolled down the narrow streets, I could breathe in the smells of food drifting from restaurants and takeaways, could taste the sweetness on my tongue without knowing what food it might be, and I could run my hands through the steam rising from cookers and ovens and hotplates, condensation like dewdrops on my skin.
I could hear music blaring from bars as I passed, words I didn’t understand, rhythms thumping in my chest, and I watched people dancing in clothes of all sorts of colours and styles, and I felt the joy in their smiles.
It was magical.
And then I woke up.
I woke up in the depths of our winter; so dark I could barely see my hands in front of my face, so cold frost was forming in my hair.
I didn’t know buildings could be built that high and not fall over, or so many cars could fit on one road without crashing, or music could sound so alive, or clothes could be that bright, or food could be bought in shops and smell so delicious. It had been so real I expected the dew to be still on my fingers and the taste still on my tongue. But there was nothing.
I was sixteen, had never been allowed a permit from the government to leave our village. Didn’t know, had never seen, what lay over the hills and past the fields, or what was at the end of the road that stretched past us, that maybe three cars had driven along since I was old enough to know what a car was.
Maybe beyond us, I thought, in other villages, people have electricity to light their homes at night and the streets around them. Maybe they have enough fuel to keep the fire lit in winter, to stop the windows freezing up on the inside, and to keep the family warm enough so they don’t wake in the morning with lips that are blue and bones that are stiff. Maybe there are places like that somewhere here in North Korea. Maybe our capital, Pyongyang. Maybe that was the city I dreamt about.
I sighed. Maybe it’s a vision our Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, has put in my head. Something He wanted me to see.
On the mat next to me, I heard my father’s covers and blankets move. “Another bad dream, Yoora?” His words disappeared into a yawn.
I rolled over to him. “A strange one,” I replied, and I described to him what I’d seen, with the best words I could summon, when so much of what I’d seen I had no words to describe.
“Do you think it could be real?” I whispered.
For a moment he said nothing. I listened to his breathing slow down and a cough catch in his throat, and I watched the tiniest reflection of light in his eyes as he shuffled over towards me. I felt his warm breath gentle on my face. “Yes,” he whispered in my ear. “Yes, it’s real.”
“Where? Further south?”
His hand took mine and rested it on his head, and I felt him nod slowly up and down.
“Our capital? Pyongyang?” I asked, amazement and excitement prickling at me. “Do you think, do you think that maybe, maybe, if we work hard enough, we’d be allowed to go there?”
He paused again, and I felt him roll over towards Mother, then back to me, and I listened to every breath he took as I waited.
And waited.
With seconds stretching like minutes, like hours, between us.
“Father?” I whispered.
“No, Yoora. Forget your dream, forget I said anything.”
“What?” I reached my hand back to his face and felt wetness on my fingertips.
“No.” He moved my hand, and I heard the rustle of his head moving side to side on the pillow. “Go back to sleep.”
“But…?”
“I said no.” His voice was firm, and as loud as I thought he would possibly dare without waking Mother.
I stared through the darkness, not understanding what had just happened, searching for that twinkle of light in his eye, angry with him, and frustrated. I wanted to sit up and argue with him, demand he tell me where that place was, if it was real.
I reached a hand out to touch him, to make him turn back round to me, but I stopped, thinking of Mother behind him. Why had he looked to her? Because he didn’t want to wake her?
I pulled the covers up to my chin. I can wait, I thought.
And I closed my eyes and brought those images back from my memory, of those people I had seen and food I had smelt and music I had heard. And I hoped they were real, somewhere here in my country, the best place in the world.
“It was a beautiful place,” I whispered across the darkness. “I wish one day we could go there. Together.”
There was no reply.
I woke the next morning, not in wonderment at some sight my imagination had shown me, but in hunger as my stomach rumbled, and in pain as my bones creaked against the cold.
And I remembered the smells of the food.
My body shook as I pulled on my clothes under the blankets, and I padded through from the back room to the other, which served as everything from my grandparents’ room at night, to the kitchen, dining and living room during the day. I rubbed my hands down my body to try and warm up.
An image flashed in front of my eyes of tall buildings that looked like homes, comfortable, warm and welcoming.
I stood in front of the fire Father had lit, but although the troughs and holes and gaps under the floorboards allowed some heat to cross the floor, the air above was cold enough for your breath to form clouds.
I sat down at the table with my parents and grandparents and we gave thanks, as always, to our Dear Leader and His father before him, our Great Leader, for the food He’d provided for our breakfast, our maize porridge. And as we ate, a voice boomed from the speaker in the corner of the room telling us how lucky we were to have the food He provided, how we were so fortunate to live in North Korea, the country that had it so much better than any other in the world.
“Our military strength is the pride of our nation,” the voice continued. “Our farmers are proud to give their produce to the government to feed our military and keep them strong to fight off our oppressors.”
I glanced up and was shocked to see Father pressing his hands against his ears.
“What are you doing?” I asked him. “You need to listen.”
“I have a headache, Yoora,” he told me. “It’s too loud.”
“But that’s so you can listen properly. That’s why there’s no volume control. Or off button, so you don’t