My name is Sang. I was born and raised in Pyongyang, North Korea. I don’t remember much of my early childhood. I do remember that my parents would always praise my obedience, and try and swerve me from any aspects of individuality that formed. They say that in a Communist society, everybody is equal. But that’s beyond impossible to practice. My father was an advisor to Kim Jong Il. He was always particularly fond of my father, who always thought three steps ahead. Kim awarded my family, not with a pay raise, but with lavish prizes. In North Korea, money is essentially meaningless seeing that our people don’t make anything of worth. I grew up a spoilt, obedient child.

When Kim Jong Il died, his son rewarded my family’s obedience to the Korean regime with an unlimited shopping pass for pretty much anything. We literally gave away our money, seeing that the government was to now pay our family’s rent for us. We could buy anything we wanted from the internet, courtesy of the taxpayers, and we lived in lavish conditions, thanks to the taxpayers.

I knew how the poor people lived, but I always imagined that that was just how it was. Some people, like me, were born into privileged homes, while some were born into squalor. I never really thought about it myself, the income gap between us and the regular people. Now the images of some people walking down our great capital in practically rags makes me sick, but at the time, I just didn’t know any better.

At around fourteen or fifteen years of age, something happened in me. I became a rebel. No, not the kind of rebel that tries to overthrow governments, I mean I was like your American youth rebels. I started dressing in American punk clothing, the heavy leather jackets and jeans with tears in the front. I started cutting my hair differently, I ditched school often, I listened to alternative music, I was just basically trying to break the laws society. My parents claimed that I was “Too spoilt,” and so they punished me by not letting me buy anything off of the internet. But it didn’t do anything to curtail this wild spin my life was on.

One day, while I was ditching, I went into the lower-class part of Pyongyang. I knew nobody would lay a finger on me, as I was practically royalty. As I was walking down the street, I saw the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She was talking with another girl her age, they were possibly sisters but I never found out. Now, I may have acted bigger than the world, but in reality I was still a stupid, geeky teenage boy. You might have thought that my immense wealth would’ve had my confidence soaring, but no. Mainly because I had been rejected once before, by a girl named Gi. Only a few minutes before, I thought the most beautiful woman I had ever seen was Gi, but I was awestruck by this woman, in a way I had never been with Gi.

I stopped my strut down the street, and went into an alley for a few minutes, debating with myself what to do. I knew if I just let this opportunity slip by, then I’d kick myself for the rest of my days, but I didn’t want another Gi, I didn’t want my heart to be irreversibly wounded. After several minutes of weighing the pros and cons, I eventually decided to go talk to her. But not in my then-current state. I threw away the leather jacket I’d been wearing, turned my jeans backwards so she wouldn’t see the tears, and put my hair down. After I thought I looked presentable, I did what I never thought I could do, and said “Hi.”

She giggled. I didn’t know what to do. Was it because I looked funny? Was it because she saw this smug teenager wearing American-style punk rock clothing and come out looking decent? Was it because I was not good enough for her? I had no idea. But for some reason, when she stopped giggling and saw me still standing there, I didn’t get a well-deserved slap across the face for intruding on her personal conversation.

She appeared flattered by my less-than-subtle entrance into her life. Her friend, or sister, or whoever she was, wasn’t quite as happy. I now had her as my audience, but I didn’t know what to do. I always saw American movie stars pick up women by uttering a few unfunny and overused lines, but in North Korea that was something that would get you a smack across your face.

I stood there awkwardly for a few moments, swaying back and forth, not making direct eye-contact. She was still entertained, giggling at my shyness, but her company was about ready to me a handprint across my cheek. I knew my time was running out, so I simply asked her if she would accompany me for a walk. She looked back at her guest, whom nodded apprehensively. She took my arm and we were off, just wandering off down the road of Pyongyang.

The first few minutes were definitely awkward. My geeky charm had all but worn off, and I knew that this walk would surely not bring me a second date unless we talked.

“My name’s Sang,” I said, nervously. I could feel my arm shaking and sweat beads rolling down my forehead. “What’s yours?”

“Jeoung.” She said. I now had a name to this angel. She said it sheepishly, as though she were somehow intimidated by my presence. I couldn’t see why she would be, though. Sang was a popular name throughout North Korea, and she surely wouldn’t have recognized me just from my first name. If I said my last name, she might have bolted realizing she was talking to an upper-classman. Legally, if I wanted, I could have kept her. Again, strange, I know, but I’ve already had friends who saw beautiful women and had them taken to their homes, either as servants or concubines.

But I could never do that to this woman. As we walked and talked, I realized how wonderful of a person she was. She was soft spoken, but always had something interesting to say when she did talk. She was very humble, but I suppose growing up in communist North Korea, at the bottom of the ladder, you should be. But most importantly, she was just not another North Korean drone.

And when I say that, I don’t mean that most North Koreans aren’t people. They don’t shuffle down the streets mindlessly, but they worship our “great leader” as though he were God. But she was outspoken at the government. She wasn’t afraid to tell me when he did something wrong. She could’ve been taken away for half the things that came out of her mouth.

But I kept it silent, and Jeoung and I saw each other for several months. My parents were happy that I had finally stopped wearing the American punk-clothing and started listening to music with “class” again. They thought my individuality had taken a serious blow. They had no idea how wrong they were.

Most of our “dates” consisted walking around the lower class parts of Pyongyang. Although some parts had breathtaking views, most were slums. I had not told Jeoung of my royalty title, as a woman with as many political opinions as she surely would not see me again. I pretended to not be disgusted, like this was normal. But my face betrayed me on a number of occasions.

I saw people starving, I saw people in tatters, more than once I’ve seen drones of people coming from work with no shoes. Although Jeoung was normally wearing her school uniform, more than once she came to see me in rags. I felt horrible that I couldn’t reveal my social status to her.

Although Jeoung had very strong political views, however, she rarely talked politics. Most of Pyongyang is always bustling with people, so it wasn’t very safe for starters. The only place she could share her opinions was in dark alleys where rats walked among humans with no fear, and even there you had to keep your voices hushed through fear that a guard might intrude on your conversation. But even when we were in secluded spots where it was unlikely people would hear or even see us, she hardly talked politics. She much rather preferred to joke and laugh than to be a serous political talker.

Our relationship was doing good for the both of us. I was spending more time in school to try and impress Jeoung with my expanding vocabulary, and Jeoung now had something to look forward to after her long days at school.

We were nearly together a year, and we had done no more than hold hands. Although in Korean culture the purity of the woman means everything, Jeoung and I were both very western thinkers, and it was surprising we had not at least kissed. Our platonic relationship was working for us, but it was getting old for the both of us. Jeoung had taken me all over the lower class district so many times that I knew it by heart, and I had used so many corny jokes on Jeoung that even the internet failed to give me adequate replacements. Not only were Jeoung and I getting sick of being somewhere between the “friend zone” and the “dating zone,” but the Selection was in a week.

The Selection is a three week long test that every common Korean had to take. It took place in a camp out in the country. It was reportedly manned by only 60 people, 20 teachers, 20 custodians, and 20 cafeteria maids. Although most people interpreted that style as symbolizing the equality that is supposed to come out of a communist regime, I interpreted it as simply the most efficient way to run the camp. I didn’t have to take the selection because of my social status, and it was decided at birth I was to be a politician.

Everybody in Korea knew the basics of the Selection, the first week was to asses mathematical and scientific intelligence, the second week was to asses Korean and other foreign languages (excluding English and all European and Latin American languages), and the third week was to test physical endurance and artistic capabilities. To reveal anything more than that outside of the camp was punishable by death, for both the student participants and the teachers.

Jeoung was very intelligent. She frequently got straight A’s, and had an incredible singing voice. She was bound to get a job beyond common day-laborer, although she was going to be paid the same, as is the way in communist life.

So we said our farewells, and I knew that it was going to be the longest three weeks o f my young life. I vowed to myself that I would kiss her upon her return.

The first week was dreadfully boring. I used the internet far too frequently, and videogames and board games quickly lost their luster. The second week I was lost. Jeoung didn’t want me listening to the radio or watching TV (she frequently referred to them interchangeably as “Propaganda Machines”). The third week was going quickly as I had finally discovered that a good way to pass the time. I wrote to my heart’s content. I wrote short stories, poems, I even started on a novel. Each work of mine was more blasphemous to the government than the last.

Now I only had a day to wait for Jeoung’s return. I had no idea what she was going to say, but I was hopeful that she was going to be the same old Jeoung. I would’ve done more for her than anything else. Most of my writings were romantic, and they depicted how I wanted to treat Jeoung with the backdrop of treasonous messages toward the government.

That’s when I heard about it. It doesn’t happen often in North Korea, but occasionally the government will turn all federally-mandated radios and TVs to announce something major. We then can’t turn down the volume or turn the devices off; we have to listen to what they want us to hear, sometimes at a blaring rate. This was incredibly frightening.

A woman’s voice came on, and she said coldly “Following recent threats from both America and South Korea, North Korea is responding with force. As we speak, Seoul has been turned into a “Ball of fire,” and over 500,000 members of the North Korean People’s Army are flooding across the border to secure the rest of the state.”

I never imagined that we would actually invade South Korea. The North Korean media always said we were being “threatened,” and they were talking about an invasion, but nobody thought they would go through with it.

I knew I had to get out of Pyongyang. The American response would be quick and swift and decisive. I was terrified of the prospect of nuclear weapons being used against us. Surely the Americans would seek retribution for what had happened to Seoul, and they would strike at the heart of the communist dragon. I was hoping that China would support us, but I had my doubts, as there were no signs from TV broadcasts of any support.

I grabbed nearly nothing, just a few boxes of Wheat Thins (we had those over there) and ran onto the streets. I knew that Pyongyang would be a fireball in a matter of hours, and neither my writings nor clothes would help me.

I managed to get out of the privileged district and got to the commoner’s section. Fortunately, there weren’t many guards on patrol, as I suppose that the government had them waiting to repel the inevitable American attack. There wasn’t much chaos on the streets. Almost everybody seemed calm.

I realized that if I ran around like I was missing my head that would draw suspicion from the few guards actually there. I forced myself to a walk, and picked up a paper bag to put my Wheat Thins into so it looked like I was going to enjoy a snack. I walked my way to a part of Pyongyang Jeoung had shown me only once, a place where there was a gap in security around the walls of Pyongyang.

When I got there, I let my nerves come over me. I climbed over and fled into the countryside. I thought somebody was shooting at me, but I must’ve been mistake.

I wandered the countryside for a few days until I was picked up by an American patrol. I found out that Pyongyang was destroyed, but I never found out about Jeoung. It haunts me to this day the unceremonious way I left her to a terrible fate.