Escape From The Sun

Chapter 4: Social Status

North Koreans are segregated by what we call songbun's. It is a traditional feudal system that divided people into different classes. We were separated into our classes after my great grandfather, the Great Leader Kim Il-Sung ordered background checks the moment he came into power. The one's with the highest songbun's were usually honored revolutionaries or party members, people who had ancestors or relatives who had fought or died for the North, and those with great loyalty to the cult of Kim, and help retain the power of the Kims.

Second class were made up of basic or uncertain classes of people, those who had lived in or had family in the South. The lowest of low were called 'hostiles', descendents or capitalists of former South Korean soldiers, or other religious followers. Even if you were in a higher songbun, should any family member no matter how distantly related commit a crime and become a prisoner or suspected, you would fall into his class. It is easy to fall in class, but difficult almost impossible to rise in songbun.

For me, my mother's initial status as a performer would've had me in the lowest songbun, had it not been for my connection to my father. Song Rinam's beauty had captured Kim Jong-Un's attention, and for all of a month, before she was cast aside. Mother rarely spoke of her time with him, but what she repeatedly told me was how I should be grateful, for despite being cast aside, Leader Kim made it a point to ensure my mother was fed once she got wind to him of her pregnancy.

I was told that I was born in a shanty shack, but with the assistance of the private doctor to the Kim's. Much of our lives was a gray area, so much so that even our neighbors and friends didn't know how to perceive us. This was because while we often lived and clothed in areas that were more commonly populated by those of the lower songbun's, we were given rations equivalent to middle class songbun's, delivered weekly. When the Arduous March occured, our rations dwindled to monthly deliveries, but if compared to our neighbors who subsisted on insects and with close to no water, we were considered lucky.

This gray area of confusion followed me, even up till when I attended Kim Il-Sung University. People who were given the chance to attend were mostly of higher class or middle class songbun's. Their choice of studies were also dependent on their social class. As such, the way and hierarchy within the tertiary institution ended up being quite similar to that of a high school hallway. The ones who enrolled under natural sciences, as well as the students of international relations, law, and politics, were mostly of the highest of songbun's. They are the ones who would be doctors, politicians, lawyers and such within North Korea. The students of these studies were then akin to the jock's and cheerleaders of the institution. We often had to bow our heads and keep out of their way within hallways, corridors, mealtimes and on grounds.

My course of study was the ones usually given to the average, middle class North Koreans who had the capability to continue on to tertiary education, yet not good enough to be able to choose what they wanted to study. My coursemates were destined to be just as average as their parents, and so would their children, and their children's children. The society in North Korea was made in such a way that even through hard work, there was no way we could improve our songbun, unless someone made an advantageous marriage. But even so, it was considered bad form and bad luck to marry someone of a lower songbun then yours.

My attending the university was enough to ensure my campus mates that I was of acceptable songbun, but what threw them off was how despite me being enrolled into a course considered for the middle-class songbun, I was sent to campus everyday in a car, a privilege usually reserved for those of the highest songbun. To top it all off, those of high songbun's also often stayed within the campus grounds in student dormitories. Because of that, people often wondered on the identity of Song Suu Ji. Even my lecturers treated me with due respect, but I knew they were at a loss of how to treat me. I made friends, of course, but not any I would call extremely close. People were wary of me. My history was not made known to anyone, for my father had ensured that the car that delivered me was unmarked. People in North Korea generally travelled by foot or bicycle as well, so it was unlikely anyone would see me returning to Ryongsong Residence at the end of a school day.