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Authors: Eunsun Kim
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some new, clean clothes and then sent us in a taxi that dropped us off in a small village where everything was unfamiliar.
We were shivering the entire journey. But once we arrived at the village, we were put in a small house and provided with food from our guardian angel for three days. I started to recover my strength. It felt so good to be warm again. We stayed in a farmhouse, protected by metal bars. I learned that we were in the middle of Hunchun, one of the important towns of this region that shares a border with North Korea, not very far from the Tumen River. In front of the house, there was no garden, but there was a pigsty where several pigs were grunting and rolling around in the mud. Inside the farmhouse, there were only two rooms. The smaller one was reserved for our saviorâs two children, whom she took excellent care of. In the bigger room, the five of usâKeumsun, my mom, and I; as well as the woman taking care of us, and her husbandâslept on mattresses on the floor.
We felt very luckyâthis woman seemed so generous. After meeting her, I felt my spirits lift. I was anxious about our future, so I clung to her in the hope that she could save us. In the span of just a few days, I had realized that life in China was dangerous for refugees like us, living in hiding. Without our hostess, we would be at risk for the worst dangers, particularly arrest. Furthermore, I could not take the chance of crossing the walls next to the pigsty. Behind the walls was the street, where we risked being denounced. So we snuggled comfortably behind these protective walls. But I quickly started to grow bored, since there was nothing to do and no games to play. All I could do to keep myself entertained was to watch the pigs play around in the mud. At least they didnât have the same worries that we did.
Little by little, the woman earned our trust, and she and my mom started developing a friendship. They talked a lot in the bigger room. Secretly, I listened to them as they spoke.
âI know how to ensure your future,â said the woman one morning to my mother. âYou will be able to live in safety, send your daughters to school ⦠and even obtain a hukou .â
A hukou ? Was it possible? The hukou is a registration document that would grant us permanent residency in China, which would have let us emerge from our lives in hiding.
I listened carefully.
âMarry a Chinese man,â our hostess informed my mother. âYou know, they look like they wouldnât make great husbands, but they have money and will treat you well.â
Mom stayed silent. I was shocked. I listened even more attentively. My mother looked like she was giving this wild proposition some serious thought over the course of their conversation. Our hostess told my mom not to spend too long deciding, and then she gave us a few moments alone to think.
My mom felt a little uneasy as she discussed our options with Keumsun and me. Her thought process was very pragmatic: to survive in this country, she needed to find a job. But how did you find a job without documentation? Getting paid under the table seemed too risky. She also thought it would be better to get married because that would ensure, financially, the education of her two daughters. In China, just like in Korea, society frowned upon a mother living alone and raising her children by herself. If getting married meant obtaining a residency permit, then yes, to find a good husband seemed like the perfect solution to our problems.
At first, I was a bit perplexed by my momâs decision, but I decided that I would respect it and trust her judgment. It was my duty as her daughter, and besides, she knew better than I did what was good for us. Over time, I started to believe as well that marriage was our best chance.
In retrospect, I can say today that this willingness to marry a Chinese stranger might seem difficult to understand, but we were desperate. We wanted to
We were shivering the entire journey. But once we arrived at the village, we were put in a small house and provided with food from our guardian angel for three days. I started to recover my strength. It felt so good to be warm again. We stayed in a farmhouse, protected by metal bars. I learned that we were in the middle of Hunchun, one of the important towns of this region that shares a border with North Korea, not very far from the Tumen River. In front of the house, there was no garden, but there was a pigsty where several pigs were grunting and rolling around in the mud. Inside the farmhouse, there were only two rooms. The smaller one was reserved for our saviorâs two children, whom she took excellent care of. In the bigger room, the five of usâKeumsun, my mom, and I; as well as the woman taking care of us, and her husbandâslept on mattresses on the floor.
We felt very luckyâthis woman seemed so generous. After meeting her, I felt my spirits lift. I was anxious about our future, so I clung to her in the hope that she could save us. In the span of just a few days, I had realized that life in China was dangerous for refugees like us, living in hiding. Without our hostess, we would be at risk for the worst dangers, particularly arrest. Furthermore, I could not take the chance of crossing the walls next to the pigsty. Behind the walls was the street, where we risked being denounced. So we snuggled comfortably behind these protective walls. But I quickly started to grow bored, since there was nothing to do and no games to play. All I could do to keep myself entertained was to watch the pigs play around in the mud. At least they didnât have the same worries that we did.
Little by little, the woman earned our trust, and she and my mom started developing a friendship. They talked a lot in the bigger room. Secretly, I listened to them as they spoke.
âI know how to ensure your future,â said the woman one morning to my mother. âYou will be able to live in safety, send your daughters to school ⦠and even obtain a hukou .â
A hukou ? Was it possible? The hukou is a registration document that would grant us permanent residency in China, which would have let us emerge from our lives in hiding.
I listened carefully.
âMarry a Chinese man,â our hostess informed my mother. âYou know, they look like they wouldnât make great husbands, but they have money and will treat you well.â
Mom stayed silent. I was shocked. I listened even more attentively. My mother looked like she was giving this wild proposition some serious thought over the course of their conversation. Our hostess told my mom not to spend too long deciding, and then she gave us a few moments alone to think.
My mom felt a little uneasy as she discussed our options with Keumsun and me. Her thought process was very pragmatic: to survive in this country, she needed to find a job. But how did you find a job without documentation? Getting paid under the table seemed too risky. She also thought it would be better to get married because that would ensure, financially, the education of her two daughters. In China, just like in Korea, society frowned upon a mother living alone and raising her children by herself. If getting married meant obtaining a residency permit, then yes, to find a good husband seemed like the perfect solution to our problems.
At first, I was a bit perplexed by my momâs decision, but I decided that I would respect it and trust her judgment. It was my duty as her daughter, and besides, she knew better than I did what was good for us. Over time, I started to believe as well that marriage was our best chance.
In retrospect, I can say today that this willingness to marry a Chinese stranger might seem difficult to understand, but we were desperate. We wanted to
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