Read Online My Holiday in North Korea by Wendy E. Simmons - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendy E. Simmons
Ads: Link
or socially, or how focused on putting on a show for tourists everyone else is, children will show you the truth. They are who they are, and who they are is a reflection of their country.
I therefore make a point of visiting schools, orphanages, and small communities wherever I travel in the world in order to interact with children. Whether I’m able to play with them, observe their schools, or just take photos and share, it’s an extraordinary way to break down boundaries and barriers, and helps foster communication and understanding at a young age.
So I was excited when we pulled into the parking lot of the Pyongyang School Children’s Palace, the first Children’s Palace we were to visit (I had loaded up heavily on children-oriented activities when planning my itinerary). Our local guide, an adorable, well-mannered little girl who spoke no English at all, guided us up a few flights of stairs, through a long corridor, and down a short hall.
Things went North Korea immediately.
Want to know what it feels like to be ushered into a room of three rows of five young girls, seated, skirts on, legs spread, most wearing protective shoe covers with bows, and each holding a giant accordion? And who, as you enter the room, bust out a tune as if you’ve caught them by surprise?
Well, it feels fucking strange.
After having the same, “Oh, you just caught us in the middle of practicing this song (or routine) perfectly” experience five or six more times, I’m starting to suspect the obvious: that they knew I was coming, that my visit’s been staged, that they’ve likely been practicing this routine for years. They’re all just waiting for tourists like me (and Party leaders) to arrive so they can perfectly perform their routines, and if there are any mistakes made, DISCUSSIONS will ensue.
When we visit a calligraphy class filled with (I was told) three- and four-year-olds whose work would put the Great Masters to shame, the gravity of the situation becomes clear.
These palaces aren’t large, splendid houses for leisurely learning; they’re extracurricular-activity jails.
Children are assigned their activity or skill in the same way they will be assigned a job later in life. He’ll be a singer, she’ll play the accordion, and they will practice every single day of their lives.
Are the children of the Palace complicit in the grand ruse, or are they just having fun? They may be slaves to arts and culture, but at least they’re saved from tilling fields. And how are their circumstances all that different from those of pageant children with their crazy moms, or budding young gymnasts who choose to forgo normal childhoods for Olympic dreams? Questions, as always…without answers, as usual.
I’m not enjoying the Children’s Palace as much as I expected.
After an interminable variety show and musical performance by the Children’s Palace’s best and brightest, I’m ready to go. North Korea is the greatest country on Earth, score one. Children are the truth of a country, score zero.
We drive to Pyongsong and spend the night in a hotel where I’m asked upon arrival to tell them what time I would like running water in my room. I think carefully before deciding, because I’m only given a half-hour window. At my appointed time, there is no water. I’m too tired to care.
The next morning, after we tour Pyongsong’s Central Square, some monuments, the Paeksong Revolutionary Site, and the Paeksong Food Factory, we drive to the Kim Jong-suk High School for an interaction I hope will resemble something closer to truth.
After we pull into the driveway and get out of the car, I spy a few young boys peeking out of various school windows at us—the brave ones, perhaps. When I wave hello and snap a photo, they all quickly jerk back inside before popping their heads out again. I am playing peekaboo, albeit with high school boys instead of toddlers. Apparently the behavior is universal. Even in North Korea.
The
I therefore make a point of visiting schools, orphanages, and small communities wherever I travel in the world in order to interact with children. Whether I’m able to play with them, observe their schools, or just take photos and share, it’s an extraordinary way to break down boundaries and barriers, and helps foster communication and understanding at a young age.
So I was excited when we pulled into the parking lot of the Pyongyang School Children’s Palace, the first Children’s Palace we were to visit (I had loaded up heavily on children-oriented activities when planning my itinerary). Our local guide, an adorable, well-mannered little girl who spoke no English at all, guided us up a few flights of stairs, through a long corridor, and down a short hall.
Things went North Korea immediately.
Want to know what it feels like to be ushered into a room of three rows of five young girls, seated, skirts on, legs spread, most wearing protective shoe covers with bows, and each holding a giant accordion? And who, as you enter the room, bust out a tune as if you’ve caught them by surprise?
Well, it feels fucking strange.
After having the same, “Oh, you just caught us in the middle of practicing this song (or routine) perfectly” experience five or six more times, I’m starting to suspect the obvious: that they knew I was coming, that my visit’s been staged, that they’ve likely been practicing this routine for years. They’re all just waiting for tourists like me (and Party leaders) to arrive so they can perfectly perform their routines, and if there are any mistakes made, DISCUSSIONS will ensue.
When we visit a calligraphy class filled with (I was told) three- and four-year-olds whose work would put the Great Masters to shame, the gravity of the situation becomes clear.
These palaces aren’t large, splendid houses for leisurely learning; they’re extracurricular-activity jails.
Children are assigned their activity or skill in the same way they will be assigned a job later in life. He’ll be a singer, she’ll play the accordion, and they will practice every single day of their lives.
Are the children of the Palace complicit in the grand ruse, or are they just having fun? They may be slaves to arts and culture, but at least they’re saved from tilling fields. And how are their circumstances all that different from those of pageant children with their crazy moms, or budding young gymnasts who choose to forgo normal childhoods for Olympic dreams? Questions, as always…without answers, as usual.
I’m not enjoying the Children’s Palace as much as I expected.
After an interminable variety show and musical performance by the Children’s Palace’s best and brightest, I’m ready to go. North Korea is the greatest country on Earth, score one. Children are the truth of a country, score zero.
We drive to Pyongsong and spend the night in a hotel where I’m asked upon arrival to tell them what time I would like running water in my room. I think carefully before deciding, because I’m only given a half-hour window. At my appointed time, there is no water. I’m too tired to care.
The next morning, after we tour Pyongsong’s Central Square, some monuments, the Paeksong Revolutionary Site, and the Paeksong Food Factory, we drive to the Kim Jong-suk High School for an interaction I hope will resemble something closer to truth.
After we pull into the driveway and get out of the car, I spy a few young boys peeking out of various school windows at us—the brave ones, perhaps. When I wave hello and snap a photo, they all quickly jerk back inside before popping their heads out again. I am playing peekaboo, albeit with high school boys instead of toddlers. Apparently the behavior is universal. Even in North Korea.
The
Similar Books
