Author had to use pseudonym while still living under regime
- Toronto Star
- 4 Mar 2017
- Alex Good is a frequent contributor to these pages. ALEX GOOD SPECIAL TO THE STAR
Fiction in the English-speaking world is mostly post-political, perhaps recognizing that it can’t compete with the spectacle of a reality-TV star as president of the United States, and perhaps just because there are so few meaningful differences between the major parties in our democracies.
We have novels that address individual political issues, but few books that are interested in exploring the nature and operation of government and the role of the state in our lives.
The fact that The Accusation is the first work of fiction to be smuggled out of North Korea, and had to be published under a pseudonym (“Bandi” means “firefly”) because the writer still lives there, gives some indication of just how different, and dangerous, a world North Korea is, even beyond headline-gathering incidents such as the provocative firing of missiles or foreign assassinations.
The Accusation takes us across a deep cultural and political border. Even the texture of the writing, which has been translated by Deborah Smith — a British translator of Korean fiction who was a co-winner of the Man Booker International Prize last year — gives us a chilly sense of the Cold War era.
Bandi is a realistic writer, but from a 21st century Western perspective it may seem like he’s describing some dark fantasy set in Mordor, or a futuristic dystopia.
The stories, written between 1989 and 1995, constitute a passionate J’accuse: a political polemic written against North Korea’s communist dictatorship, headed at the time by the “Great Leader” Kim Il Sung (grandfather of North Korea’s current leader, Kim Jong Un).
The picture Bandi draws is unrelievedly grim. His stories have been compared to Solzhenitsyn’s revelation of life in the Gulag system, with the main difference being that in The Accusation all of North Korea has been turned into a giant prison labour camp.
Fear has to be instilled at birth if one is going to survive (a process we see happening in the most disturbing story, “City of Specters”).
It is a state choked by tyranny, “a den of evil magic, where cries of pain and sadness were wrenched from the mouths of its people and distorted into laughter,” “a barren desert, a place where life withers and dies!”
As you can tell from this, the political message is not subtle. The stories make it painfully clear how awful life in North Korea is, with grinding poverty and an economy that at times seems little advanced from the Stone Age. Key themes are the family divided against itself, a world turned upside down and false appearance (or propaganda) vs. reality.
The word “totalitarian” gets thrown around a lot these days, which makes it worth seeing what living under such a regime looks like from the inside.
The essential point is that the party is everywhere, controlling every aspect of the lives of the people we meet, mainly through the operation of an army of minor officials that make up a petty and at times even sadistic bureaucracy. These functionaries are sinister, alien figures, almost impossible for a Western audience to understand. We certainly have our own time-serving bureaucrats and corporate drones, but the party officials in these stories are totally dehumanized creatures of the state. These are people who have lost their souls.
Big Brother is firmly in charge, and black is white, light is dark. This disjunction between truth and lie is hammered home again and again, beginning with a prefatory poem where Bandi talks of communism’s promised “world of light” and how it has resulted in North Korea’s “truly fathomless darkness, black as a moonless night at the year’s end.”
In case you miss the point, which won’t be easy, each story usually winds up with a trumpet blast of climactic rhetoric aimed at the cruelty of the regime and the monstrous hypocrisy of its ideology.
There’s a famous satellite photograph of the Korean Peninsula at night that shows North Korea as an empty gap sandwiched between a brightly lit South Korea below and China above. It’s as though the country is a black hole from which even information cannot escape. The Accusation is an angry book, composed in “pure indignation,” but it shines a necessary light on what remains one of the darkest places on Earth.