Your Life at Every Level Of Power in North Korea

Level one, the hostile class. You are

born with a number, not a name that

matters. A number in the Song Boon

system. This is North Korea's cast

system. It determines everything about

your life before you take your first

breath. Your grandfather fought for the

South during the Korean War. Or maybe he

owned land before the Revolution. Or

maybe he was a Christian. Or maybe he

was a merchant, an intellectual, someone

who asked too many questions. Whatever

he did, his crime is now yours. You are

in the hostile class, the lowest of the

low. 25% of the population lives here

with you. You will never leave your

village in the mountains. You will never

see Pyongyang. You will never go to

university. You will never join the

party. You will never travel abroad. You

will never own anything of value. You

will work in a coal mine or a collective

farm until your body gives out. Then you

will die and your children will take

your place. Your food rations are

smaller than everyone else's. When the

famines come and they come often, you

are the first to starve. In the winter,

you eat bark soup. You boil tree bark

and grass and corn husks to fill your

stomach. You catch rats and consider

them a luxury. Your children look at you

with hollow eyes. You have nothing to

give them. Some people in your class

disappear. They said something wrong.

They looked at a portrait of the Supreme

Leader with an expression that someone

interpreted as disrespectful.

They listened to a South Korean radio

broadcast. They tried to cross the river

into China. They are sent to the

camps.Wan Leo political prison camps. No

one comes back from the camps. You've

heard the rumors from the guards who

drink too much. Whole families vanish.

Three generations punish for one

person's mistake. grandparents, parents,

children, all sent to dig in the mines

until they die. You keep your head down.

You work 16 hours a day. You don't ask

questions. You don't think questions.

You hope that one day, maybe in a

hundred years, your descendants will be

allowed to be human. Level two, the

wavering class. You are in the middle.

Not loyal enough to be trusted, not

disloyal enough to be eliminated. Your

family has no obvious crimes, but also

no obvious heroes. Maybe your father was

a simple factory worker. Maybe your

mother was a school teacher who said

something critical once decades ago and

someone remembered. The state isn't sure

about you. So, you are watched. Not as

closely as the hostile class, but

watched. You can work in a factory in a

small city. You can become a teacher or

a nurse or a low-level clerk, but you

will never work in Pyongyang. The

capital is reserved for the loyal. You

will never travel abroad. You will never

see your file, the one that determines

your entire life. It sits in a

government office somewhere filled with

reports from informers, observations

from party officials, assessments of

your ideological reliability.

You just know that some doors are

closed. Your rations are adequate when

times are good. You have electricity a

few hours a day, maybe. You have a small

apartment with a portrait of the Supreme

Leader that you must keep spotlessly

clean. Dust on the great leader's face

is a political crime. You report to the

neighborhood watch committee, the inm.

They know when you come home. They know

who visits you. They count how many

bowls you have, how many pairs of shoes.

They know if you're hiding anything.

Once a week, there are self-criticism

sessions. You stand in front of your

neighbors and confess your ideological

shortcomings. You didn't study the

Supreme Leader's teachings hard enough.

You were late to the factory. You had a

selfish thought. You envied your

neighbors radio. Everyone confesses

something. The ones who confess nothing

are the suspicious ones. The ones who

confess too much are also suspicious.

You must confess exactly the right

amount. Level three, the core class. You

are trusted. Your grandfather was a

revolutionary. He fought the Japanese

occupation. He marched with Kim Song

across the frozen Yaloo River. His

loyalty runs in your blood. At least

that's what the state believes. You live

in a decent apartment in a regional

city. You have a television. It receives

only the state channel, but you have it.

You watch the news every night. The same

triumphant reports about record harvests

and factory production and the Supreme

Leader brilliant guidance. You have a

refrigerator even though the power goes

out so often that keeping food cold is a

gamble. You can apply for a bicycle

permit. A bicycle is a luxury. You can

visit relatives in other provinces with

the right paperwork. If you apply weeks

in advance, and explain exactly why you

need to travel, your children can go to

university if they study hard, pass the

ideological tests, and show proper

revolutionary spirit. University means a

better job, better rations, maybe even a

posting in Pyongyang. You are not rich,

but you are stable. You have food when

others don't. You have a future when

others have only survival. You are

grateful to the supreme leader for

everything you have. You have been

taught to be grateful since the day you

were born. Every meal, every piece of

clothing, every breath of air is a gift

from the party. You believe this. You

have to believe this. The alternative is

unthinkable. The alternative means

everything you have built, everything

your grandfather fought for was a lie.

Level four, the party member. You join

the Korean Workers Party. This is the

first real step into the elite. Only 10%

of the population is allowed in. You had

to be recommended by existing members

who vouched for your loyalty. You had to

prove yourself through years of

voluntary labor, unpaid work for the

state. You had to memorize the teachings

of the Supreme Leader, his father Kim

Jong- and his grandfather Kim Il Sung.

You can recite the history of the

revolution. You know every battle, every

hero, every enemy, every victory against

the imperialist Americans and their

puppet regime in the South. Now you have

access. You can shop at special stores

where they have goods that ordinary

citizens have never seen. Imported

fruit, real coffee, chocolate, medicine

that actually works. You get better

housing in a better neighborhood. You

get a party ID card that opens doors,

literal doors that are locked to

everyone else. But with access comes

responsibility. You must attend party

meetings every week, sometimes more. You

must contribute money from your salary.

You must volunteer for political

campaigns. You must recruit others and

guide their ideological development. You

must report disloyalty. If your neighbor

says something questionable about the

regime, you must tell someone. If you

don't report it and someone else does,

you are complicit. You become an

informer. Everyone is an informer. The

party survives because no one trusts

anyone. Not your co-workers, not your

neighbors, not your spouse, especially

not your spouse. Marriage is a

partnership, but loyalty to the party

comes first. Level five, the local

cadre. You're a cadre now, a local

official with real responsibility. Maybe

you run a factory producing textiles or

machinery. Maybe you manage a district

of 10,000 people. Maybe you oversee

agricultural production for an entire

county. You have real power for the

first time. Power means responsibility

and danger. Everything in your

jurisdiction is your fault. If

production is down, you answer for it.

If there is unrest, you answer for it.

If someone escapes to China, you answer

for it. If there's a flood, a drought, a

disease outbreak, you answer for it. You

cannot blame your workers. You cannot

blame the weather. You cannot blame the

system. The system is perfect. Only

people fail. The Supreme Leader's

guidance is flawless. Only your

implementation is lacking. You learn to

cook the books. Everyone does. You

report higher production numbers than

you actually have. You hide problems.

You cover up accidents. If the truth got

out, you would be sent down. Sent down

means losing everything. Your apartment,

your party membership, your access to

special stores, your family status. Sent

down means becoming wavering class or

worse. So you lie. You lie to your

superiors who are lying to their

superiors who are lying to Pyongyang.

The central committee receives reports

of record harvests while people starve

in the villages. The entire country runs

on lies stacked on lies. The supreme

leader probably knows. He has to know.

But the lies are part of the system. The

system requires lies to function. Level

six. The Pyongyang elite. You made it.

You live in the capital. Only 3 million

people are allowed here. the most loyal,

the most connected, the most useful.

Everyone else is forbidden from entering

without special permission. There are

checkpoints on every road into the city.

Pyongyang doesn't look like the rest of

the country. There are skyscrapers and

wide boulevards. There are cars, actual

private cars, not just military

vehicles. There are shops with actual

products in the windows. There are

restaurants and theaters and parks. It

looks almost modern, almost normal,

almost like a real city. Foreigners who

visit see only Pyongyang. They don't see

the villages where children eat grass.

You have a nice apartment with reliable

electricity, at least most of the time.

You have hot water. You have access to

foreign films, carefully selected ones

that show the decadence and moral

corruption of the West. You have a car,

maybe a status symbol that tells

everyone you matter. You send your

children to elite schools where they

learn languages, sciences, and the

proper way to serve the regime. But even

here, you are watched, especially here.

The capital is full of surveillance.

Every building has informers embedded in

every floor. Every office has listeners.

Your phone is tapped. Your conversations

are monitored. Secret police walk the

streets in plain clothes, watching for

any sign of disloyalty. You can fall at

any moment. One wrong word, one

suspicious friendship, one relative who

defected to the south. The higher you

rise, the longer and harder you fall.

Level seven, the military general. You

wear the uniform, the crisp green jacket

covered in metals that stretch from your

shoulder to your belt. Some of the

medals you earned through decades of

service. Some were given to you because

the supreme leader likes your face or

because you clapped loudly enough at the

right moment. You command thousands of

soldiers. On paper, you command

millions. The Korean People's Army is

one of the largest standing armies in

the world. But your soldiers are

malnourished teenagers who faint during

parade rehearsals. Your equipment is

Soviet era machinery that hasn't been

updated since the 1980s. Your tanks

haven't moved in years because there's

no fuel to run them. Your aircraft are

grounded. Your navy rusts in port. It

doesn't matter. Your job isn't to fight

a real war. Your job is to threaten one.

You stand behind the Supreme Leader at

parades. You take notes during his

speeches that you will never read again.

You clap exactly as long as everyone

else claps. Never longer, never shorter.

You are a prop, a symbol. The metals on

your chest are theater. But you also

have power, real economic power. The

military controls factories, mines,

construction projects. It runs its own

shadow economy separate from the

civilian government. You skim from this

economy. Everyone does. You live well.

You have a villa outside the city with

servants. You have access to the most

restricted goods. Scotch whiskey, Cuban

cigars, Mercedes automobiles. No one

questions a general, but other generals

are watching. The Supreme Leader rotates

commanders constantly, never letting

anyone build too much loyalty among the

troops. He promotes and demotes

unpredictably. He executes generals who

get too popular, too ambitious, too

comfortable. You must be loyal but not

too ambitious. Visible but not too

prominent. Competent but not

threatening. It's a balance. Many fail.

You've seen colleagues disappear. You

attended their funerals knowing they

were probably shot and you clapped along

with everyone else. Level eight, the

inner circle. You are close to the

center now. You work in the party

headquarters in Pyongyang or the

National Defense Commission or the

Organization and Guidance Department,

the most powerful and secretive

institution in the country. You see

classified documents that would get

ordinary citizens executed for even

knowing they exist. You know about the

famines that officially never happened,

the millions who died while the state

proclaimed record harvests. You know

about the purges, the thousands of

officials who were arrested, tortured,

executed, erased from photographs. You

know about the nuclear program and the

missile tests. You know that the economy

is held together with foreign aid,

illegal weapons sales, cyber theft, and

crystal meth exports. You attend

meetings with the Supreme Leader

himself. Not often, but sometimes. You

stand against the wall while he speaks.

You agree with everything. You laugh at

his jokes. You applaud his insights. You

never ever offer an opinion unless

asked. And when asked, you give the

opinion he wants to hear. You've learned

to read his face, to anticipate what he

wants before he knows himself. You've

seen what happens to people who say the

wrong thing. There was a vice minister

who suggested a minor policy adjustment.

He was executed with an anti-aircraft

gun in front of a 100 officials. His

body literally blown apart. The message

was clear. The closer you are to power,

the more dangerous power becomes. You

sleep lightly. You vary your routine.

You trust no one, not even your family.

Your wife reports to someone. Your

children are leverage. Everything you

love can be used against you. Level

nine, the royal family. You share blood

with the Kim. Maybe you're a cousin.

Maybe an aunt or uncle. Maybe you

married into the family. You are royalty

in a country that officially has no

royalty. only the pure bloodline of the

Mount Peeku revolutionary family. You

live in compounds that don't appear on

any maps, guarded by soldiers who would

die before letting anyone in. You

vacation in Switzerland, in the Alps,

skiing on slopes that your countrymen

will never see. You shop in Beijing, in

Singapore, in Moscow. You have seen the

outside world. You know how different it

is. You know that everything you were

taught is a lie, but you can never speak

of it, not even to each other. You are

treated like gods inside the country and

like hostages everywhere else. The

regime needs you for legitimacy. The

bloodline must continue. The mythology

depends on the Kim family being

superhuman. But you are also a threat.

Every family member is a potential rival

for power. Kim Jong-un had his own

brother assassinated with nerve agent in

a Malaysian airport. His uncle, who had

been one of the most powerful men in the

country, was executed for treason and

erased from history. Being family

doesn't protect you. It makes you a

target. You are watched more closely

than anyone. Your loyalty must be

absolute and visible at every moment.

You attend every ceremony, every parade,

every memorial. You weep on command. You

worship the leader publicly,

performatively, because the alternative

is death. Level 10, the supreme leader.

You are the son, the center of

everything. Your face hangs in every

building, every home, every classroom.

Your words are scripture. Your decisions

are divine law. 25 million people have

been taught since birth that you are a

god descended from a sacred mountain.

You have nuclear weapons. You can

destroy cities. You have absolute power

over life and death within your borders.

You can execute anyone for any reason or

no reason at all. No court, no trial, no

appeal. You are the richest person in

one of the poorest countries on earth.

You have palaces scattered across the

country. yachts that never leave port,

private islands, a personal train with

bulletproof carriages. You import luxury

cars by the dozen, and cognac by the

case, while your people eat grass and

tree bark. And you are utterly,

completely alone. You trust no one. Not

your wife, not your sister, not your

generals, not your closest adviserss.

Everyone around you wants something.

Everyone is performing. Every smile is

calculated. Every compliment is survival

instinct. You can never know what anyone

really thinks. Your generals smile and

take notes, but would they kill you if

they thought they could get away with

it? Your family members bow and praise

you, but you've already killed some of

them, and they know they could be next.

Your father was the same. Your

grandfather was the same. This is what

absolute power looks like. A prison made

of gold. You watch videos of yourself on

state television. You see the crowds

weeping with joy at the sight of your

face. You wonder if any of it is real.

You wonder if you are real or if you are

just playing a role that was written for

you before you were born. You are barely

40 years old and you will rule until you

die. There is no retirement. There is no

escape. And when you die, if you have an

heir, the cycle will continue. Another

Kim will take your place on the throne.

Another god will be manufactured. The

system will grind on generation after

generation built on fear and hunger and

lies and nuclear weapons. Somewhere in a

village in the mountains, a child is

being born right now. The state will

assign them a number in the song bun

system. Their entire life will be

determined before they draw their first

breath. They will worship you until the

day they die, never knowing that you are

just as trapped as they are, just in a

bigger cage. The cycle continues.