Thoughts Under the Portrait

by Gabrielle Shoebridge, Merici College

He watched us as we ate. We shovelled porridge into our mouths under the mandatory portrait’s sharp eye. But a picture above the table was infinitely better than the real Kim Jong-un being here. His hands would be at Dad’s throat if he caught word of our mealtime conversations. Yes, our breakfast chatter was different from most North Korean families.

The four of us sat in smog-filtered sunlight, steeling ourselves for the day ahead. Spoons scraped and mouths slurped.

Mum stabbed at her porridge. “Six launches planned today. Designing his weapons makes me sick,” the hard line of her mouth spat the words. “These missiles are leading to nothing but war.”

How I hated seeing Mum upset. “But how could Kim Jong-un be ‘Rocketman’ if he didn’t have any rockets?” I quipped.

Mum chuckled. I scooped the last of my breakfast and let the cinnamon dance on my tongue.

I stood to leave, but Dad’s soft hand held me back. “Wait, Kyong. You know if you mentioned Trump’s nickname for the Supreme Leader outside, it’d be jail or death for us all.”

My feet became incredibly fascinating. “Of course.”

Little Dae looked up with big eyes from the toy car he was vrooming along the table. “What’s safe to say in the family isn’t safe to say to anyone else.”

We silently acknowledged the portrait before a rapid knock at the door sounded.

“Hurry. Hyo’s at the door; she’ll get into a state if you keep her waiting.”

Our apartment entry was an airlock: it sucked the colour out of me, so I was ready to step outside. I looked into the mirror, tilted my Children’s Union hat to the required angle and pulled my scarf to the required length.

I tied up my tongue and opened the door. Hyo was in the hallway, wringing her hands and frowning. “There you are,” she said, her eyes flitting between my hat and scarf. She adjusted my scarf half-a-centimetre to the left. “Just as the Supreme Leader wants.”

We fought the foggy air on our way to school.

As we walked past the Lego-brick state apartments, Hyo gushed about the Victory Parade. “And I get to carry a Party banner, Kyong! I can’t wait to see the Leader’s newest miraculous weapon to keep us safe from the evil Americans.”

I nodded lamely, but inside I was having a revelation. This was not Hyo speaking. These were Kim Jong-un’s words broadcast through her.

“I wrote a poem about the Leader’s eyes.” Hyo shoved a document under my nose. “I’ll read it in class.”

My smile was hollow. “That’s great, Hyo.”

“And Kyong? I brought kimbap; we can share.”

My smile became real.

Hyo was halfway through her poem – “He sees worlds where mere mortals see hills,” – when Principal Han’s clinical voice thundered from the loudspeaker on Teacher’s desk. “Student Kyong, report to my office.”

This was never good news. I straightened my hat, raised my hand for permission to leave and marched out of the classroom.

In Principal Han’s office, I was met with silence – tearstained silence from Dae, who stood slumped in the corner; and calculated silence from Principal Han, who was perched at his desk. He held a drawing between one thumb and forefinger.

What had Dae done? My muscles tensed.

“Student Kyong.” His cold voice raised goose bumps on my arms. “Your brother can’t be alone in having such dangerous thoughts. This cannot be explained.” Principal Han spun the picture to face me.

Oh no.

It was Kim Jong-un. The Supreme Leader cried out as a missile pierced the top of his head. Emblazoned across the missile was the proud American flag. But the scariest part of the drawing was the name in the corner. Dae had drawn an American rocket impaling Kim Jong-un.

Oh no.

“We will have to expel Dae; thoughts like these won’t taint our school. The state will decide whether or not your parents are appropriate guardians.”

No! The state did unspeakable things to traitors. “Principal Han, you’ve made a terrible mistake. This drawing is a tremendous compliment to the Leader.”

One eyebrow arched.

“It displays his selflessness, Principal. Father often says Kim Jong-un would throw himself in front of a missile for us. He’s so noble. Dae often draws such heroic pictures.”

Principal Han leant forward. “Is that correct, Student Dae?” My stomach dropped, but Dae nodded.

“Student Dae. Return to your class.” Principal Han waited until Dae’s footsteps receded. “I can now give you this.” He pressed a document into my hands. I didn’t dare look. “You’ve been selected for Pyongyang’s Shooting Star Maths School. It is indeed fortunate your brother’s drawing was valiant, not traitorous. Now nothing sullies my nomination of you.”

My lips parted in a slight smile. I was in control.

Image: Children in North Korea. Sourced from Wikimedia: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Children_of_North_Korea.JPG