A River in Darkness

A River in Darkness Plot Summary

Introduction

In the predawn darkness of September 1996, a skeletal man stood at the banks of the Yalu River, the narrow waterway separating North Korea from China. Behind him lay 36 years of starvation, oppression, and despair; ahead, perhaps death by drowning or bullets in his back—or maybe, just maybe, freedom. Masaji Ishikawa, a half-Japanese, half-Korean man who had been effectively trapped in North Korea since 1960, faced this moment of truth with nothing left to lose. "If I remain in North Korea, I'll die of starvation. It's as simple as that," he thought as he prepared to risk everything. Ishikawa's journey represents one of the most extraordinary escapes from the world's most secretive and repressive regime. As a thirteen-year-old boy, he was uprooted from his home in Japan when his Korean father was persuaded by propaganda to relocate the family to what was promised to be a "paradise on earth." Instead, they found themselves consigned to the lowest rungs of North Korean society, enduring decades of hunger, discrimination, and crushing political oppression. Through Ishikawa's eyes, we witness not only the brutal reality of life under the Kim dynasty but also the indomitable human spirit that refuses to surrender to tyranny. His testimony offers rare insights into how ordinary people survive in extraordinary circumstances, the deep bonds of family that sustain us in our darkest hours, and the lengths to which a father will go to save his children from a living hell.

Chapter 1: From Tokyo to Deception: The False Promise of North Korean Paradise

Masaji Ishikawa was born in 1947 near Tokyo, Japan, a child of two worlds from the start. His father was Korean, his mother Japanese—a complicated identity in post-war Japan where Koreans faced significant discrimination. His early childhood in the neighborhood of Mizonokuchi was filled with simple joys: catching beetles in the morning dew, floating in irrigation canals on summer days, and dreaming of helping poor families like his own. Despite their poverty, these were the happiest days of his life, forming memories he would cling to during the darkest times ahead. His father, Do Sam-dal, had been effectively kidnapped from Korea at age fourteen to work in Japanese munitions factories during wartime. Known as "Tiger" for his fierce demeanor, he was a notorious figure in the local Korean community who frequently resorted to violence, even against his own family. Young Masaji often witnessed his father beating his mother, creating a household atmosphere of constant fear and tension. The post-war years were difficult for Koreans in Japan, who found themselves caught between worlds—belonging to neither the victors nor the vanquished, with limited options for making a living. Many, including Ishikawa's father, turned to black market activities to survive. By 1959, political winds were shifting. The General Association of Korean Residents in Japan launched a mass repatriation campaign encouraging Koreans to return to North Korea—a country portrayed as a socialist paradise offering free education, guaranteed employment, and prosperity. This movement received support from both the Japanese government (eager to reduce its Korean population) and North Korea (seeking laborers for rebuilding). The propaganda was relentless: "North Korea is a paradise on earth!" In reality, this "repatriation" was deeply cynical—many, like Ishikawa's father, had never even been to North Korea, as they were from the southern regions of pre-divided Korea. For thirteen-year-old Masaji, the announcement that his family would relocate to North Korea came as a devastating shock. "No way! I don't want to go!" he protested, but his objections were ignored. His grandmother was furious about the decision, warning that North Koreans would "hate and abuse" them, but his mother ultimately acquiesced to his father's decision. Whether out of love, duty, or belief in the promises of a better life, she agreed to leave everything behind. In January 1960, the family boarded a train at Shinagawa Station amid a large, cheering crowd. As they departed, Masaji's close friend Lion pushed through the crowd, tears streaming down his face, to say goodbye. When the train pulled away, Masaji somehow knew he would never see his friend again. The journey took them by train to Niigata port, where they boarded an old Soviet passenger ship. As they departed Japan, Masaji stared forlornly at his homeland disappearing on the horizon. After two days at sea, they approached the North Korean port of Chongjin. What they saw was a stark contrast to the promised paradise—a barren mountain with hardly a tree in sight, rusty abandoned ships in the harbor, and a desolate landscape. The reaction among passengers was immediate: some cheered mechanically while others let out groans and screams of shock. Even at thirteen, Masaji sensed that something was terribly wrong. The first meal in North Korea—dog meat, which made most of the Japanese arrivals gag—would be just the beginning of their disillusionment with their new "homeland."

Chapter 2: Arrival in Hell: First Years in the 'Workers' Paradise'

After spending several weeks in a reception center, the Ishikawa family was assigned to live in Dong Chong-ri, a remote village accessible only by a twelve-hour steam train journey followed by an oxcart ride. Their new home was the village's only building with a tiled roof, which their guide proudly described as "a great honor"—though in reality, it was a dilapidated structure with cracked walls. There was no gas, no indoor plumbing, and only feeble electric lighting. When Masaji looked out the window, he saw a well thirty yards away that would be their only water source. His mother, visibly distraught, whispered, "How are we ever going to live here?" Masaji's first day at his new school was a brutal introduction to his new status. The moment he entered the classroom and greeted his peers in his clumsy Korean, whispers of "Japanese bastard" filled the room. Students pointed at his plastic shoes and bag, mocking everything about him. A crude propaganda play was performed, portraying how Masaji had supposedly led a hard life in Japan but was now saved thanks to the Workers' Party of Korea. School was difficult not only because of the language barrier but also because of constant bullying. When Masaji defended another student from a bully one day, a man in uniform grabbed him and beat him until his mouth was cut and his clothes were spattered with blood. The family's social standing in North Korea quickly became clear—they were at the absolute bottom. In the regime's rigid caste system, citizens were classified as "nucleus" (loyal core supporters), "basic" (wavering), or "hostile" elements. The Ishikawas, as returnees from Japan, were automatically assigned to the "hostile" category, meaning they would face discrimination in everything from education to job opportunities. Despite this, Masaji's father seemed relatively content with their new life. He stopped beating his mother and began working as an agricultural laborer, though the income was far from sufficient to support a family of six. Life in North Korea meant constant indoctrination and surveillance. Everyone was required to join groups affiliated with the Workers' Party, attend mandatory study meetings twice weekly, and participate in military training. The family was monitored by the State Security and secret police, with neighbors reporting on their activities. Five families were clustered together with a leader tasked with reporting everything to authorities. The most basic freedoms that Masaji had taken for granted in Japan simply did not exist in North Korea. Even thinking freely could result in execution or imprisonment in a concentration camp. By 1964, after four years in North Korea, tragedy struck the family. On Kim Il-sung's birthday, a national holiday, the Ishikawas had hosted several local officials and party members who came to enjoy the rare luxury of good food and alcohol. After the guests left, a drunken barber who had passed out in their shed with a lit cigarette started a fire that completely destroyed their home and all their possessions. When Masaji and his father asked local officials for help, they were met with scorn: "What are you talking about, you Japanese bastard? Why should we house you?" Instead, they were granted "special dispensation" to cut down trees to build a new home themselves. With help from only one kind villager named Mr. Chon, the family constructed a crude shack with a thatched roof. This incident marked a turning point for Masaji as he began calling the locals "natives" in his mind, drawing a clear distinction between them and his family.

Chapter 3: The Struggle to Survive: Family Life Under Oppression

As Masaji approached his final year of high school, he clung to the belief that hard work and academic achievement might be his family's path to a better life. His hopes were crushed during what was laughably called "academic and career counseling." The principal informed him that regardless of his grades or ambitions to study physics at university, his caste designation as "hostile" meant his future was predetermined. "The son of a farmer must be a farmer," he was told bluntly. This realization devastated him: "I knew then I was destined for a life of hell on earth, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it." Farming in North Korea followed the absurd "Juche" philosophy, which treated rice farming like factory mass production, ignoring centuries of proven techniques. Farmers were ordered to plant seedlings too close together, resulting in poor harvests, yet no one dared object for fear of being labeled disloyal to Kim Il-sung. Despite knowing better, Masaji had to follow these ridiculous methods. He eventually managed to secure a position as a tractor driver, which counted as double the work hours and provided some sense of freedom from constant surveillance. However, no matter how hard he and his father worked, they could never make enough to adequately support their family. In 1972, at age twenty-three, Masaji found himself suddenly getting married in circumstances that perfectly exemplified the powerlessness of his existence. He returned home one day to discover wedding preparations underway for his marriage to a woman he had never met. His father had arranged the match through a connection, and despite Masaji's protests—"Do you think that just because I'm a returnee and very poor, I can't find my own wife?"—he went through with the ceremony. His bride, Lee He-suku, had poor eyesight and had been kept locked in a room by her stepmother, who was eager to be rid of her. Though Masaji didn't love her, he felt responsible for her welfare, saying, "She hasn't got anywhere to go... I'll look after her." This arranged marriage lasted barely a year before tragedy struck. While He-suku was pregnant, Masaji collapsed one day with a damaged blood vessel between his eyes. When he regained consciousness in the hospital, he learned his wife had fled in panic. She later returned to give birth to their son, Ho-chol, on March 25, 1972, but left shortly afterward, leaving Masaji to raise the infant with help from his parents and sister. Just two months after his son's birth, Masaji suffered another devastating blow when his mother died suddenly at age forty-seven. Looking at her frail body dressed in tattered work pants, he was overcome with grief, wondering if she had experienced even a single day of happiness in her life. Life continued its relentless hardship. Masaji struggled to feed his infant son, often going from house to house begging someone to breast-feed the baby. At night, he and his father would take off their shirts and snuggle close to the child to keep him warm with their body heat. When the baby cried from hunger during the night, Masaji would make thin rice gruel from cornstarch and rice powder to try to assuage his hunger. The constant fear that his son might die from cold or starvation haunted him daily. By 1975, Masaji remarried a woman named Kim Te-sul, another returnee who had been previously divorced after a brief marriage to a North Korean. Their wedding was a simple affair with a cup of sake to mark their pledge. Shortly after, his sister Masako returned home pregnant and abandoned, adding to the household's burden. Her infant son died at three months old due to malnutrition and lack of medical care. This loss pushed Masaji to the breaking point. He decided to become a charcoal burner deep in the mountains, essentially becoming a hermit to escape the constant lies and cruelty of North Korean society. Though he thought it might be better for everyone if he left, the separation from his family was painful. His six-year-old son's parting words—"I'll take care of Grandfather and Aunt. Please make lots of money"—broke his heart.

Chapter 4: Constant Hunger: Living Through the North Korean Famine

The 1990s brought unprecedented suffering to North Korea. After the death of Kim Il-sung in 1994, the already fragile food distribution system began to collapse completely. Regular workers were officially entitled to one and a half pounds of grain per day, but the actual amount distributed was far less—about one pound, 70 percent of which was just cornstarch. Beginning in 1991, there were regular delays in distribution, and eventually people had to survive for half a month on three days' worth of food. Violence broke out at food distribution centers as desperation mounted. The regime responded with more propaganda, offering absurd advice on alternatives to standard food rations: "Make the root of rice plants into powder and eat it! It's rich in protein!" People began scavenging for anything remotely edible—acorns, mugwort, pine-tree bark. Ishikawa describes the horrific process of making "food" from pine bark: "First, boil the pine bark for as long as possible to get rid of all the toxins. Next, add some cornstarch and steam the evil brew. Then cool it, form it into cakes, and eat it." The pine oil made it almost impossible to consume, and those who ate it suffered crippling gut pain and severe constipation. Many who failed to properly remove the toxins died in agony. By 1995, Ishikawa and his family were terrified of starving to death. A devastating flood in South Pyongan Province that August destroyed an important grain-producing area, effectively ending what little remained of the grain ration. The family resorted to collecting acorns for winter survival. By spring 1996, they began eating whatever weeds they could find, boiling them for hours to try to reduce their harshness. The effects were devastating: "Our bodies grew swollen, our faces grew swollen, and our urine turned red or even blue. We all suffered from chronic diarrhea. We couldn't even walk in that condition." The situation in the country grew increasingly desperate. Starving people wandered the streets while others simply lay down to die. Corpses lay unclaimed and rotting in the open—women, elderly people, and children. The black market operated openly, even in front of police stations, as authorities could no longer control the situation. However, without hard currency or goods to barter, Ishikawa and his family could only buy the cheapest rice gruel from shops "that a cockroach would have fled from" or hope to find crumbs dropped by others. Theft became commonplace as people struggled to survive by any means necessary. Ishikawa vividly describes the physical transformation of starvation: "When you're starving to death, you lose all the fat from your lips and nose. Once your lips disappear, your teeth are bared all the time, like a snarling dog. Your nose is reduced to a pair of nostrils." Looking at his wife and children, their bodies resembling "dead trees" in the moonlight, he made a desperate decision in September 1996: "We've been reduced to skeletons. If we don't do anything about it, we'll be dead soon. I have to get across the border." The decision to leave his family behind was agonizing, but he reasoned that if he could somehow reach Japan, he might be able to send money back or eventually rescue them. With his wife's blessing—"We'll be all right. As long as we stay alive, we'll find each other again"—he set off for Hamju Station to catch a night train heading for Hyesan near the Chinese border. His parting words echoed with determination: "If I manage to get back to Japan, somehow or other, no matter what it takes, I'll get you there too." During this period, death became commonplace. Ishikawa recalls hearing constant reports of neighbors and acquaintances succumbing to starvation: "That woman whose husband died? Well, she's dead too. Died alone." "I haven't seen old so-and-so recently. Have you? I guess he didn't make it." "I found this woman lying on the street. I checked, but she was cold already." There were even reports of cannibalism, with rumors that those caught engaging in such acts faced public execution. The horror of seeing people lying in the streets became so routine that Ishikawa admits he "grew immune" and often couldn't tell "whether they were dying or already dead."

Chapter 5: The Desperate Escape: Risking Everything for Freedom

Ishikawa's escape began with a perilous leap onto a moving train bound for the border region. Lacking travel documents, he sneaked onto the platform and made a mad dash for the departing train, grabbing the ladder on the last carriage and hauling himself aboard. When inspectors began checking passengers' documents with flashlights, he climbed out through a window, clinging to the outside of the moving train, then jumped up to grasp a ventilation grille on the roof. After hours exposed to the elements, he climbed down to hide on the coupler between cars for the remainder of the journey. Arriving near Hyesan around midnight, Ishikawa disembarked before reaching the main station to avoid document checks. For several days, he survived by scavenging food scraps from the local market while carefully observing the Yalu River that separated North Korea from China. The river was surprisingly narrow—only about thirty yards wide—but heavily guarded, with sentry boxes every fifty yards and armed guards with German shepherds patrolling constantly. Ishikawa knew the consequences of capture were severe; he had heard horrific stories of escapees being executed or sent to concentration camps. After three days of surveillance, weakened by hunger and growing more desperate by the hour, Ishikawa gave himself a stern talking-to: "Look! You don't have time for this. Your family's starving! You are getting weaker by the day. You have to get across that river! Otherwise, your whole family will die, and so will you." That night, as he waited for his opportunity, it began to rain—first a drizzle, then a torrential downpour. The river quickly transformed into a raging torrent, but the heavy rain also provided cover from the guards. In a moment of both desperation and opportunity, Ishikawa noticed the guards had temporarily disappeared—perhaps changing shifts. Without hesitation, he threw himself into the rushing water and began to swim. After being struck by what might have been a rock, he lost consciousness as the current swept him downstream. When he regained awareness, he found himself lying on a riverbank, disoriented and unsure which side of the river he was on. He spotted a light in the distance—something unusual in electricity-starved North Korea—and began crawling toward it. Ishikawa's next memory was of being carried on the back of a stranger while a dog barked and leaped around them. The realization struck him: people didn't keep dogs as pets in North Korea; they ate them out of desperation. This dog was clearly a pet, which meant he had made it to China. He had escaped. The man who rescued him, an elderly Korean-Chinese named Kim, took him to his home and nursed him back to health over several days. When Ishikawa was strong enough to speak, he explained his situation: "I'm not Korean. I'm Japanese. I'm trying to get back to Japan. I have to rescue my family. Can you help me?" Kim was skeptical about the possibility of reaching Japan but introduced Ishikawa to his sons, Chorusu and Choro, who traded with North Korea and had connections that might help. The family took enormous risks to shelter him, moving him between different houses to avoid detection by Chinese authorities, who would return escapees to North Korea under a "Border Security Cooperation Protocol." In a stroke of ingenuity, Ishikawa remembered the phone number and address of the Japanese Red Cross from a form he had seen years earlier. Using Chorusu's phone, he called Japan and, despite his rusty Japanese, managed to explain his situation. This set in motion a chain of calls to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and eventually the Japanese embassy in Beijing. After confirming his Japanese citizenship, the embassy arranged for him to travel to the consulate in Shenyang. The journey to Shenyang was fraught with danger. Traveling by car through mountain checkpoints, Ishikawa had to hide under a futon while the Kim brothers sat on top of him. After a harrowing two-day drive, they arrived in Shenyang, where Ishikawa was handed over to Japanese consular officials. After two weeks in hiding at the consulate, a complex extraction was arranged. Under cover of night, the consul's wife escorted him through the garden past Chinese police guards, then he crawled through a tunnel to waiting cars. He was driven to Dalian, where a chartered plane was waiting to fly him to Japan. On October 15, 1996, after thirty-six years, Masaji Ishikawa finally returned to Japan. As he looked out the airplane window at the glittering lights below, he felt both elation at his escape and determination to somehow rescue his family from the living hell he had left behind.

Chapter 6: The Bittersweet Return: Finding Japan but Losing Family

Upon his return to Japan, Ishikawa found himself in a strange limbo—physically free from North Korea's horrors but emotionally and socially adrift. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs initially housed him in hotels in Tokyo before moving him to a weekly apartment. Soon after, he was transferred to a rehabilitation center in Shinagawa ward, a facility for alcoholics and those too ill to make a living. Crammed into a tiny room with three others, separated only by curtains, Ishikawa felt frustrated and confused by this treatment: "Why was I being treated like I was ill?" His attempts to find work proved almost impossible. His unusual background made employers suspicious, and when he claimed on his résumé to have returned from South Korea (following official advice), his inability to answer questions about South Korean life led to rumors he was a North Korean spy. Job interview after job interview ended in failure due to "the bad economy, my age, my unclear background, and who knew what else." Even more painfully, when the Ministry located his mother's relatives, they wanted nothing to do with him. A cousin initially agreed to meet but later told him never to call again, presumably fearing Ishikawa would ask for money. The Japanese government's position was particularly bitter for Ishikawa to accept. Officials maintained that because the returnees had left Japan "of their own free will," they were not eligible for support—despite the government's active promotion of the repatriation program in the 1960s. When Ishikawa reached out to a former contact at the Ministry in desperation, he was told: "The Japanese government made sacrifices for you. You need to understand that. You need to find a way to live on your own and support yourself." The response struck him as callous, coming from someone who had never experienced the horrors he had lived through. Most devastating was Ishikawa's inability to rescue his family. After escaping, he learned through letters that his wife had died and was buried on a mountainside in Hamju. In 2005, he received a heartbreaking letter from his daughter Myong-hwa: "Help me! I want to live with you. I have absolutely nothing. I have two children. One son is two years old, and the other is five years old." Desperate to help, Ishikawa immediately found work as a cleaner near Tokyo Tower, working exhausting 20-hour days to earn money to send her. But by the time he sent 100,000 yen, it was too late—his son Ho-son wrote to inform him that Myong-hwa had died of starvation in her late twenties. The last communication Ishikawa received from his son Ho-son came in 1998, with news that his eldest son Ho-chol was looking for work in a coal-mining area with his four children. Then the letters abruptly stopped. The uncertainty about his remaining children's fate has been a torment that has followed him ever since: "I haven't slept more than a few hours at a time since then. I still hope to rescue my remaining children. It is a terrible curse to not even know if they are still alive. But I believe they are. I have to believe so; otherwise, I couldn't go on." Adding to his sense of displacement, Ishikawa discovered upon visiting his birthplace that the town he remembered had completely transformed: "I'd lost not only my country, but also my birthplace. And so here I remain, in a place where I don't belong." Even more surreal, the Japanese government never officially acknowledged his return, leaving him in an existential limbo: "In a sense, I still don't even exist; I remain in limbo between two worlds... So here I am, officially 'not living' here. A life of 'not living.' That seems to be my curse." Despite these profound losses, Ishikawa continued to honor his promise to tell the world about North Korea's realities. His testimony stands as a rare first-hand account of the regime's brutality and the suffering of ordinary people trapped within its borders. Even in his darkest moments, he maintained a connection to his family through poignant rituals: when eating simple meals in Japan, he would think of how many days such food would sustain his family in North Korea. Unable to bear the thought, he would sometimes go to the ocean and toss the remainder to seagulls, entrusting them to somehow carry it to his loved ones across the sea.

Summary

Masaji Ishikawa's extraordinary journey illuminates the profound human capacity for survival in the face of systematic oppression. His account stands as both a personal tragedy and a powerful indictment of two governments: North Korea's brutal regime that imprisoned and starved its people, and Japan's callous disregard for the citizens it effectively abandoned to this fate. Through decades of hunger, discrimination, and despair, Ishikawa maintained his humanity and his desperate hope to one day reunite his family—a hope that sustained him even as it was gradually, heartbreakingly extinguished. The lessons from Ishikawa's testimony extend beyond the political sphere into the realm of universal human experience. His story reminds us that behind geopolitical headlines lie the lives of real people—parents struggling to feed their children, individuals clinging to dignity in impossible circumstances, families torn apart by forces beyond their control. His account compels us to question the systems that allow such suffering to continue and challenges our collective responsibility toward those trapped in similar circumstances today. For anyone seeking to understand North Korea beyond propaganda or to comprehend the true meaning of freedom, Ishikawa's voice offers an essential, unvarnished truth: paradise promised can become hell realized, and the journey back may cost everything.

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Masaji Ishikawa

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