Immediately after getting out of the Hungnam labor camp, Father had traveled to Pyongyang to look for any remaining followers after his almost 3-year absence. He invested himself for many weeks, but then he reluctantly decided he must move on, and go south where there might be the opportunity to make a new start, even though his country was still embroiled in the terrible civil war, which ironically had rescued him from the death camp. Now that he had survived almost certain death in prison, Father was determined that he would succeed in his mission.
I left the city of Pyongyang only after all other refugees had gone. Furthermore, I took with me a crippled person, physically impaired by a broken leg. I put him on a bicycle and pulled it south.
We started on our way as the North Korean and the Chinese troops were approaching; they were just twelve kilometers behind us. Even amid this life-or-death danger, I can stand tall in front of God. I have never betrayed a promise to Him.
I left North Korea in the winter of 1950. By January 1951, I had travelled down to Busan on the south coast. I was wearing odd clothes when I left the north. I had on an overcoat that was part of a middle-school uniform.
It had buttons down the front. You don’t have the luxury of choosing what to wear when you’re a refugee. I wish my arms had been shorter. It was frigid, and I had to pull my arms into the sleeves to stay warm.
I must have looked smart in that outfit. Everybody stared at me when I walked down the street. In a situation like that, I always thought that though other people might complain about their fate and bear a grudge toward God amid all of this suffering, I would not be like that.
From Pyongyang to Cheongdan
The Chinese Red Army was approaching from behind. When the three of us started, we soon realized that long lines of trucks loaded with soldiers and military equipment were clogging all roads leading south.
Since the disabled man was bigger than I was, I could not imagine carrying him on my back. I decided to put him on a bicycle and transport him that way. It was an extremely hard job.
Under the circumstances, with our way forward blocked, death seemed imminent, but I could not afford to die. I was prepared to die, though. I was determined to become the most miserable refugee during that time.
If God were to give His blessing to the most miserable Korean amid all the suffering that had befallen our country, He would have no choice but to give it to me. I felt that kind of determination on the way from North Korea.
Since all the main roads were blocked by the retreating troops and military equipment, civilians had no other option but to travel by narrow paths or across barren rice fields.
Words cannot express how hard this journey was. At some point, Park Jeong-hwa said to me, “I love you, but if we continue like this, we will all die.” He tried to commit suicide, but I caught him just in time and chastised him.
We continued walking, taking shortcuts through forests and down obscure mountain paths known only to local villagers. Like this, we were able to make headway. God was watching over us and guiding our steps all the way.
Refugee cuisine
I could tell many stories from that period. The biggest problem throughout our journey was finding food. Since we could not afford to carry any baggage or supplies with us, we could either starve or steal.
So, we would go into abandoned houses and seek food. If we hadn’t, the Chinese soldiers would have emptied those houses of supplies anyway.
We would go into houses in the early evening. Going from house to house in search of food, we’d usually find something. I asked the others to take only the first food they came across.
If we were to choose, then we would become thieves. And if heaven and earth could see what we were doing, they should be able to look at us with sympathy, as if to say those rascals steal other people’s rice, but there is something different about them.
I asked the other men to bring out whatever they first discovered in the rice jar—be it hulled millet or corn. I would not allow them to exchange it for anything else found afterward. They would enter a house and chant “rice jar, rice jar, rice jar” as they sought food.
Whenever we cooked, we would always prepare as much food as we could. The problem was that we had only one enamel cooking dish. Could refugees travel with cooking equipment, banging and rattling along the way?
Since we could always break tree twigs to use as chopsticks, the only thing we needed to carry with us was one enamel dish.
So, when the three of us would sit around this small dish filled with rice, I would think about the value of hardships in my life. Under those circumstances, we could eat anything with great pleasure.
Hardships teach us to long for and appreciate even simple things…. With our stomachs growling, we longed for humble food as if it were a delicious treat. A rice-cake made of rough barley would taste better than exquisite cuisine from a royal dinner table. Could someone in our situation be fussy?
Warm reception after receiving a revelation
Occasionally, my yearning for food was indescribable. It was part of our wandering life at that time. Nevertheless, I never prayed, “Heavenly Father, I don’t have anything to eat today, so please provide me with something.” Instead, I used to comfort Him until I fell asleep.
Occasionally, I would think, Tomorrow a beautiful woman will give us something on the roadside, and the next day a woman dressed in white would be standing on the roadside waiting for us, just as I’d anticipated.
She would say, “Yesterday I was asked to prepare everything and wait. I’ve been waiting for you. Please have something to eat.” This kind of thing happened on many occasions.
If you could only feel my heart at the time, you could not help crying. The same is true for God. No one on earth knows the sorrow God and I shared as we held each other and wept. The depth of my feelings for God cannot be measured. When I recall it, I feel as if all the cells in my body are aching.
Mastering the desire to eat
Even today, my philosophy is to start eating after everyone else and to put down my chopsticks first. I’m always the last to pick them up and the first to put them down.
Furthermore, when there are different things to eat, I always start with the least delicious food. I acquired this habit during my refugee life. For the sake of my hungry followers, I would always stop eating first, even though I would still be hungry.
When the three of us were escaping from the north, we would become equally hungry and crave food, especially when we had food in front of us. We were all equally hungry.
I would hear the other two men would determine, “Even though our teacher always finishes eating first, I should try, at least once, to put my chopsticks down first,” but once they started to eat, they could never beat me.
Who can put down their chopsticks while the rice bowl still has food in it? Such a person naturally assumes the leadership position in the group. The one who can put down the chopsticks first is the master.
Six kilometers on the tidal flats
When I got out of the prison in North Korea and headed for the thirty-eighth parallel, my thoughts were that I needed to get across the thirty-eighth parallel without fail.
Based on this state of affairs, I had been consulting my intuition and had realized that the situation was rather unfavorable. In my heart, I wanted to cross the border and go south.
We walked out to Yongmae Island on the tidal flats and were the first ones to get on a boat moored there, but a crowd came, and there was a ruckus. What happened was that those who were not the relatives of those soldiers or policemen were all taken off.
All the military were in retreat; how could ordinary people have been permitted on the boat? So, because there was no boat for us, we had to go back to the mainland. We went back and went south across the thirty-eighth parallel.
While we were crossing tidal flats to Yongmae Island, I thought to myself that if I could not make it, Heaven would perish. You should love with the thought in your head that “If I fall by the wayside, where will that leave Heavenly Father?”
Where, then, could you not go?
Immediately after getting out of the Hungnam labor camp, Father had traveled to Pyongyang to look for any remaining followers after his almost 3-year absence. He invested himself for many weeks, but then he reluctantly decided he must move on, and go south where there might be the opportunity to make a new start, even though his country was still embroiled in the terrible civil war, which ironically had rescued him from the death camp. Now that he had survived almost certain death in prison, Father was determined that he would succeed in his mission.
The search and inspection of the Homeland Defense Corps
Many things happened as we fled south. Won-pil wore a winter cap and an overcoat. Because it was freezing, he tucked it in and followed behind me. He looked like a woman. His face and voice were also feminine. At the time, he did not even have a hint of a mustache.
You may not know it, but I keep him near me because there is some element of his ancestral background that matches the providence. This aspect of his background is known only in the spirit world.
A relentless march to the Imjin River in the dead of night
We came out of the North, experiencing all these hardships on the way, and when evening came, all the refugees were worn out from walking. It is exhausting.
That being the case, the others in my group wanted to go into a village and sleep, but I insisted we cross the Imjin River even if it meant walking all night. The others all went to sleep. Because I insisted we go on, my companions must have felt how obstinate Rev. Moon is!
Don’t you think so? They were downhearted. It was night, and everyone else was sleeping, but we three all came down to the Imjin River, pushing the bicycle. When we reached the banks of the river, we slept there. It was about half past one or two in the morning.
It is about thirty kilometers from Cheongdan to the thirty-eighth parallel. We followed that road on a moonlit night. I’ll never forget that. We were so tired that Kim Won-pil dozed as he walked, carrying his bag.
Someone who isn’t aware of the situation might behave like that, but I went faster with every step I took. Something told me we needed to reach the banks of the Imjin by that evening. At times like that, I’m on full alert and implement an emergency plan of operations. I extend my antenna to its fullest.
There was a house there, and just a step away from it was South Korea. No one lived in that house. Though it was ripe with all kinds of smells, I thought it was the blessed land. In an emergency, we’d only have to take one step to reach South Korea.
Across the Imjin River and on to Seoul
My next worry was that the Imjin River would not be frozen, and we wouldn’t be able to cross, but the weather turned cold and it did freeze. So we awoke at the break of day and set out.
The Imjin River was frozen and we could finally cross it. Those behind us were all intercepted by withdrawing UN troops and all of them were sent back. We were the last ones to cross the river. That is how we came to South Korea.
If we had delayed for even a minute, what would have happened? A person’s fate can be determined by time; sometimes it can even be ruined by it. Things like this constantly happen in our everyday lives; how much more would they happen when following the path decreed by Heaven? It was such a serious situation! None of you understands this.
If climbing over a hill meant salvation, should you persistently push others forward, or not? If they don’t want to go, you should force them to go, even if that means seizing them by their necks and dragging them onward. That is love.
Prayer at the thirty-eighth parallel
I cannot forget the prayer I offered as I crossed the thirty-eighth parallel. “Heavenly Father! I am going to South Korea. I came to North Korea but failed to fulfill your will, and with the sorrow of someone who couldn’t succeed, I was confined to a prison here.
Now I am going down to South Korea with others who are also pursuing. I know even as I go down this road, I will have to come back up some day, and if I cannot cross the thirty-eighth parallel to visit North Korea, I will instill my ideology in my descendants and make them go in my stead. If they cannot go, I will have to send my followers.”
I made this resolution before I left. I have fought my way through until now, repeatedly living that same day for a decade. The steps I took after making my pledge before Heaven were different from yours.
I held soil from the thirty-eighth parallel in my cupped hands and resolved, I will demolish communism with these hands, and within a few years, I will return.
It seems like yesterday that I prayed that I would get the free world under control and rally the free world to liberate North Korea. Standing with both feet on the thirty-eighth parallel, I pledged through tears to unite North Korea and South Korea with my hands.
Not even those who came with me knew that I had prayed with tears. I had left my sadness behind me, along with my parents and siblings. I have still not forgotten that, as I left behind me my mother and father, who had devoted themselves to me in my hometown, I asked them to wait for the day this disloyal son returned, to not die but to continue waiting for me.
Called up for military service and physical examination in Seoul
I had cut my hair short before I left North Korea, and when I came to Seoul, I passed through Chang Gyeong Won. There were young soldiers there, who were (now that I think of it) in the Marine Corps.
One of the young men would stop the men passing by and ask them to go here or there—here if he was small and there if he was not. I had recently been released from prison, but I was still stout. I didn’t look emaciated at all.
They were determining my fitness for military service, and since my hair was cut short, they asked, “Where are you from?” Having short hair usually means you’ve been in the army, or you are a deserter. They were suspicious.
“Where are you from? Aren’t you a deserter?” they asked.
Nowadays, there are ways to find out if someone is a deserter or not, but back then, who knew?
“Where did I come from? North Korea, of course,” I answered.
“North Korea?” they responded.
Because of my short hair, they thought I was a spy. At that time, everyone was fleeing for safety, and you could not tell spies and soldiers from ordinary people, so they thought I was a spy.
But the man questioning me felt that if he took me in, and I turned out not to be a spy, he would lose his job, so after examining me, he pronounced me Class C. In other words, he stamped me as having failed.
Thereafter, wherever I went, everything was all right because that certificate was an identification paper (the only one I had), and being Class C, I was allowed to pass anywhere I went.
Afterward, I was registered as a resident of South Korea, and everything was fine for a while until problems arose, and I was confined to prison. How hard do you think they investigated to implicate me in all kinds of ways?
They said, “Oh, he evaded military service. Does he claim he was categorized Class C?” Did he steal the Class C certificate, or did he just pick it up off the ground? Do you think they could implicate me? All kinds of harsh rumors began.
Three months later, I was found innocent and acquitted.
Suffering the disappointment of not being able to gather almost any of his previous followers from Pyongyang, Father joined the countless refugees making their way south to find safer areas.
Despite the perilous crossing into South Korea, Father and his two companions, Pak Jeong-hwa and Kim Won-pil, continued south toward Busan, which was relatively untouched by the war.
The letter from a former follower
Those who followed me in North Korea were very enthusiastic people. They followed me day and night wherever I went, meeting with whomever I met. But after I was imprisoned, most of them disappeared.
Even the most unforgettable among them drifted away. There was one person to whom I wrote a heartfelt letter and had someone deliver it to him. But then, when I went to visit him, he had already changed. He said, “If you are the Son of God, why did you end up in prison? Your teaching is all false.” He didn’t even care to read the letter. Instead, he said, “Oh, a heretic is released from prison! Did you come here to spread your heresy?” I took the letter back.
I was still carrying that letter with me when I passed through Yeongcheon, North Gyeongsang Province, in South Korea. There, as I was crossing a bridge beside the railroad tracks on the way to Busan, I took out that letter and read it one more time. Then I tore it up and threw it away. That was January 18, 1951.
I already knew that even the most zealous among my followers could lose trust, betray me, and leave. When I was in prison, that man’s spirit had come to me, greeted me, and in tears told me the story of his situation, saying, “I am leaving you now.” I had thought, “How can this be?” But, as I later discovered, it was at that time that he left me.
I resolved. A man must have something like that. Though he may not express it in words, he should have a goal, a banner, and dedicate himself day and night to the day on which he can bring his enemies to submission with his hands. There were so many unforgettable incidents like that.
God provided
We came to a farmhouse in North Gyeongsang Province, where it seemed the tenants had fled. We went in and found an old woman and two middle-aged women. We told them we were passing by. It was January.
We offered to sell them our blankets, which we were tired of carrying with us. We told them we didn’t think we’d freeze, though it was a bit cold.
We said, “They may not look so good, but they’re made of good quality cotton wool, and though they’re dirty, they’re basically in good condition. We would like to exchange them for rice.”
They said that they had no white rice but agreed to barter a bag containing about sixteen kilograms of unhusked rice for the blankets.
The bedding would have only weighed us down on our way to Busan. There was no ready-to-be-cooked rice to be found then. We husked it by stamping on it until we were bathed in sweat. We decided we would eat our fill of it.
So we cooked all the rice and made rice cakes, and the three of us sat down and ate. We left only about a bowl of rice, which we gave to the landlady. We had had so little to eat for so long, so we ate to our hearts’ content. We stayed there a while before deciding to go on to Busan.
It took us about fifty-seven days to walk from Hamhung (North Korea). Under the circumstances, I begged for food on the way. What was interesting was that God knew everything so well.
God knew already when we were hungry and worn out. One day, I thought to myself, “The day after tomorrow, we’ll be given some chicken.” Then it happened that a lady came and greeted me, saying, “Welcome.”
I asked, “Who are you? I don’t know you.”
She replied, “Last night, I had a dream of an ancestor of several generations back, who said that a noble guest would come and told me to prepare chicken and rice cakes for him. So I did.”
I asked her, “How did you know what that guest would look like?”
She answered, “I was told he would come as a traveler in worn-out clothes.”
Getting a free ride in a freight car from Ulsan to Busan
Thereafter, we took a ride on whatever was available, whether it was a locomotive, a passenger car, or a freight train. When we saw a freight train, we got on it. Which part of the train do you think we rode on? We rode in the locomotive.
If we fought with the conductor in the front, we would be pushed back, but we could still ride in the rear. We told him that we didn’t expect any favors. We said he would need us when he offloaded freight, so he should let us ride next to him.
If he didn’t, we would then insist that he let us stay anyway. If that didn’t work, there was a bumper at the very front of the locomotive, and we would sit up there.
Overall, it took us two months to reach Busan from Pyongyang.
Which district of Busan did we come to? It was Choryang 1-dong. That place brings back memories. Now it seems deep in the past. I arrived there on January 27, 1951. It seems like yesterday that I stepped off the train at Choryang Station, but a long time has passed since then. At that time, how old was I? I was thirty-one.
A sense of mission and history
You can’t possibly imagine how dirty my clothes became on the way from Pyongyang to Busan. I had recently been released from prison in North Korea, so my hair looked absurd. My silk pants had become jet black, and the silk outer part had deteriorated, so I wore them inside out with the dyed khaki liner on the outside.
Turned inside out, they were just single-layered green pants. That was what I was wearing. I had been wearing the same silk jacket for two months, so it couldn’t have looked any worse.
It was soaked in oily grime to such an extent that when it rained, the raindrops just rolled right off it. I looked like a beggar, and in that wretched guise, I arrived in Busan.
I wore work shoes or sneakers until they no longer had soles. I had to beg for food; how could I possibly have money for shoes? I continued to wear the same pair even though dirt would wedge between my toes. While I was a refugee, I wore just the one outfit for a whole year.
Even though I was dressed in rags, I would think to myself that one day in the future, after our hopes are realized, millions of people would come to look at the rags I had worn.
I thought to myself that I had taken a historic mission on my shoulders, so when my time came, and I was in the environment where my mission could be fulfilled in reality, people would make up a play to act out the scene I was seeing on that day, with the lead actor playing the part of me in a real play.
With that frame of mind, I would make my rounds in rags but with dignity, begging for food with the heart of the leading historical figure. I did not think of myself as unfortunate.
No one can fathom what I pledged in my heart as I was crossing the 38th parallel. Nor can anyone fathom the content of the prayers I offered for the future of the providence in South Korea while I was imprisoned for almost three years in the labor camp at Hungnam, North Korea. No one can imagine my tearful prayers on the day I crossed the 38th parallel amid those sorrowful circumstances.
I can never forget my prayer for my mother and father, who raised me with their utmost love and care, and whom I had to leave behind in my hometown.
I prayed, “Please don’t die. I regret that I had to be unfilial to you, but wait until I return.” I also pledged while I was being tortured by the communists, “I will see the day with my own eyes that I bring your people to submit to God and praise His holy name.
You will testify about Him with your mouths. I will usher in that day before I die.” You cannot fathom these resolutions of mine. They are lodged deep in my heart….
I underwent hardships, but they weren’t just ordinary ones. As we fled south, the North Korean army was so close behind us that we could hear their shouts. Along the way, we went through many dangerous situations due to the presence of the Soviet, Chinese, and North Korean armies.
Finally, we came to the refugee area in Busan. Among the refugees, I believe we were the last ones to reach the area, arriving right after the battle at the Nakdong River. The South Korean forces had made their last stand. My path as a refugee was extremely difficult.
There were many unforgettable stories. While living as a refugee, I had no house; I slept outdoors on the grass or in the sandpits with the sky as my blanket, watching the stars and shedding tears of bitter sorrow for the Korean Peninsula.
These were not just steps in my personal life but steps to heal the wounds of God’s bitter sorrow by paying indemnity for history.
You should understand that from the very beginning, I had already made up my mind that I would not tread a comfortable path. I am not the kind of person who looks back to see if there might have been another, easier way.
Sun Myung Moon