The Rev. J. P. Kang
In July 1985, I flew from Tokyo to Pyongyang via Beijing and Shanghai as part of a delegation of half a dozen expatriate Koreans visiting family. I was thirteen and had never known deprivation; everyone else was over fifty and returning to a place that held vivid memories of violence and suffering. My father, who was born in Pyongyang in 1934, sent me with a 35 mm film camera to record memories.