Every Falling Star

My toy soldier peers over a mound of dirt not far from where my father, abeoji, my mother, eomeoni, and I have just finished our picnic, near the Daedong River in Pyongyang.

My father and I are setting up the toy soldiers to reenact one of the decisive battles in which our eternal leader, Kim Il-sung, ousted the Japanese army from our country, Joseon—or, as most in the West know it, North Korea. My father is in charge of the Japanese troops. My own troops are separated, with part of my army standing behind my general. The rest are hidden in a bush near the river. My father’s army is positioned in the middle.

I am carrying a wooden pistol that my father carved and painted for me. My mother is play-acting as my army nurse. The blanket on which we had our picnic is now the hospital.

My father has drawn a thick Hitler-like mustache on his general using my eomeoni’s eyebrow pencil. She’s not happy because he broke the tip. In fact, every time my father and I play war games, he uses—and ruins—her makeup to decorate his toy soldiers.

“Okay, your general will be our eternal leader, Kim Il-sung,” my mother snaps. She is very testy today. She really wants to defeat my father. “Since we don’t have telephones or walkie-talkies, our troops need a way to communicate with each other. So take these.” She slips some smooth stones into my hand. I know what she is about to say next. She is going to use my father’s own military tactics, which he taught me during other war games, against him. “Designate one of your soldiers to be in charge of relaying your general’s orders to your troops who are trapped on the other side of the Japanese. This soldier must sneak through the forest and, at the big rock,” my mother says, pointing, “lay stones so that your other troops know what the eternal leader wants them to do. The stones are codes. One stone means stand down, it’s too dangerous to attack; two stones mean get ready; three stones mean attack the Japanese when the moon hits the sky at the highest point in the night.”

I bow to my mother and pick up one of my sergeants. I make him my guerrilla messenger. He will steal through the pine and oak trees, leaving my coded stone orders by the big rock.

I can feel it in the air. Victory. After all, Joseon always wins. We are the best country on earth!

I’m six years old.

Little do I know this military tactic will one day come to save my life.