Mao Zedong: The aggressive ambitions of imperialists are limitless. The US imperialists waged the aggresive war against Korea on June 25. Their scheme is not only to destroy the DPRK, but also annex Korea, invade China, rule Asia, and even conquer the world.” (As quoted from the Korean War Museum in Dandong, China, Liaoning Province).
Room to room throughout the museum. Propaganda and history lines blend together until I cannot tell which from which.
“The Chinese People’s Volunteers strictly abided by political and military disciplines in Korea 
and always respected the Korean Labor Party, Korean people, People’s Army and its leader Kim Il Sung; observed the policy and law of the Korean Government, respected the habits and customs of Korean people, never took a single needle or a piece of thread from the Korean peopleand took good care of every mountain, river, grass and tree owned by the Korean people.”
“2.9 million Chinese joined the volunteer army.”
“The imperialists used the same old tacticts of the Japanese aggressors.”
“In Pyongyang, every 10 people were affected by one bomb.”
“The US dropped 16470 bombs on Pyongyang.”
After touring the museum and filling myself in on history and propaganda, I walk to the monument to take one more picture dedicated to those who sacrificed themselves for their country and their neighbors. This museum is the first site that I visit during my week in Liaoning Province. As I photograph the monument, four students in white shirts approach me. When they ask me where I’m from, they are pleased to learn that I’m from the US. They are currently students studying tourism in Liaoning. Two of them are locals of Dandong.
“What do you think about Dandong as a tourist destination? Have you been to many places?” The mist begins to pick up again and it starts raining harder.
“Actually, I just got off the train. This is the first place I came to. All I can say is that Dandong has a very informative museum dedicated to the Korean War.” I think back to Mrs Ramsey’s history classes in high school. I remember touching on the Korean War briefly, but it’s memory doesn’t lead a deep impression on me. Instead, I the memory that sticks out the most is her talking about how excited the French were to meet Benjamin Franklin (“primitive man, primitive man!” they would yell).
I receive another message from Policewoman Qu. She’s waiting for me in her car at the bottom of the stairs. Something about the eagerness of her message sends a warning sign to me.
The Lonely Policewoman
Walking down the stairs, I stop to buy some local cakes that are soft as marshmallows. When I reach the bottom of the stairs I see a woman with dyed orange hair waiving at me. It must be Policewoman Qu. Her car is silver and clean. She doesn’t wear a police uniform, but jeans instead. She appears to be in her mid 40s, and I can imagine that she was quite a catch in her 20s.
“Finally, we meet,” she says with a familiar smile. “I hope you can speak Chinese. Come on, get in the car…let’s drive around Dandong!”
It’s not Policewoman Qu’s day off, but she told me that she asked off the morning so that she could come and meet me. I don’t know many police officers in the US who would be able to ask off work so that they could give a stranger a joyride around town.
As we drive, Policewoman Qu alternates between talking about Simon (whom she refers to as 
Tintin), complementing me, and some light references to the girl that is supposed to be the one she wanted to set up with Simon. The girl is her niece, and she is back in town for holiday. She studies Korean in Pyongyang of all places. I’ll meet her this evening. For some reason, I decide to give her niece the nickname, “Sweet Potato,” because her chinese name sounds like the chinese word for the root.
I ask Policewoman Qu to take me to where I can see views of North Korea. Dandong’s proximity to the forbidden country is what really attracts me to the city. Now that I have seen the Korean War Museum, it’s only natural that my interest in North Korea is spiking. Policewoman Qu agrees, and we drive out along the river on a lonely road. The sky is still overcast, and the river is enveloped with fog. We can barely make out the other side. When I do see North Korea on the murky river bank, it’s just a spit of green land, gloomy and even more mysterious than before. I don’t know what to expect or say. The other side looks normal, like any country might: Earth, greenery, water, fog…it’s all the same, and very non-descript. There’s only so much information I can gather while looking at a country from a riverbank. The closer I am, the more questions I have. Does the grass grow differently in North Korea? Does it know it’s North Korean? If I were to walk there, would it accept me? And who the hell is in that boat? Spies? Fisherman? Policewoman Qu seems unfazed by my mood. She continues to smile.
“Isn’t Dandong nice?” she asks. “It’s so quiet here, really. You know, why don’t you move here? You could find a job, easily, teaching English. When North Korea opens up like China did in the 80s, the housing market is going to explode here. Now’s a good time to buy!” This would not be the last time Policewoman Qu pushes me to relocate to Dandong.
Broken Bridge
In the afternoon, Mrs. Qu has to work with the force. She drops me off at a hotel to check in 
and “have a rest.”
“I’ll contact you in the afternoon about meeting up with Sweet Potato! Have a good afternoon.”
I have no plans to rest. I’m only in Dandong for a couple of days, and I want to see more than just Sweet Potato. While it’s still light out, I decide to head to the broken bridge, which was bombed by the American forces in the Korean War and stands as a symbolic reminder of the unfinished conflict. The broken bridge lies directly next to the Chinese/Korean Friendship Bridge which serves as a link between the two countries. When Simon took the train back from North Korea to China he came across this bridge. When Kim Jung Il travels from North Korea to China, he also travels over the river via this bridge. I cannot cross the bridge. Americans are only issued 3 day visas to North Korea, and I never applied for a visa. Visiting the country was not part of my mission. The closest I’ll get to the country is perhaps swimming in the river itself.
When I arrive at the bridge, the rain is pelting down. I can feel my socks beginning to get wet 
inside my shoes. I hate that feeling, but I trudge on. I trudge on, just like the volunteers in Peng DehuaiW‘s army trudged onward to fight the American “imperialists” in the War against American Agression and Aid to North Korea. I trudge on like those brave soldiers on both sides who made the ultimate sacrifice for their brothers across the river in today’s no man’s land of North Korea. I trudge onward as the rain slicks the iron bridge. Walking to the end of the bridge slowly, I come to an abrupt stopping point. The bridge ends halfway across the river. I trudge no further. I know nothing about war. All I know is what I see, and I see a decimated bridge. There are statues of fallen heroes and a general, and there is the museum I visited in the morning. In my own country, there are different statues, other museums, other stories. How can I know them all?
The rain falls heavier upon me and my umbrella. I stand there and look across the river. They looked across the same river. At that time, the bridge was whole. Now, the supports for the broken bridge stand in the river upholding nothing but air, as if they are waiting for the construction crew to finish its completion. Directly next to the broken bridge stands the friendship bridge, proud and ominous at the same time. It is complete and whole. Does its completeness belittle the broken bridge’s incompleteness, or does it vindicate the progress that has been made? I look to where the friendship bridge heads into the trees. Behind the treeline is a motionless ferris wheel. I trudge back to the beginning of the bridge, towards the city of Dandong. General Peng De Huai and his volunteer army wait for me to cross the bridge again, eternally locked in an iron march. I imagine the statues of Americans somewhere far, far away, locked in the same perpetual march.
Sweet Potato
After a walk through the city, Policewoman Qu comes to pick me up in her car so that we can 
take Sweet Potato out for dinner. When she arrives in her car, she’s still wearing her policewoman outfit, and she feels uncomfortable being seen with me this way.
“I’ve got to find a place to change sometime soon,” she says. We drive a few blocks towards where Sweet Potato lives, and Mrs. Qu calls her on her phone.
“Get down here,” she says, “the foreigner is here…I don’t know…just tell him that you’re going out with your aunt,” she tells Sweet Potato over the phone.
A couple of minutes later Sweet Potato exits a nearby apartment building. She is thin as a rail, wears a pink baseball cap, and jeans supported by suspenders. Her hair is piled up in a bun in the Korean style, and she sports shiny black high heels that pain me to watch her walk in. Unfortunately, she also makes the other fashion statement of wearing horn-rimmed glasses without the actual glasses in the frames. Instead of glasses, there is simply empty space. This fad is currently all over China, and it looks ridiculous, always causing me to question people’s intelligence. Despite the moronic fake glasses, I give Sweet Potato the benefit of the doubt.
“If my father knew that I was meeting with a foreigner, he’d beat me!” she says as she gets into the car. “I didn’t tell him, of course.”
As we drive, I’m ecstatic to know more about Sweet Potato’s studies in Pyongyang. Has she seen Kim Jung Il? What are the North Koreans like? How many North Korean friends does she have there? What are the living conditions like? Having Sweet Potato in the car to talk with is almost like having Pandora’s Box directly in front of me. Unfortunately, just as her fashion sense has disappointed me, so do her answers. She tells me that she rarely comes into contact with North Koreans, even in North Korea! The Chinese students live in a separate dorm, and she only really uses her Korean language when she goes out to the market.
“I’ve got lots of friends in school, but not really any North Korean friends. The school separates us. Our teachers are North Korean, but that’s about it.” I’m reminded of when I taught English in Jiangxi Province and during the second year of teaching a group of around 200 Indian students came to study medical aesthetics at the university. They came with their own teachers and cooks as well, and there was little effort to integrate them with the local students and population. I thought the university squandered a great opportunity for cross-cultural integration by segregating all of the Indian students in the same dormitory. It seems like Sweet Potato’s school in Pyongyang is even more stubborn in this respect, which is not surprising, but too bad.
When we park for dinner, it’s already dark. Policewoman Qu tells us to get out of the car first and walk ahead a bit.
“I’ve got to get out of this uniform. Feels strange. You two lovebirds, go ahead, alright Garlic Head?” she winks at me. Mrs. Qu now calls me “garlic head.” Garlic Head? Why does she call me this? Is it because I call her niece ‘sweet potato?’ And what’s with the lovebirds?
Sweet Potato and I walk towards a cluster of food stands. It’s finally stopped raining, and we’re now next to the river, which is lit up at night. Sweet Potato and I don’t have much to say to one another. She can’t tell me much about North Korea, and she keeps checking her phone for messages. Only 19 years old, I feel the age gap yawning between the two of us, even more so than with myself and Mrs. Qu. A couple of minutes later, Mrs. Qu comes out from her car, sporting tight-fitting jeans.
“Much better,” she says. She treats me to a meal of noodles, made of…sweet potato. A neighboring diner treats me to some kebabs, wanting to make friends with “an American.” Despite trying to refuse the kebabs, the onslaught keeps on coming. The meal is simple, but good. Neighbors abound.
Nothingness
After dinner, Mrs. Qu tells us she wants to repark her car. Once again she tells Sweet Potato and myself to go ahead without her, and walk towards the river.
“You can go across that bridge. There’s a small island you can take him to walk around, Sweet Potato. We passed it earlier today on the drive.” Mrs. Qu drives in the opposite direction to park. I have no idea where she’s going.
As we walk, I suddenly get the sinking feeling that Mrs. Qu is trying to play matchmaker for the 
two of us, yet Sweet Potato has no clue. I have no interest in chasing this girl. My mission was to check her out for Simon, and I feel the mission has been accomplished. Like any mission, however, the objective can change easily, with a change of command. Simon is nowhere around, and Policewoman Qu has taken the steering wheel of this mission. I detect that Mrs. Qu is now issuing a new mission for me, leaving me to fend for myself with Sweet Potato. This youngster is attractive, but there’s not much to talk about…just a nothingness, and waiting for the next phone call on her part. Her hand is always on her mobile phone. We walk out to the edge of the river, and the air is quiet and cool, no more rain. The small island in the middle of the river gives us a good night view of Dandong’s scenery. The sky is lit up with the lights of China. Dandong looks like any other city at night, except for one gigantic difference. On the other side of the river is North Korea, and nothingness. We walk ahead to where we can see the Broken Bridge and the Friendship Bridge. It’s a very odd site. The Friendship Bridge is lit up immaculately, almost gaudily. It sparkles in the night sky like a Christmas tree. The light shoots outward from the city of Dandong, across the river. In the river, into the trees, the light dies. Absorbed into the nothingness of North Korea, there are no specks of life in the darkness. Swallowed whole by the forest, by the Earth, the light cannot penetrate even the skin of the country across the river. Sweet Potato and I stare across at the emptiness. The ferris wheel never moves.
comes from the powers-that-be, from somewhere above, from up “on high.” The Man gives you the order and you take it. You take it like a man. You think of the men in the movies who came before you: John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, James Bond. They never let the Man down. It may not be easy, but they get the getting when it needs to be got. The word. The mission. Everything else comes second.
as I deboard the train in Dandong, dwarfing all other lifeforms at his feet. He gestures his arm outward, beckoning me to come into the folds of his city, his country, his world. The color of the statue is dark brown, and the light of day is still ominous. A mist envelops my face. 
easily be divereted. She is my contact and I need to rendevous with her in order to get to the Simon’s girl, the ultimate prize and goal for my assigned task. However, the pages of history are to come between me and Policewoman Qu. I know that Dandong is the site of the only museum in China devoted to the U.S./North Korean War. It’s a war that I know little about, and I feel compelled as an American to go and visit the museum where I am the enemy. I must surmount this monumental hurtle before meeting Policewoman Qu. I must head into history’s territory and enemy grounds, brushing shoulders with the “War to Resist American Aggression and Aid North Korea.” Veering away from the morning’s mission, I stubbornly take a bus to the war’s museum and monument after a quick early meal of greasy eggplant. When I see the phallic stone symbolizing the Chinese volunteers’ army sacrifice in the war looming above me, I wonder if I will overcome this first hurtle. The mission drifts farther and farther back into the recesses of my brain. The mist becomes heavier and heavier. I can feel the my clothes beginning to bog me down. It’s not even midday and my bag is starting to feel heavy on my back. I walk up a lifelessly colored stairway closer and closer to the monument at the top. War stands before me. I must confront the history that I never knew. Along with the ever increasing mist in the air, the mission has evaporated for the time being, and life suddenly becomes much more complicated…
just about the closest I’ll ever come to traveling back in time without the use of a time machine. Latin. Ancient Greek. Coptic. Sanskrit. Some people have never even heard of these languages, much less imagined that they were once widely spoken. People used them for commerce, to govern, to flirt with, to issue edicts. Someone long ago, before being executed, spoke his last words in Latin. Now where are these languages? Gone. Blown aside by history’s dust, and the high rises of today. They have either merged with new languages, or else they have been completely destroyed, rolled over by the modern world’s inertia and way of thought. Dead Languages. Toilets flush over the railway tracks and the train moves on.