Free My Holiday in North Korea by Wendy E. Simmons

principal, a handsome and winsome man, was also acting as our local guide. He walked over to our car to greet us. There was something in the way he parted his hair, the blackness of his shoes, and the cut and shape of his uniform that made me keep thinking he would be better suited standing on the bow of a ship or the bridge of the Starship Enterprise .
    He escorted us into the school, which was clean, and colorful in the North Korean chalky, muted way (imagine Pepto-Bismol pink as a paint color that was also available in blue, yellow, and green). But it was cheerful and encouraging, and thanks to the many windows, not terribly dark (there were no lights on anywhere), and Principal seemed genuinely proud as he showed us the school’s math wall of fame.
    Next we were led upstairs to observe an English class, supposedly a normal class already in session.

    I was ushered into the back of the classroom, along with quite a crew: Fresh Handler, Older Handler, and Driver; the same three British tourists from the factory, who happened to be teachers themselves; their Danish liaison/international guide, their two North Korean guides, and their driver; three to five other teachers (supervisors?); and the principal. The students were completely undisturbed by all the people and commotion. Guess they’d been part of this goat rodeo before.
    The British tourists’ Danish guide had pulled me aside as we were walking into the classroom so he could remind me what a rare opportunity this was for me to see “real people doing normal things.” I tried to shake off the memory of yesterday’s Children’s Palace fiasco, so I could approach today’s English class with an open mind. Then Danish Guide proceeded to tell me in specific, near minute-to-minute detail what we were about to see, making his advice a bit harder to heed.
    The children (mostly boys with a few girls positioned at the head of the class) were attentive and mirthful as the teacher, outfitted in a purple-polyester pantsuit, enthusiastically pointing-sticked her way through the lesson. I alternated between snapping photos and trying to read over the students’ shoulders, as I naturally contemplated how much of what I was seeing was staged.
    As Danish Guide had predicted, we were next invited to take turns coming to the front of the room to field questions from the class. I chose to hang back, as I’m strangely introverted in situations like these, and I wanted to observe and take more photos instead.
    With the Great Supreme dead ones smiling brightly behind them, the Brits took turns fielding predetermined, rehearsed questions from the students, who took turns raising their hands for permission to stand. They asked about who the Brits were, and where they were from, and for help with the English lesson the teacher had planned.
    Although the studio-audience members (the students) were obviously plants, and their questions clearly preplanned, the answers the Brits gave and the students’ subsequent reactions could not be. I wondered how and why the powers that be would take such a risk?
    Perhaps this anticipation of knowing that anything could happen because kids are kids, and even well-trained ones make mistakes and accidentally (or purposely) say the wrong (or right) thing at the wrong (or right) time, explained the nervous energy I sensed and the preponderance of handlers in the room. After all, out of the mouths of babes falls truth.
    That familiar refrain was running circles in my head: What risks are they taking, anyway? If everyone in North Korea truly believes their lives are so great, and everything is so perfect, then what are they working so hard to hide? Everyone knows nowhere is perfect, so why not just let kids be kids, since most kids really are all right?
    I snapped back to attention when the class burst into laughter. It seemed one of the Brits—who was, no joke, an English teacher—was having a tough time teaching the English lesson on the board. A closer