Where does patriotism come from?
Love or loyalty to one’s country is necessary but it is only possible when the country deserves it. (Image: Saving Private Ryan)
What does it mean to love one’s country?
It means to feel pain when the country suffers, and joy when it thrives. It means to be willing to endure risk or loss if such a sacrifice contributes, even in the smallest way, to the nation’s progress.
But what if the only thing my country gives me in return is neglect and discrimination? Can I continue to love it?
Normally, people love the country they are born and raised in without needing any special education. It’s a natural emotion, like loving oneself. It’s an extension of the love one feels for family or neighbors.
But those of us raised in North Korea are given a very specific education about patriotism and it is not the kind of emotion I just described. We are taught that patriotism is the noblest of all feelings. We are taught that it is a feeling that must come before even the love for ourselves.
From childhood, we are told stories about people who sacrificed themselves for the country. And through these stories, we learn that while the body may perish, names and achievements live forever. In other words, we are taught to live in pursuit of immortality through death.
Take the story of Ri Su-bok. He is a prime example of this kind of patriot. In October 1951, during the Korean War, Ri was part of a North Korean attack that was halted because of enemy machine-gun fire. Ri jumped up in front of the machine gun and blocked it with his body, saving his fellow soldiers who were able to advance. He was only 18.
The words he supposedly wrote live on and are now sung in songs that echo among the people.
“My life, my hope, my happiness—none of it is more precious than my country’s fate.
For my one and only homeland, I gladly offer my one and only life.
What could be more noble, beautiful, or great than offering my youth?”
We see from this what the country expects of us. We are raised to become Ri Su-boks, prepared to run whenever the nation calls. During the Arduous March famine, in fact, we were urged in a mass propaganda campaign to become “Ri Su-boks of the 1990s.”
Some do, in fact, die a death similar to his. We call them “suicide warriors.” Their stories are also used to educate and emotionally stir others. They tell of soldiers who strapped bombs to themselves and rushed toward enemy cruisers to sink them.
These war stories send chills to my heart. To be honest, if someone told me to carry a bomb and blow myself up, no matter the eternal life promised, I’d be terrified. Must I really die in such a way? Can’t I just drop the bombs from a distance? Why volunteer to die by carrying them all the way to the target?
Later, I came to understand the logic behind suicide tactics. It was to increase the hit rate.
For example, cruisers have advanced sensors that make it hard for ships to approach within firing range. But an individual can get up close without being detected. These heroes were simply used like this to get around a technological problem.
Such stories bring a question to mind. Does my country truly value my life and the lives of my fellow countrymen? Did those suicide warriors really think their deaths were honorable? Or did they see them as meaningless?
Of course, questioning something deemed sacred is considered treason, so I never voiced these thoughts aloud. I could only whisper to myself, “Please, just let me die of old age.”
Spies dispatched overseas face the same fate. If their mission fails and they’re captured, the country turns its back on them. To hide its own shame, it never acknowledges them as its own.
Worse, the country is disappointed if they fail to get killed. Because the dead can’t talk, what the country wants from us is death. Then they teach us the twisted logic that becoming a prisoner is a form of betrayal.
Have you ever seen a North Korean movie? In battles with the enemy, there’s always one bullet kept so the soldier can commit suicide.
Why does the country always demand our sacrifice? And yet, never even consider sacrificing for us?
The contrast is even more extreme when it comes to foreigners. While ordinary citizens are treated like old shoes, foreigners are treated with utmost hospitality. We don’t have access to good hotel rooms, the internet, or cars in our daily lives. But when foreigners visit North Korea, the government bends over backward to give them every convenience to create a good impression of the country.
Let me say this clearly, the North Korea foreigners see, and the one its own citizens live in, are two entirely different worlds.
As Charlie Chaplin once said, life is a tragedy when seen up close, but a comedy when seen from a distance. North Korea is a place that produces tragic comedies more than anywhere else.
North Koreans dedicate themselves to their country more than anyone else, yet are treated worse than foreigners. If that is the case, what meaning does the nation hold for us?
If the country demands sacrifice but offers us nothing, how can we genuinely love it?
When I was still in North Korea, I watched the movie Saving Private Ryan. It struck me how, in this film, the U.S. government does not turn away from the sorrow of an ordinary mother whose sons were sent to the front. It endures great sacrifice to save just one soldier. The story demonstrates the will of the nation. If a citizen suffers in the line of duty, the country will never abandon him. While the country expects devotion from its people, it, too, will be devoted to them. How could that not move you?
Watching this, I felt the urge to become an American. I wanted to be valued and protected in this way. I read in a book somewhere that even a janitor in America feels proud to be a citizen. Compared to the North Korean who is told to become a human bomb for Kim Jong-un, how much more is that pride worth having?
To be honest, what struck me most after coming to South Korea was that no one forces you to love your country. In this country, I could choose where to live. Similarly, patriotism itself became a matter of choice.
Perhaps globalization is erasing the boundaries of race and nation. Maybe this new way of life has diluted feelings like patriotism or made expressions of such emotions seem eccentric. Still, I always find myself hoping that my adopted country, South Korea, will grow strong. Because I know that when I face difficulties, she will protect me.
And if that faith and determination isn’t patriotism, then what is? The patriotism I believe in isn’t about blind sacrifice or coercion. It’s about loving the country, and the country loving you back.
I don’t expect much from my country. But I do have the faith that my country will be there to save me no matter what. Love or loyalty to one’s country is necessary, but it is only possible when the country deserves it.
Born in Chongjin in 1990, Jang Mi was not a studious child, but under her mother’s influence, she graduated from high school and went on to university to take math and science. She worked as a wedding video editor for seven years until her defection in 2019.
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