TIME Asia | My Night With the Dear Leader

	SOUTH KOREA	MARCH 2, 1998 VOL. 151 NO. 8
My Night With the Dear Leader At least that's who he said he was. But then, reunification can be deceiving BY DONALD MORRISON t had been a long day of interviewing economists, foreign policy experts, officials of the outgoing government and potential members of the Kim Dae Jung cabinet. Back in my Seoul hotel room, I was trying to make se nse of my notes. There seemed to be as many opinions as there were sources: Kim had a good grasp of the issues; Kim was an inexperienced bumbler. He had surrounded himself with brilliant advisers; his team had been out of power so long they hadn't a clue. He would be too soft on North Korea; he was just the man to make reunification a reality. I suppose I was dozing when the doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone, so I looked out the peephole and saw a small, forlorn-looking man, dripping wet in a trench coat and fedora. "I must talk to you," he said in Korean-accented English. In retrospect, I realize how rash it was to have opened my hotel room door to a stranger. But I was curious about this odd figure. He was wet. It hadn't rained here in days. He brushed past me. "I am Kim Jong Il. You can call me Dear Leader. Most people do." I lunged for the phone to alert hotel security that a madman had penetrated my chamber. But then I took a good look at him. Darned if he wasn't a dead ringer for North Ko rea's leader: the same fuzzy pompadour, pale freckled complexion and slight paunch I had seen in photos of him at the 1996 funeral of his father, "Great Leader" Kim Il Sung. I concluded the guy was a kcia plant, or maybe a North Korean intelligence operat ive, surgically altered to resemble the younger Kim. "What do you want?" I demanded. He reflected a moment. "Actually, a steak would be nice, medium rare. Or maybe some chicken, sauteed in white wine. With rice. Lots of rice. And ice cream. Do you think room service is still operating?" I grabbed his arm and was propelling him to the door when he added, "No, of course we can't call room service. Someone would recognize me. That's why I didn't go through the lobby. I have a message for you to give to Kim Dae Jung." I hesitated. How did he know I was scheduled to interview South Korea's President-elect the very next morning? "We have great respect for your magazine." he continued. "My father was a longtime subscriber." He gazed wistfully at the far wall. "I miss my f ather. Hey, a mini-bar!" He was halfway through the jar of Planters peanuts when I had the presence of mind to ask, "How did you get here?" "By submarine, of course. We send them here all the time. Occasionally they go aground, like that one last year. Boy, did Seoul get ticked off by that little mistake." By now, he was finished with the peanuts and ripping the lid off a can of Pringles pota to chips. "We were doing fine there for a while. Prime-ministerial talks in '91, progress on family visits, investment and so forth. But then another President, Kim Young Sam, comes along and thinks we're getting too cozy with the U.S. What a jerk." He to ssed back the last of the Pringles as if he were downing a shot of whiskey. Soon he was chewing his way through the Toblerone chocolate bar, chasing each bite with slugs from a can of Sprite. "Anyway, it's a new era now. A new President. A new chance to s tart over." "You want direct talks with the South?" I asked. "Of course," he said. "My country's falling apart. My people are starving. The world is passing us by. Seinfeld is going off the air, and we don't even have satellite TV yet. My father would spin in his grave if he heard me say it, but it's time we forgot all this juche self-reliance stuff and joined the family of nations." And that's how it began. For the next few hours, he talked nonstop about the prospects for Korean reunification ("inevitable"), the famine that had reduced his country to penury ("people are dying by the thousands"), the 37,000 U.S. troops in South Korea ("a useful counterbalance to China and Japan"), the North's nuclear weapons program ("a joke"), its million-man army ("an even bigger joke"). As dawn broke over the Seoul skyline, he abruptly looked at his watch. "Oops, I'll miss my sub," he said and, gra bbing his hat and coat, headed for the door. "Wait," I cried. "What's the message you want me to give to Kim Dae Jung?" He surveyed the floor, littered with empty cellophane packages and aluminum drink cans, the detritus of contemporary global fast-food culture. "I'm hungry," he said. "Tell him I'm hungry. He was in prison for a half dozen years. He'll understand." As I tried to stop the man from leaving, the telephone rang. He scampered out the door and headed for the window at the far end of the corridor. I contemplated going after him but for some reason turned back to the ringing phone. It was my wake-up call. I was grateful for someone to whom I could recount the evening's bizarre events. I had mumbled only a few sentences about my famous visitor when the operator cut me short. "Oh, that," she said matter-of-factly. "We get it all the time, though not usually f rom foreigners. It was about reunification, right?" she guessed correctly, her words serving as a fine cautionary message to South Korea's new President. "Don't worry. It's only a dream."
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At least that's who he said he was. But then, reunification can be deceiving

BY DONALD MORRISON

t had been a long day of interviewing economists, foreign policy experts, officials of the outgoing government and potential members of the Kim Dae Jung cabinet. Back in my Seoul hotel room, I was trying to make se nse of my notes. There seemed to be as many opinions as there were sources: Kim had a good grasp of the issues; Kim was an inexperienced bumbler. He had surrounded himself with brilliant advisers; his team had been out of power so long they hadn't a clue. He would be too soft on North Korea; he was just the man to make reunification a reality.

I suppose I was dozing when the doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone, so I looked out the peephole and saw a small, forlorn-looking man, dripping wet in a trench coat and fedora. "I must talk to you," he said in Korean-accented English. In retrospect, I realize how rash it was to have opened my hotel room door to a stranger. But I was curious about this odd figure. He was wet. It hadn't rained here in days.

He brushed past me. "I am Kim Jong Il. You can call me Dear Leader. Most people do." I lunged for the phone to alert hotel security that a madman had penetrated my chamber. But then I took a good look at him. Darned if he wasn't a dead ringer for North Ko rea's leader: the same fuzzy pompadour, pale freckled complexion and slight paunch I had seen in photos of him at the 1996 funeral of his father, "Great Leader" Kim Il Sung. I concluded the guy was a kcia plant, or maybe a North Korean intelligence operat ive, surgically altered to resemble the younger Kim. "What do you want?" I demanded.

He reflected a moment. "Actually, a steak would be nice, medium rare. Or maybe some chicken, sauteed in white wine. With rice. Lots of rice. And ice cream. Do you think room service is still operating?" I grabbed his arm and was propelling him to the door when he added, "No, of course we can't call room service. Someone would recognize me. That's why I didn't go through the lobby. I have a message for you to give to Kim Dae Jung."

I hesitated. How did he know I was scheduled to interview South Korea's President-elect the very next morning? "We have great respect for your magazine." he continued. "My father was a longtime subscriber." He gazed wistfully at the far wall. "I miss my f ather. Hey, a mini-bar!" He was halfway through the jar of Planters peanuts when I had the presence of mind to ask, "How did you get here?"

"By submarine, of course. We send them here all the time. Occasionally they go aground, like that one last year. Boy, did Seoul get ticked off by that little mistake." By now, he was finished with the peanuts and ripping the lid off a can of Pringles pota to chips. "We were doing fine there for a while. Prime-ministerial talks in '91, progress on family visits, investment and so forth. But then another President, Kim Young Sam, comes along and thinks we're getting too cozy with the U.S. What a jerk." He to ssed back the last of the Pringles as if he were downing a shot of whiskey. Soon he was chewing his way through the Toblerone chocolate bar, chasing each bite with slugs from a can of Sprite. "Anyway, it's a new era now. A new President. A new chance to s tart over."

"You want direct talks with the South?" I asked.

"Of course," he said. "My country's falling apart. My people are starving. The world is passing us by. Seinfeld is going off the air, and we don't even have satellite TV yet. My father would spin in his grave if he heard me say it, but it's time we forgot all this juche self-reliance stuff and joined the family of nations."

And that's how it began. For the next few hours, he talked nonstop about the prospects for Korean reunification ("inevitable"), the famine that had reduced his country to penury ("people are dying by the thousands"), the 37,000 U.S. troops in South Korea ("a useful counterbalance to China and Japan"), the North's nuclear weapons program ("a joke"), its million-man army ("an even bigger joke"). As dawn broke over the Seoul skyline, he abruptly looked at his watch. "Oops, I'll miss my sub," he said and, gra bbing his hat and coat, headed for the door.

"Wait," I cried. "What's the message you want me to give to Kim Dae Jung?"

He surveyed the floor, littered with empty cellophane packages and aluminum drink cans, the detritus of contemporary global fast-food culture. "I'm hungry," he said. "Tell him I'm hungry. He was in prison for a half dozen years. He'll understand."

As I tried to stop the man from leaving, the telephone rang. He scampered out the door and headed for the window at the far end of the corridor. I contemplated going after him but for some reason turned back to the ringing phone. It was my wake-up call. I was grateful for someone to whom I could recount the evening's bizarre events. I had mumbled only a few sentences about my famous visitor when the operator cut me short. "Oh, that," she said matter-of-factly. "We get it all the time, though not usually f rom foreigners. It was about reunification, right?" she guessed correctly, her words serving as a fine cautionary message to South Korea's new President. "Don't worry. It's only a dream."