Discipline and Devotion

Color the land red for revolution

With one hand lifting up the falling sky, with the other holding up a glinting scimitar, by one lightning stroke he shakes the whole earth." Thus, in language that might have made Mao Tse-tung blush, does one popular song in North Korea stress the godlike omnipotence of President Kim II Sung, 67. As shrewd and tough as he is vainglorious, Kim since 1948 has been the dictator of a belligerent, doctrinaire state that for sheer xenophobia is rivaled only by Albania inside the Communist world. In pursuit of his goal of reuniting the Korean peninsula under his rule, Kim has gingerly begun to open up his country to the West. Two weeks ago, North Korea's capital, Pyongyang, was the site of the world table tennis championships and reunification talks between Kim and United Nations Secretary-General Kurt Waldheim. Among the few American reporters who have been allowed to travel inside North Korea is TIME Tokyo Bureau Chief Edwin Reingold. His report:

Pyongyang is a mecca for every true son and daughter of the new socialist Korea, and red, appropriately, seems to be the city's favorite color. There is red in the paint freshly applied to the showcase capital, as well as in the cherry and plum trees that fill the parks and line the streets. "Oh, our Pyongyang," sings the chorus in one revolutionary opera. "Beautiful is the red socialist capital. With boundless joy we have come to the Pyongyang we have always longed for. Our leader is here in the revolutionary capital, which is the fountainhead of all our happiness."

The city abounds in parks, playgrounds, monuments and museums dedicated to Kim II Sung. The architecture of public buildings is monumental in scale; lobbies are hung with crystal chandeliers that soar to dizzying heights, while no ceiling seems lower than 15 feet. Statues and busts of Kim are everywhere, as are portraits of him gazing watchfully down on his people.

And they are his people. The litany of praise for Kim and all his works is astonishing; it is a cult of personality without parallel. Kim has been endowed with the attributes of an immortal: he can be in more than one place at the same time, can travel distances at unheard-of speed, and knows all there is to know. In its zeal to create a living legend, North Korea has preserved a bewildering variety of Kim memorabilia: mats he sat on, pencils he used, even an empty jar that had once held kimchi (the potent, spicy relish made from fermented cabbage), which he once "looked into" while visiting a peasant family. Surprisingly, North Koreans know little about the private life of their great father-teacher. Most people do not know the name of his wife (Kim Sung Ae) or how many children he has (at least two). They are, however, aware of his eldest son, Kim Jong II, 36, a party functionary. The official publicity campaign on his behalf suggests that Kim the younger is being groomed to succeed his father.

Indoctrination begins with the children. Their step brisk, their clear voices echoing through the broad and near empty streets of Pyongyang, children can be seen and heard marching to school. They also march to work and study sessions, some as late as 11 p.m. In top-of-the-lung, declamatory style, they keep step and shout back programmed answers describing the young Kim catching a rainbow, stoning hated Japanese ships at anchor, or diligently studying his lessons. Says Mrs. Kim Yung Suk, 55, principal of the September 15 Nursery School: "The great leader told us there is nothing in our country but the children, and they are kings. I used to hear children crying, but not any more. That is why all the people follow the teachings of the great leader Kim II Sung. All the people love the great leader. In the South the people are miserable. Families are separated, and that is why our President says we must have reunification."

North Koreans know almost nothing about the rest of the world. It is estimated that no more than 100 trusted officials are allowed to leave the country with any frequency. Partly as a result, North Koreans are wary of the foreigner, but very inquisitive. They want to know what his nationality is, where such things as Kodak film come from, and if other countries have subways (Pyongyang's lightly traveled, 15-mile underground railway can only be compared with Moscow's for opulence and cleanliness). North Koreans believe that the South is a pitiful place, instead of the booming--if problem-filled--country it is. Out of ignorance, but also out of a nationalism they share with the South, North Koreans are convinced not only that their country is the best in the world, but that they can accomplish any task to which they set their minds. All personal and national goals can be accomplished in the spirit of juche, or self-reliance.

In the countryside, there are hints that life still has much of its traditional character. Old-style tile roofs with gracefully upturned corners mark the many individual family houses still prevalent in the villages, while oxcarts and even pet animals are seen in farming communities. At rice-planting time, as in South Korea, everyone is in the fields, old people as well as children. New technology, however, is being applied, and there are plenty of tractors and rice-transplanting machines at work. The military is more visible in the countryside than in the city. Bridges and major roads have guardhouses, searchlights and portable roadblocks. At rural stations, soldiers can be frequently seen boarding and leaving trains.

It is in Pyongyang, however, that Kim II Sung's new order is more deeply felt. For a city of 1.3 million people, it is curiously still. Factories with as many as a thousand people operate silently behind closed doors. Working hours are staggered, which means that the streets are often more crowded at night than during the day. In Pyongyang, smartly dressed police direct the city's light traffic, but it is the drivers of official Mercedes who take possession of the streets, often scattering the few pedestrians in sight. No wonder bicycles are banned from Pyongyang as "too dangerous."

Still, life is not all work and studies in Kim's thought. On a recent spring Sunday, boys and girls strolled along the capital's Taedong-Gang riverfront; the lady in charge of rowboat rentals blew her whistle constantly to keep the boats in order. A stream of ferryboats carried passengers up and down the river to several recreational grounds. Under the trees, groups of men studied textbooks while others huddled around and kibitzed on chess players. At Ryongwang-Jong Pavilion, girls in colorful silk costumes flirted with boys, took one another's picture or just chatted away like young women anywhere. For a moment, life in this quiet capital seemed naively wholesome, a 19th century tableau of delight in simple pleasures, unaware of any world beyond the self-proclaimed "workers' paradise" made in the shadow of the great and omnipresent leader.

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