Pyongyang Workers Unite

The morning air is thick with humidity, clinging to my skin like a second layer. I can feel it pressing down on me as I walk the familiar path to the communal farm, my boots squelching in the muddy ground. I pass by the grey, concrete buildings that line the streets of Pyongyang, each one identical to the next, each one a testament to our glorious leader’s vision. The portraits of the Kims look down on me from every corner, their eyes following my every move, reminding me of the greatness I serve.

The sun barely peeks through the blanket of clouds, casting a dim light over everything. I think about the last broadcast I watched on the state television, the only channel we have, showing our Supreme Leader visiting a factory, smiling benevolently at the workers, his presence a gift to us all. They told us how he’s tirelessly working to make our lives better, how we’re the envy of the world. I believe it, because why wouldn’t I? The outside world is a mysterious, hostile place, full of enemies waiting to destroy our way of life.

I reach the farm, and the familiar smell of earth and sweat greets me. My comrades are already there, bent over the fields, their backs glistening with effort. I join them, and we work in silence, the only sound the rustle of plants and the occasional barked order from the overseer. The ache in my muscles is a constant companion, but it’s a small price to pay for the honour of contributing to our nation’s prosperity. Each clump of earth I turn over, each seed I plant, is a step towards our bright future.

“Jong-su,” the overseer calls out, his voice gruff. “Take a break.”

I wipe the sweat from my brow and nod, grateful for the brief respite. I sit on a patch of dry ground, my back against a tree, and take a sip of water from my flask. I watch the others, their faces etched with the same weariness I feel. We don’t talk much, there’s no need. We all understand our duty.

My thoughts drift to my family. My wife, Sun-hee, works at the textile factory in the city. She’s always so tired when she comes home, her hands raw from the harsh fabrics, but she never complains. Our son, Min-jun, is at school, learning the history of our great nation, memorising the teachings of the Kims. He’s a bright boy, always asking questions, always curious. I worry sometimes that his curiosity will get him into trouble, but I trust the school to guide him properly.

The siren sounds, signalling the end of our break. I stand up, stretch my aching limbs, and return to the field. The sun has climbed higher, burning through the clouds, and the heat is oppressive. I work mechanically, my mind drifting in and out of focus. I think about the last parade in Kim Il-sung Square, the soldiers marching in perfect unison, the tanks rumbling past, the missiles on display. It was a sight to behold, a reminder of our strength, our invincibility.

Hours pass, the sun dips towards the horizon, and finally, the day’s work is done. I head back home, my steps heavy, my body exhausted. The streets are quieter now, the buildings casting long shadows. I enter our small apartment, greeted by the smell of rice and vegetables. Sun-hee is stirring a pot on the stove, her movements slow and deliberate. She looks up and smiles at me, a weary but genuine smile.

“How was your day?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Good,” I reply, taking off my boots and sitting down at the table. “We made good progress.”

She nods, setting the table for dinner. Min-jun runs in, his face flushed with excitement.

“Appa, guess what we learned today!” he exclaims, his eyes shining.

I smile, ruffling his hair. “What did you learn?”

“We learned about the Juche idea! Teacher says it means we can do anything ourselves, that we’re strong and independent because of our great leaders!”

I nod, pride swelling in my chest. “That’s right, Min-jun. We are a strong nation, thanks to them.”

We sit down to eat, the simple meal a comfort after a long day. We talk about our days, share small moments of joy and laughter. It’s these moments that keep me going, that remind me of what I’m working for. For my family, for our future, for our country.

As the night falls, I lie in bed, listening to the distant sounds of the city, the hum of life continuing on. I think about tomorrow, about the work that awaits, about the endless cycle of toil and reward. I drift off to sleep, my dreams filled with images of fields and factories, of parades and portraits, of a world I know and a future I believe in.