Dispatch

Kim Watch

For a second time in four months, the South Korean press stampedes to cover the Dear Leader's unexpected visit to China.

On Thursday, two trains quietly arrived at the Jilin railway station in China's northeastern province, bordering North Korea. The first one carried North Korean security guards, who disembarked and checked the safety of the area, including looking for hidden explosives on the railway tracks. Two minutes later, a second train, with opaque windows, arrived. This one, at least according to the South Korean media, carried a special guest: North Korean leader Kim Jong Il.

The Dear Leader stepped off the special bullet-proof train, which is often described in press reports as a "five-star hotel that runs on the railways" -- complete with satellite communication equipment, plus a separate bedroom and office. It runs at 150 to 180 kilometers per hour and yet allegedly tracks so smoothly that even cups don't shake.

North Korean leader Kim Jong Il is believed to be making a secretive visit to China for meetings related to the leader's heir and the nuclear deal. It is not clear whether the heir, Kim's youngest son, is along for the ride.

Both Beijing and Pyongyang have so far kept mum on the visit. But multiple diplomatic sources in China said that they believe Kim is in the country. International media organizations with bureaus in Beijing swiftly dispatched their reporters to the border city.

Kim's China trip came as a surprise. Indeed, he had been thought to be meeting with former U.S. President Jimmy Carter, who arrived in North Korea just a day earlier to seek the release of a U.S. citizen held there since January.

Instead, according to South Korean reports, drawing on local eyewitness accounts, Kim paid a visit to a middle school in Jilin, the city that his father, Kim Il Sung, who founded North Korea in 1945, attended for two years. Reportedly riding in an old Mercedes-Benz, Kim also visited a memorial park where Koreans and Chinese together fought against the Japanese decades ago.

The motives for his visit remain murky. Kim last visited China in May and met with Chinese President Hu Jintao and Premier Wen Jiabao. Making another visit, only three months later, raises eyebrows. "Kim Jong Il just visited China. Why he has to come back again?" Lu Chao, a Chinese expert on North Korea at the Liaoning Academy of Social Sciences, near the North Korean border, told me. Other press reports have suggested that the surprise visit to China is to seek greater economic aid, but Lu doesn't buy it. "For that kind of matter, he doesn't have to come himself."

South Korea's official Yonhap news agency cited an unnamed government official saying the aged dictator is seeking China's endorsement for his heir. But Chung Se-hyun, South Korea's former unification minister, pooh-poohed that notion, which he believes to be too simplistic. "That's nonsense. Although North Korea is economically dependent on China, the nature of their relationship is not like that. North Korea can just notify China about [a change in leadership]," Chung told me.

Absent definitive explanations, the South Korean press is having a field day.

Journalists who descended upon the remote border city of Jilin have yet to film Kim, as they managed to do in May, when he was spotted at a hotel in the Chinese coastal city of Dalian. Yet South Korean reporters have managed to gather accounts of local people seeing him. According to these accounts, Kim stayed Thursday night at the Wusong Hotel, a deluxe hotel 10 kilometers northeast from the downtown Jilin city near the scenic Songhua River. Likely the hotel was not chosen for its scenery, but for its isolated location. Some journalists attempted to enter the hotel, but they were turned away by security guards.

And of course none of this sheds any light on why the aged leader Kim Jong Il, 68, who remains in frail health since recovering from a stroke that paralyzed half of his body and who is reportedly on dialysis three times a week, made the arduous journey once again to China.

But expect more feverish coverage in the days to come, with every available detail of Kim's visit reported with great fanfare. In this sense, with few substantive facts to report, coverage of the Dear Leader's visit resembles more that of a celluloid celebrity than a politician.

GETTY IMAGES/ Undated photo released by North Korea's Central News Agency

Dispatch

Maoists in Limbo

Nepal's former insurgents now pass the time in camps scattered throughout the countryside. But are they integrating into society -- or just biding their time until the next round of fighting?

JHYALTUNGDADA, Nepal -- Until four years ago, Jhyaltungdada was nothing more than a dense forest with sal and sissoo trees, with maybe a dozen houses spread across the hill, about a mile apart. Villagers hesitated to walk down to the river to fetch drinking water -- they claimed that mountain tigers and jackals roamed around after sunset.

Today a winding single-lane gravel road runs to the top of this remote hill in western Nepal, through the village, ending at a helipad. The villagers have electricity and access to water at their doorsteps -- all thanks to about 900 Maoist combatants who moved here after the rebels signed a peace agreement with the government in 2006. Months after their arrival, this small village was connected to a major highway, linking it to the capital city of Katmandu.

The armed revolution was launched in 1996 by a handful of rebels who studied and admired Chinese Communist leader Mao Zedong's works and wanted to implement them in this Himalayan country. Their goal was to abolish the country's monarchy and establish a regime run by the peasant class. With more than half the population living in poverty, the Maoists quickly developed a following by vowing to provide economic and political equality to large swaths of the country's marginalized communities. The insurgency took the country by storm for a decade, killing about 12,500 people and leading to the abolition of the country's 240-year-old monarchy in May 2008.

Four years ago, the Maoists signed a peace agreement with the government. Under the conditions of the deal, the rebels' arms and ammunition were placed in cantonments monitored by the United Nations, while the fighters, later known as the People's Liberation Army, were assigned to camps throughout the country like the one at Jhyaltungdada. Although the United Nations is technically supervising these places, the Maoists are confined to the camps only on paper. At Jhyaltungdada, the rebels roam around freely, some often traveling to Katmandu to meet senior Maoist leadership.

Both the United Nations and the interim government realized that it would be dangerous to keep the rebels en masse, unemployed and unpaid, in these camps. To remedy this problem, the peace agreement calls for the government to pay the former Maoist fighters a salary of about $67 a month and provide them with $1 per diem for food. But while they wait inside the walls that the government built for them, the former rebels are growing stronger and more ideologically committed, and they boast that they are mentally and physically prepared to once again pick up their guns and head to the hills.

The Maoists here live in small huts mostly made of wood and cement -- the higher-ranking commanders have brick walls with black enamel painted along the edges. In a village that thrives on agriculture, these former rebels are the only people who do not have to work for their living. Just beyond the last sentry post, elderly villagers are busy stacking hay to feed the livestock, and women are prepping their farms to plant turmeric this fall. Inside the Fourth Division headquarters of the People's Liberation Army, the rebels train in martial arts, play volleyball, and spend afternoons at the only canteen in the village, where they eat noodles with dried buffalo meat and drink their beverage of choice, Red Bull.

"We love it because it is called Red Bull," said Basudev Ghimire, the division's vice commander, who sports a thick moustache and a large belly, as he guzzled an entire can in one gulp. "It's a color we associate with revolution, and it gives us a lot of energy."

Energy, along with impatience. As the Himalayan country pushes its deadline to come up with a new constitution into next year, nearly 20,000 combatants are restlessly waiting in seven major and 21 satellite cantonments spread throughout the country, hoping to be integrated into the national security forces, which they fought to a bloody stalemate four years ago. The fate of the new republic largely depends on how the government and the Maoists decide to handle their foot soldiers.

While the political circus continues in Katmandu, the rebels at Jhyaltungdada are finding ways to make their government-assisted living productive. They wake before dawn and change into navy-blue tracksuits to exercise for several hours. A battalion or two wears full-fledged military fatigues, though some individuals sport flip-flops because there are not enough combat boots to go around -- and exercise for several hours. Ghimire takes a "morning walk" with a half dozen of his administrative staff members, one of whom always holds an old black Nokia cell phone with a makeshift antenna to listen to the radio.

With no jobs and no need to earn a living, rebels resort to a basic routine -- eat, exercise, surf the Internet, play soccer, and sleep. Breakfast typically consists of a lukewarm soup of chickpeas and potatoes, with a slight hint of coriander. Over the meal, rebels occasionally discuss the latest developments in Katmandu politics. It is not hard to see that anger simmers below the mundane routine: Rebels curse political leaders from other parties as "thieves," "robbers," and "donkeys." One of the battalion leaders called the prime minister a "son of a prostitute."

But the rebels have also found time to dabble in interests that are a world apart from their former life as rural insurgents. One of their favorite pastimes during the day is finding new friends on Facebook, using computer workstations newly purchased by their leadership from a nearby city. Inside the administrative building in Jhyaltungdada, rebels crop and resize their head shots for their Facebook profiles.

Two of the rebels even had the State Department's diversity green card lottery application open on their browsers. When asked whether they thought the United States would give them permanent residency, given their involvement in an armed insurrection, Khum Bahadur, a fighter who lost a leg after getting shot during the war, showed optimism. "America gives everyone a second chance," he said. "Why not us?"

But even among the most broad-minded of these rebels, their revolutionary ideology is stronger than their love for the Internet or fascination with a Western lifestyle. The Maoists with Facebook profiles also sing the praises of communism and revolution. Inside the camps, indoctrination runs deep: Under the shade of the thick trees, young men hold long discussions about war, Marxism, Leninism, and Maoism. Some boast about the ambushes they led against the national army during the height of the insurgency. Here in the village, where the only English words one can see are on the labels of Coca-Cola bottles and Red Bull cans, these former guerrillas, many of whom dropped out of high school to join the insurgency, discuss Carl von Clausewitz's On War and Sun Tzu's The Art of War. When asked whether they read anything besides communist and military theory, a 24-year-old veteran of the revolution was quick to respond. "I've read Barack Obama's book, the one about audacity."

Although the government has hoped to rehabilitate the rebels by mixing them with the larger society, the Maoists are instead utilizing that opportunity to regroup, strategize, and emerge stronger and united. The former guerrillas also have reinforced their belief that progress comes from the barrel of a gun. Barsha Man Pun, a senior leader in the Maoist politburo, who at one time commanded the entire People's Liberation Army, argued that the West's disapproval of their revolution is hypocritical. "George Washington picked up a gun. The British beheaded their kings, and the Russians killed their czars," Pun said. "If we can achieve modernism by minimum change like that, we are lucky."

The Maoists admit that there are times when they feel like they have been betrayed by the government -- free to roam, but nowhere to go. But even among the grumpy Maoists, there are some who see the benefit of living on a hilltop for free, allowed to train all day and night. "Where have you ever heard of the government feeding its enemies and letting them hone their anger?" said comrade Shiva, a young rebel who wants to join the Maoist politburo one day.

There is a growing sense of discontent among the rebels, born out of the belief that their mission is still incomplete. Abolishing the monarchy was an important achievement, but core issues like redistribution of land, secularizing the national military, and establishing a socialist regime remain unaccomplished.

Villagers here love the Maoists. During a tour of the camp and the village immediately outside the sentry post with a young rebel, a farmer offered him mangoes from his orchard, a serving of fermented millet alcohol, and even a rooster, which he politely declined. The Maoists started their revolution from rural areas such as this, and their core base of support remains intact to this day. The villagers are raising goats and chickens for the Maoists, so that a feast waits right outside their doorstep during major holidays. Every day is a holiday in the camps, one Maoist told me matter-of-factly.

Before meeting any of the Maoists' demands, including their possible integration into the national security forces, major political leaders have asked them to first put an end to their paramilitary structure -- a message the Maoists have ignored. Last month, they installed fresh wooden poles on their outdoor volleyball court. The same month, one of the commanders went to a nearby city to buy three more computer workstations so that more people have Internet access inside the camps.

In June, Nepalese Prime Minister Madhav Kumar Nepal announced his resignation after coming under Maoist pressure. But leading political parties, including the Maoists, have not been able to come to a consensus on who will lead the new government.

Ripples from the deadlock can be felt all the way to New Delhi: Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh recently sent a special envoy to speak with Nepalese politicians in an attempt to create a consensus among political parties. Although there isn't any concrete evidence linking these rebels to the Maoist insurgency raging in India, New Delhi fears that Maoist gains in Nepal could embolden its own domestic insurgency and also move Nepal closer to India's rival, China. For these reasons, some have seen India's recent meddling as a conspiracy to keep the former guerrillas out of government.

As the political stalemate gets worse, the Maoists have toughened their rhetoric; some have even hinted that failure to integrate them into security forces could lead to another revolution. "We can't always live inside these camps like herds of goat," said Vice Commander Sharma. "We were forced to pick up arms once, and we certainly won't hesitate to do it again."

After all, their guns sit within massive containers inside the United Nations compound in the camp. The commander says he has the keys, and, conveniently enough, the guard standing in front of the containers with a rusty rifle wears a green camouflage hat with a big red star stitched in the center.

Anup Kaphle