As Pyongyang, the graphic novel by Guy Delisle, makes clear, illustration is an ideal tool for capturing the isolation and paranoia of North Korea. Part of the reason is necessity; the use of cameras and video recorders is strictly controlled in the police state, making recaptured sketches the most effective means of presenting the place’s absurdities. But the subjectivness of drawing is essential too, providing a means of capturing the subtext of glances and gestures when a more literal presentation might betray the gap between what North Koreans may believe and what they’re forced to say they believe instead.
“There’s a question that has to be burning on the lips of all foreigners here,” the author says, “a question you refrain from speaking out loud…but one you can’t help asking yourself: Do they really believe the bullshit that’s being forced down their throats?”
That question lies at the heart of the narrative, and it’s one that’s never answered definitively. A Canadian animator, Delisle is in North Korea on a job with a French animation company. Despite its repression, North Korea is the cheapest place in the world for this kind of labor, and so the companies come.
Restricted to a hotel for non-native visitors, he is accompanied everywhere but a ubiquitous translator and guide, both of whom ensure that he isn’t allowed contact with average citizens. The setting is grim. Buildings throughout the city are darkened due to power restrictions, and modern conveniences—fresh vegetables, alcohol, and music—can only be found in NGO offices and basement casinos, places off limit to North Koreans.
The atmosphere is Orwellian. Every room in every building has twin portraits of former dictator Kim Il Sung and current dictator Kim Jong Il hanging on the wall. All radios are pre-programmed to accept only domestic propaganda stations. “Volunteers” are enlisted by the government to sweep the country’s near-abandoned roadways or dangle from ropes to paint bridges. Time is even measured from the instant of Kim Il Sung’s conception, placing contemporary North Korea in Year 96.
Delisle captures this atmosphere of excess with humor and ease. During his time in the country, he works during the day and parties with fellow non-natives at night, slipping past the fierce system of control that engulfs his guide and workers. The machinery of the state is well-evoked in his art, as is the knowing coyness of those he encounters. All of them are aware of the reeducation camps and starvation that await them and their families if they displease the people in power. They’re careful not to slip. Even those that work with foreigners maintain few opportunities for freedom, as only men with a wife and children at home are allowed to leave the country.
While Delisle is unable to penetrate the surface of the people he encounters, hints indicate they’re aware that something is amiss. On a walk with his translator, where they’re discussing computers, he asks, “Do you realize that this is the only country that isn’t connected to the net?” Instead of expressing surprise, his narrator merely responds, “Oh no…don’t say that!”
The book isn’t perfect. Delisle can come off as overly sharp—even a little callous—when venting frustration on his government-supplied companions. Also, while he expresses the occasional regret on putting on weight in a country that’s been rocked by famine in the past and continues to be malnourished, he doesn’t engage the morality of doing business with the regime. Still, his portrait of a country that few people have been exposed to is acute and perceptive. He captures the bullshit that’s being shoved down North Korea’s throat, hinting that, while a few people might not believe it, mostly they don’t have a choice.