The only known escapee of a system that has 170,000 involuntary internees, Shin is quiet and unassuming. Every word he speaks is moving -- bringing this columnist and many in the room to a tear. Pain is written in every move he makes, every word he utters. His guilt could carry the world on its shoulders.

"I got out in 2005, but my friend did not," Shin said. "My friend threw himself on the electric fence so I could climb over him to freedom."

"He gave his life for me," Shin says in a voice of controlled pained rage. As a teenager, Shin was forced to watch the execution of his mother and brother. They had been accused of plotting to get out of the camp.

In late 2004, the young man who would give his life for Shin arrived from Pyongyang, North Korea's capital. They became friends, shared rations and sometimes ate dead birds or rats. Meat was not allowed in the camp. Shin had never had a friend, never knew trust and never knew warmth. It didn't last long at all. "There was a brief period when I believed and hoped. But it died along with everything else," said Shin, who now lives in South Korea.

Shin was born in 1982 as Shin In Kun. (His current name is South Korean.) His father, Shin Kyong-sop, was arrested sometime in 1965. The North Korean secret police came before dawn, carted away all the furniture and dumped the family in Camp No. 14. Shin's father was the 11th of 12 brothers. "From the moment they were abducted and separated, they were treated as beast," Shin said.

Shin is riddled with guilt. He does not feel he gave his father's name honor. He knows his brother was born a few years before him, "but I almost do not remember him." Shin saw his brother only three or four times before he was executed. "I lived with my mother for 12 years. She was a farmer and started work every day at 5 a.m. She returned home every night at 11 p.m. I have little memory of any affection between us."

"My cousin was raped in the camp at 22. The guards began to fondle her. Her mother, my aunt, protested. So the guards tied my aunt up to a tree and forced her to watch the rape of her daughter in broad daylight."

Shin's aunt told everyone she could in the camp about the rape. Soon afterward, his aunt disappeared. "Nobody knows what happened to her," he said. "And that is what happens; one by one everyone disappears."

Shin fears his entire line will disappear: "One day, my family might all be gone from this earth."

The tragic thing is that it is not only Shin's family's story. All the families in these sick camps suffer a similar fate. All of the abused, unfairly abducted, corralled "prisoners" mostly disappear.

In April 1996, Shin was taken by handcuff from his schoolhouse while blindfolded. He found himself descending into a dark underground chamber. He was brought to an empty room, plopped on a chair. He was shown a sheet of paper. On it, appeared the names of his father's brothers, two of whom had supported South Korea during the Korean War. "I wrote my name and placed my fingerprint on the bottom of the document."

The next day, he was taken to a torture chamber; Shin was 14. All kinds of torture instruments were around him. He was stripped, his legs were cuffed and his hands were tied with a rope. "I was hung by my legs and hands from the ceiling. Someone told me to confess the truth about an escape plan. I said I knew nothing."

"I had no fear. Even today my lack of fear remains a mystery to me. A charcoal fire was started and brought near to my back. I felt the intense heat and shrieked. I struggled hard to avoid the flames. My torturers pierced me with a steel hook near my groin. I blacked out. I don't know how long I was unconscious. But I awoke -- rocked by my own feces and urine."

It is hard to listen to Shin Dong-hyuk's story. It is so wrenching, so intense; it is hard to digest, never mind to write about with any objectivity.

My friend Michael Danby, a member of the Australian Parliament from Melbourne, pushed to have the Ninth International Conference on North Korean Human Rights and Refugees in Australia. He has helped many North Koreans. The spiritual mentor of these sessions is the grand man Benjamin Yoon of the Citizens' Alliance for North Korean Human Rights. He is an old friend of former Czech President Vaclav Havel, and I had met him in Prague. Next year's 10th session is in Toronto.

I sit with Shin as he gets off the stage. With him is Sun Mo, a modern artist and escapee from North Korea. I hope to see them in Seoul in May.

As I look at Shin Dong-hyuk, I want to say something comforting. He looks at me briefly but turns away.

He reminds me of a lost cat looking for comfort.

As he walks away from the table, he turns back -- a pained, tortured nod in my direction.

Welcome to North Korea -- the Democratic People's Republic.

(UPI International Columnist Marc S. Ellenbogen is chairman of the Berlin, Copenhagen and Sydney-based Global Panel Foundation and president of the Prague Society. A founding trustee of the Democratic Expat Leadership Council who has advised political personalities, he sits on the National Advisory Board of the U.S. Democratic Party.)

(e-mail: [email protected])

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