[ WP ] The Government and Media have been lying and North Korea is actually a super advanced , peaceful Utopia . You 're an American who just crashed landed a boat in North Korea .

The men scrambled around as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Chattering away in urgent unfamiliar tones, they had dragged me from the sea's lapping waves, tentatively tapping my face to check I was still alive. 
 
 As a journalist, entry to North Korea is forbidden. Try as I might, and with the full weight of two top media agencies, there was no way I would be able pass through its gates by land or air. My editors had given up quickly - after all, it was my idea. I wanted, needed, to bag the story of 2015. How the real people of North Korea live. And if I won a prize in the meantime it would n't hurt the CV. 
 
 A sea gypsy's boat, if you could call it that, had taken me as far as it could, but I was still miles from shore. I underestimated the tide on the approach and ended up trapped in a sandbank. I had no choice but to call for help, blowing my plan to stealthily trek the hundreds of miles to where the atrocities happened. 
 
 I'd lost my camera. My phone was sitting on the sea bed. My editors had refused me the chance to take leave from work, so I told them I was headed to a writer's retreat. A digital detox. They would n't even begin to know where to look. 
 
 As I contemplated my fate, my mind swamped with memories of survivors' stores. Mothers ripped from their children's arms. Fathers forced to choose which son to murder. Perhaps I would be a bargaining tool. More than likely, I'd be made an example of. 
 
 I tried to fight against the men, who'd surrounded me and were dragging me viscously to my feet. As a pint-sized woman and as much as I loved a workout, the years of manual labour these farmers were forced to endure had given them unmovable strength. 
 
 `` You,'' I said, loudly, with as much authority as I could muster in my voice. The men stopped. `` You. You want money?'' 
 
 They glanced at each other. 
 
 `` I, me, have money. Lots.'' I held my hands up, slowly reaching for my waterproof clip-on wallet. I pulled out more money than these people would earn in a decade and threw it over. `` Take.'' I smiled, trying to remain unthreatening. They had power now, but money rules the world. 
 
 `` Dear woman, what are you doing?'' I jumped, taken aback at those words. The man, the wizened old farmer, spoke in English. Perfect English. 
 
 `` I'm sorry, I didn't…'' 
 
 `` Oh,'' the other chimed in, a smile greeting his lips as he gathered the money strewn on the floor. `` Oh she's AMERICAN. One of those. Makes sense lads.'' 
 
 `` Let's take her to get freshened up. She'll want to meet the other journos who thought they'd sneak in to'hell' to get their story!'' 
 
 The men laughed playfully, and pity hung over their faces as they saw my hands start to tremble. We walked along a dirt track, my muscles aching from the battle to stay afloat in the brutal sea. 
 
 I had to know. Needed to know. 
 
 `` You understand English.'' It was n't a question. I tried to ensure my voice remained strong, but it wobbled. I coughed and sea water spilled from my mouth searing my throat. 
 
 The man who'd been first to reveal his English accent spoke again, handing me a freshly pressed handkerchief. `` Yes dear. We do. It's taught in all our schools. We learn from a young age how to articulate and enunciate in our mother tongue, as well as an array of other languages. Mandarin, Tagalog, French…'' 
 
 Schools? I stopped walking. `` You, you go to school?'' 
 
 `` Well, not by your standards, which are on a par with Amazonian tribes I'd say!'' The men all laughed. Their scathing tones burned my ears, and a mixture of rage and fear bubbled in me. 
 
 `` Our schools are more like your rich countrymen's offerings. They are private. We go to school, learn languages, maths, the sciences, art… everything and anything you could wish to turn your hand to.'' 
 
 The second farmer held my elbow as we carried on walking the path. `` You see, he said, gently, `` We love our country, and our Dear Leader.'' 
 
 `` How can you love that man? That murderer! He walks around like a god on earth while his people - you! - starve!'' Standing in front of the men, blocking their path, I saw their faces change. Insulting their god-king would be what killed me. 
 
 `` HIM?'' The third man spoke, before they all broke out laughing. 
 
 `` Oh is n't it wonderful doing this?'' the first farmer said to his friends. 
 
 `` That god-king, as you so incorrectly call him, is our ruse. He's what takes your attention. He's our trickster, and you are our mark.'' 
 
 I shook my head. `` No,'' I said. `` No. The reports, from your people who escape your camps. You fear him.'' 
 
 As we reached the end of the gravel path, the men remained silent. The stones turned to asphalt, and sitting obscured by leafy green trees was a brand new car. Not a cart powered by wood or a collection of ramshackle bikes. A car. Shiny and clean. 
 
 The men stopped. Two entered the sedan. The first man leaned up against it as he stretched his arms above his head, resting them folded on his chest. 
 
 `` Your nation, all nations of the world. They are dirty.'' He shuffled on his feet, getting more comfortable. `` Imagine your friend and you both have a prized vase each. It had taken centuries to create, and was now yours.'' 
 
 I looked at him, as tears graced his eyes. 
 
 `` Your friend. He's not clever. He does n't appreciate it's value. He let's everyone see it, touch it. His friends do n't see the value, so they crack it. Before long the porcelain is stained, the vase is damaged and it can never be what it was. It can be fixed, but the cracks will always be its weakness. That, that is the world and every land in it.'' 
 
 I heard the trill of a mobile phone, and one of the men in the car answered, speaking Korean. 
 
 `` So we're all broken?'' I asked. 
 
 `` Yes. The wars and violence, your lack of care for the weak and elderly. The orphans abandoned by your state and the widows forced out of homes. You weaken your people from birth, brainwashing them into believing material goods are success.'' 
 
 I snorted. `` So this is paradise, right?'' 
 
 `` The vase. After seeing what your friend did to it, you decide to keeps yours safe. So when the same friends say they want to play with it, you say it's already broken. They will pester you, and laugh at you for being weak. But they will leave it alone. 
 
 `` Our scientists have cured diseases your people know nothing about. Our students learn skills to ensure they are entertained without the need for your internet. Our old and infirm are housed in complexes to rival palaces! 
 
 `` If we told the world we could cure cancer with a simple injection, you would take, and your leaders would destroy it. Because you place value on money. Your tourists would destroy our land, our people would be forced out of their homes for hotels. We place value on our people.'' 
 
 I stood there rigidly, not wanting to believe those words. He opened the door to the car and I took a seat. 
 
 We drove through towns and villages, passing houses as beautiful as Spanish villas and French chateaux. 
 
 I spoke up. `` All we believe. The poverty and oppression…'' 
 
 `` We place value on our people. When tourists visit, they are shown what we want them to be shown. We have a fool parade around with your celebrities. We turn our nation's lights off at night to avoid being seen. The escapees volunteer to leave, knowing they will never see their families again. Knowing they will eventually die alone, as so many of your elderly have done.'' 
 
 He looked glassy eyed into the distance. `` They are the true casualties of this game.'' 
 
 We arrived at a camp, nothing like what I had come to imagine I'd find. 
 
 `` Your people will be told you are dead. Your family can only come here if we stage a kidnapping. Have a wander around your new home. Speak to some of your fellow Americans. Turn your lights off at night. And welcome to North Korea.''
