“When I muse on my life, my heart fills with gratitude.”
This is what my father wrote to me one day, three years into his imprisonment, which has now lasted more than five years. His cell is smaller and older than others, about 60 square feet. The window is blocked, preventing natural light and air from reaching him, and no one is near him. Even during his hour of exercise, he is brought to an area completely sealed and, on the way there, covered by a thick black cloth. In the summer it bakes, reaching almost 105 degrees Fahrenheit and leaving heat rash all over his body. In winter, his compromised immune system is far more susceptible to the cold. Yet all my father feels is gratitude.
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