City of the Condemned

“What do I miss? ... I haven’t seen my 4-year-old child. His mother won’t allow me to see my son ... I haven’t been on home-leave for 4 years. I have no one to put up a deed or guarantee so that I can go on home-leave ... I haven’t had any visitors in 4 years. I have an old mother that I’m too embarrassed to talk to ... I’ve forgotten my home address. I’ve forgotten the road I lived on ... I miss people, shopping. I miss getting a phone call from someone. I miss riding on a bus, taking a taxi, having money in my pocket, paying taxi fare ... I miss going to the park, going out at midnight, freely .... I miss freedom.”

Greater Tehran Prison, penal institution for 13,950 criminals guilty of financial misdeeds, unlawful seizure of property, theft, possession of alcohol, fraud, smuggling, breach of trust, forgery, illegal transfer and acquisition of goods and property. A perpetually open university, tuition-free, with room and board ...

“The guys come in as lizards and leave as alligators,” Prisoner A says in describing the effects of incarceration in this prison.

Greater Tehran Prison has 5 units. The prisoners call the units “brigades,” in the same manner as the prison officials call the cells “guidance centers” and the prison a “penitentiary.” But in Greater Tehran Prison, no one receives guidance and no one is repentant.

Units 1 and 4 are units for theft, misdemeanors, and offenses punishable at the discretion of a judge. Units 2 and 5 are for financial crimes, and Unit 3 is a temporary holding section for newcomers. There are 5000 prisoners in Unit 1, 2000 prisoners in Unit 2, 2000 prisoners in Unit 3, 5000 prisoners in Unit 4, and 3000 prisoners in Unit 5.

The distribution of basic necessities, such as beds, refrigerators, televisions, and washing machines, among the units follows no particular logic or criteria. The only standard specification is the division of each unit into groups of 3 or 16 cells, and the cells’ basic design and layout. In the 3-cell groups, each cell has 24 beds, 6 toilets, and 8 bathrooms. In the 16-cell groups, each cell has 240 beds, 14 toilets, and 14 bathrooms. However the units’ capacities are not enough to accommodate even one-fifth of the current population of inmates, even though at the time of the prison’s construction in 2000, the facilities were said to accommodate 15,000 prisoners. Today the 110-hectare prison is 20 years old and inmates talk about the popular and lucrative phenomenon of “bed brokering” and having to wait one week to wash clothes and to tend to what is normally considered daily hygiene.

According to prison regulations, every prisoner must have a bed, but the overcapacity at the Greater Tehran Prison is so high that the number of beds is even less than the number of elderly prisoners in each unit. And aside from the fact that an unwritten rule requires newcomers (other than the “privileged” ) to sleep on the floor in the prayer room or the hall adjacent to the toilets until they are “acclimated,” the number of inmates sleeping on the floor in the corridors, rooms, and halls of each unit sometimes reaches 200 people (known as the “floor-sleepers”).

Prisoner B explains that these 200 inmates are forced to sleep stacked side-by-side like books until the wakeup bell at dawn. They don’t even dare go to the toilet for fear of losing their 1-meter by 30-centimeter space and having to sleep while standing.

Bed brokering is common practice in all the units, Prisoner P explains. With the exception of high-profile prisoners, whose beds and accomodations are determined and readied before their arrival, other newcomers must negotiate with a bed broker to rent, mortgage, or buy a bed, if they have the financial means. The chief of the bed brokers is the unit’s lawmaker—even breathing is said to be subject to his decision. The average amount of a deposit for a bed is 4 million tomans, of which 1 million tomans is the bed broker’s commission and 3 million tomans is the bed owner’s share. To rent a bed costs 400,000 tomans a week. According to Prisoner P, mortgaging and renting beds is more common in the financial crimes unit. In the theft and misdemeanors unit, most prisoners are so poor that they cannot even afford to buy mineral water every day.

 

Time for Atonement

6:30 AM: Wake-up bell.

6:30 AM to 7:00 AM: Washup

8:00 AM: Breakfast. Change of prison guards.

8:00 AM to 12:00 PM call to prayer: Recreation outdoors.

When the call to prayer is broadcast, the prisoners line up in the recreation area and in single file enter their unit while one by one calling out their assigned number to state their presence.

When inmates first arrive at the prison, they are photographed with a number that is assigned to them, and from that moment on that number becomes their identity when their presence and absence is recorded. However, the inmates have forced prison authorities to address them by name and with the prefix Mr. when they are summoned or addressed, allowing their numbered photograph to remain only as a memento in that person’s life record.

The inmates of units 1 and 4, on paper, conform to all prison regulations. Thieves, smugglers, and felons remain here to learn to abide by government rules and regulations. Financial criminals, residents of units 2 and 5, are the only prisoners not forced to take part in the outdoor recreation hours and can spend their days as they wish. They can even apply to be transferred to the services and employment unit where they can work, for instance in the prison bakery or the vegetable garden behind the building. Financial convicts reap the result of their lost credit and reputation. The manager, accountant, and manufacturer, the economist, shipping magnate, entrepreneur, and physician, atone for their faulty computations and flawed calculations.

Prisoner T is one of them: 51 years old, convicted of illegal appropriation of property. He was arrested on April 7, 2014, transferred to Evin Prison on April 16, and received a final verdict and was transfer to Greater Tehran Prison on July 25, 2015. “For the first week, all I ate was a little bread, just so I wouldn’t faint. I couldn’t believe I was in prison. What is this place? I had a life, investments, a home ...”

Prisoner T was penalized to make restitution for 490 million tomans of illegally seized property, of which he had paid 420 million tomans by selling his house, household goods, and collecting moneys owed to him. The financial settlement for his crime has affected his family. His wife and two sons (one a teenager in high school and the other a 20-year-old with disabilities) are living in a 35-square meter home and receiving aid from the Relief Foundation.

“I haven’t seen my older son in 7 years. And every time I call my mother, she says, ‘It’s the prison switchboard again!? So when are you getting out?’ I was in prison when my father died, but I wasn’t even allowed to go to his funeral. My wife has talked of divorce a hundred times and I have begged her to reconsider. Here, 9000 of the prisoners were married, but 7000 of them were forced to divorce their wives after they were sentenced to prison. What woman could put up with a husband in prison? And the wives that have stayed, are suffering a thousand miseries. The addict prisoner calls home for drug money and tells his wife and daughter, ‘I don’t know how you want to come up with the money, but I need this amount by tomorrow.’”

To date, prisoner T has not set foot outside the prison. The penalty for illegal appropriation of property is financial settlement in full, and at a rate and amount determined by the court at the time of sentencing. Those convicted of these crimes are not eligible for a pardon, and going on home-leave is conditional on bail money several times the amount of what the prisoner owes. Now that Prisoner T has 70 million tomans still outstanding, his bail requirement is 300 million tomans.

“In the financial unit, there are many others like me. There’s one person who has been in prison for 10 years for illegal appropriation of property worth 220 million tomans. There’s another person who is in prison for 20 million tomans. And there was someone who served a sentence of 21 years. He had heart disease, high blood pressure, and diabetes. He died here about 20 days ago. He owed 230 million tomans. Rich and poor, illiterate and literate, we’re all together here. Even the rich are here. Like Mr. Reekhtegaran, CEO of a car manufacturing company; or Babak Zanjani. There’s one man here who is 84 years old. He had a maritime export company, took a loan and didn’t fulfill his obligations; he had a discrepancy. He’s been in prison for 16 years. He calls his grandchildren and talks to them. Rahim Norouzi has a doctorate in economics. He had the largest company in the Aras and Anzali region. It had 180 employees. He owes 2.2 billion tomans. He’s been in prison for 4 years now. The other guy was a major contractor in Shahriar, built 1700 buildings, took a loan but couldn’t pay the installments. The bank filed a case against him. He’s been in prison for 7 years and owes 4 billion tomans. In the financial criminals’ unit, everyone is over the age of 40, educated, doctors, professors, managers. We have someone here who has completed all the required documents for his release, but the judge won’t issue his release papers. We had a prisoner who was here for 27 years. He came to prison at the age of 40 and left at the age of 67 in a Behesht Zahra cemetery bag.”

 

Life at the rate of “coercion”

Mafia of whatever you want, mafia of whatever you have, mafia of whatever you want to be. The bed mafia, the drug mafia, the mail mafia, the bathroom mafia, the toilet mafia .... Prisoner S sometimes suspects that even breathing in prison has a mafia. The key to solving all problems in this chaotic city are cigarettes. Cigarettes are the common currency in prison. You can even change a security guard’s station with a cigarette. A cigarette is the zero in banking. It could mean a thousand, a million, a billion. Cigarettes can get everything done in prison. Anything you want, cigarettes can accomplish.

“The do-it-all in prison are cigarettes,” prisoner G explains. “If it’s someone’s birthday, we give him two packs of cigarettes. When someone asks you to ‘give love’, it means you have to give them a pack of cigarettes so that you can do whatever it is you need to do. To use the toilet, 10 cigarettes. To take a shower, two packs. To have someone clean the hall, two packs a week ...” 

 

The wonders of prison?

Old-timers, those whose punishment is financial restitution to the last rial as determined by the judge, are condemned to being narrators of history. Comings and goings, an ant walking and a sparrow flying on prison territory, nothing escapes their eyes.

Prisoner Ch lists the wonders of the prison one by one: “Rats as big as cats that at night, after lights-out, parade on top of the protective fence around the power lines and telephone cables, and when it’s dark, come into the cells ... We’ve had a number of successful prison breakouts: Nasser Cheraghi was a financial crimes prisoner, Ali Mohammadi was also a financial crimes prisoner, Murad Heydari was in for theft. They managed to escape ... Drugs, alcohol, and mobile phones are all available here, if you have money. Mobile phones are forbidden in prison, but they are bought and sold for 15 million tomans each ... The rich prisoners have lackeys and good food. They order meat fillets, hand-picked fruits and first-rate vegetables, and they have a special cook. Hussein Hedayati is in the theft and misdemeanors unit. He has bought carpets, a refrigerator, and a TV for the unit; and he has decorated the hall. When he goes to take a shower, all the stalls are vacated. And he has conjugal visits every day, while the other prisoners are only allowed one conjugal visit per month. If you’re a profiteer and exploiter, and have good connections and spend money, you’ll live comfortably here. Otherwise, you’re doomed. Like the penniless prisoners who beg for a piece of bread, because government rations are inadequate. And most inmates are poor. Right now, there are about 6000 prisoners here who don’t have the means to make restitution for goods they illegally obtained.”

“There are people sentenced to prison for stealing 50 walnuts, a carton of yogurt drink, a shoe rack, and 500,000 tomans in illegally obtained goods. They are the poor population of the prison. The ones who ask to be “mayor” of the unit as soon as they arrive. Here, mayor means cleaning person, janitor. First thing in the morning, they sweep the unit hall and wash the bathrooms and toilets, and their pay is calculated in cigarettes. Each prisoner has to give a pack of cigarettes per week for the mayor’s wages. Prisoners’ expenses, which have to be covered by the money their families deposit for them, are at least 1,000,000 tomans a month. And prisoners whose families don’t have the means to send money for them are doomed to eat prison food, drink prison tea, and make do with whatever they are given ... But you know, for all of us, whether it be Hussein Hedayati or that forger or pickpocket, prison has the same significance ... It’s prison.”

When the phone rings and there’s an unknown 12-digit prefix on the screen and you hear the automatic recording, “This call is from Tehran Prison,” it is the prelude to a prisoner calling.  He knows you are free. You know he is not free. Then, distance in terms of kilometers, the stretch from the city center to Charmshahr highway, 32 km from Tehran. And, distance in terms of time, a 4-year sentence, 7-year sentence, 15-year sentence ... The man you are talking to has for 4, 7, or 15 years not set foot outside the large prison gates, and he might never have the chance to do so. During his years of incarceration, Tehran has expanded, grown taller, settled, quaked, grown ugly, shriveled. The prisoner has no image of ​​these changes. The thread connecting him to freedom are the few minutes a week or a month that he spends talking to his wife, child, mother, father, sister, or brother in the visitors’ room. They smell of freedom. A prisoner who is allowed visitors, can for a few minutes every week or every month inhale the scent of freedom. The worst punishment for a prisoner is being denied visitors, being deprived of visualizing freedom.

 

The definition of “forgetting”

 Prisoner H, with a master’s degree in industrial engineering from Amir Kabir University and in the last year of medical school, was indicted for breach of trust. He still does not accept the accusation and says that the plaintiff lied and falsified the case against him. Today, as you read this report, a hearing for his motion of insolvency was held by the court. He expects his 35,000,000 toman debt to be made payable in installments and his discharge from prison to be issued.   

Prisoner H is 35 years old; father to a 12-year-old boy, son to an 82-year-old mother. He was arrested on the evening of October 1, 2016, in front of his 8-year-old son. And in front of his 8-year-old son, he was handcuffed. Prisoner H’s son has not visited his father in the past four years, after his custody was granted to his mother. In all likelihood, no one has ever asked this child whether “father” is still the hero of his dreams. And in these 4 years of isolation, Prisoner H has learned of life in prison in a manner different from all those professors, managers, accountants, businessman, thieves, felons and forgers. He asked permission from prison officials to spend an hour or so every night after lights-out, studying and reviewing the latest medical textbooks that he ordered and were sent to him, so that he would not have to bury 27 years of education and hard work in some corner of the impenetrable prison walls. During those hours, the only quiet time of his days and nights in the company of 13,949 prisoners, he contemplates the wonders of life, the twists and turns of the day that has come to an end, the promising life now lost, and the fact that he is still alive.

 “The first night in prison, I was so confused. I didn’t know where I was. I think the first night in the grave is easier than the first night in prison. I wanted to call my mother, but they wouldn’t let me. Quarantined. The old-timers told me I have to kill to survive. They said there’s no tomorrow for us. They said we were rotting in a cemetery of the living. During these 4 years, I have witnessed every kind of crime, every kind of betrayal. I have witnessed the transformation of man into a cannibal, the transformation of man into an obsessed creature perpetually disaffected. Here, I saw with my own eyes that money talks. I learned that if you are a profiteer and exploiter and have connections and spend money, you will live comfortably, otherwise you are doomed. If you have money, you are in the best room. If you sneeze, you go to the infirmary. Here, everything I didn’t know, I learned from a super-forger in my unit. He forged checks so skillfully that even the banks weren’t sure if they were real or not ... If they open the gates to this place, at least 10,000 bag-snatchers will pour out. Ruthless bag-snatchers. I asked, how do you snatch women’s handbags? The guy said, ‘I chop off their hand.’ With what? ‘With long ones.’ What are long ones? ‘Machetes.’ Prison kills compassion in people. This place has 20,000 newcomers a year. And only the ones who don’t have the means or knowhow to defend themselves end up here. I didn’t commit a crime, I just didn’t know how to defend myself. I was thrown in prison for 35,000,000 tomans. And I had not taken or given any money. But the plaintiff put his hand on the Qur’an and accused me of breach of trust. The 13000 or so people here, are mostly naive souls who didn’t know how to talk to a judge ... But can I tell you something? All of us here in prison, even that rich Hussein Hedayati, are not here  because of the crime we’ve been accused of. We’re here because of the crime we committed before, because of that heart we broke, and until we pay our dues, this door will not open. That’s why I’ve never thought of escaping. It’s not necessary. I needed to get to know myself. I had to spend this time here. It was important for me to stay here. My false pride had to be broken. Now .... yes. I’m satisfied. Here, I’m the health and hygiene supervisor of the hall. I’m not allowed to practice medicine, but I help the infirmary doctor. No one is sick in our unit. But scabies, flu, hepatitis, tuberculosis, and AIDS are rampant throughout the prison, because most of the prisoners are addicts. When people arrive here, they suffer depression, psychosis, and insanity, and they relieve their pain with methadone. A lot goes on here that shouldn’t. According to the prison regulations, the health examiner and infirmary doctor must visit the units daily, but what kind of health monitoring can they perform in a hall with up to 200 floor-sleepers? The infirmary doctor has to visit 50 patients a day, with only 260 doses of medicine. And even those, the infirmary liaison takes them and sells them in the unit in exchange for cigarettes. One pack of cigarettes for one blister pack of pills. They say there should be a per capita budget for education and instruction for prisoners. Here, with this number of addicts, what is the use of per capita educational and welfare spending?”
When the prefix of people’s names reflects their profession and financial and social status, difficult and unimaginable circumstances such as prison, its environment, and what it entails can become much easier or far more difficult. Everything that occurs is ultimately rooted in a person’s rank and reputation outside the prison. Several old paramilitary guerillas, who spent the early 1970s in Evin Prison and in exile in Abadan and Kermanshah prisons, recall how thieves and murderers, out of respect for them being “guerrillas,” sheathed their knives, held their tongue, and showed deference.
Prisoner H, too, is held in high esteem as “Mister Doctor.” He is also a firsthand, trusted witness to unspeakable and indescribable scenes in the same prison, unit, and cell as people who would not have mercy even for the word “humanity”. In this 110-hectare expanse, surrounded by dark roads that are a refuge for stray dogs, muggers, and aggressors waiting for the shadow of a passer-by, the only amusement for thousands of convicts are the countless steps they walk in the drab outdoor “recreation” area. And isolation, an undefinable concept inside these walls, like atonement, is greater than the tolerance of these men.

Remaining inside these tall windowless walls and evoking “freedom” by inhaling the layers of stench from the Kahrizak district sewage, their minds fill with longing to be like other people for just one moment. And their patience wears off, and the end-all piece of wire is within their reach; self-slaughter, suicide, homicide, flooding their veins with as much dope as possible ... and a thousand other horrifying acts that give new meaning to the term “correctional facility”. A definition that has no equivalent or synonym in Persian lexicon.

“Vahid went on home-leave, and he did a cache [drugs wrapped in plastic are swallowed, and after being smuggled into prison are extracted through defecation]. When he came back to prison, the pack burst in his stomach. He died of overdoes. Mehrdad went to the conjugal visit room, he had a siqeh [temporary wife]. The woman double-crossed him. She gave him a cache, but she deliberately hadn’t wrapped one of the packs properly. The pack opened in his stomach. I watched him die. There was an old man, Mehdi; at 7:10 in the morning, his skin had turned yellow, and he said he couldn’t see. The nurse’s aide said he’s faking it. He died at 8:50. Before he died, he cried because he hadn’t seen his grandchildren. Ojaghi was 24 years old. He committed suicide 4 times. We revived him every time, and every time, he said, ‘I’ll kill myself again.’ The fifth time, he came back from his conjugal visit and hung himself above his bed ... Prisoners don’t have a curse, they have a sorrow ... One day, the head of the prison asked me, ‘Will you miss these days? Will you come back to work here?’ I said, ‘I’ve forgotten the outside world.’ But life out here is different ... I don't know, maybe I’ll go back ...”

Prisoner Kh gives me an audit report on the black market in prison—a facility under heavy guard and surveillance.

- Posting a letter in the services and employment unit costs 8,300 tomans, in Unit 1 it costs 15,000 tomans.

- Writing a petition, 2,000,000 to 5,000,000 million tomans.

- B2 pills (buprenorphine) 50,000 tomans per tablet.  

- Crystal Meth (Methamphetamine) 120,000 tomans per gram.

- Hashish 220,000 tomans per gram.

- Heroin 250,000 tomans per gram.

- Opium 200,000 per gram.

- A pack of Winston cigarettes, 20,000 tomans; a pack of Kent cigarettes, 10,000 tomans; a pack of Bahman cigarettes, 7,000 tomans.

- Soccer ball, 100,000 tomans; volleyball, 50,000 tomans.

- Volley ball net 250,000 tomans.

Inflation in prison has no indicators. The price index in each unit for various goods and services is determined by that unit’s “thinktank”. Away from the eyes of prison officials, the hardworking thinktanks are busy with numerous meetings that, like a city council, make decisions for and about every prisoner—their breathing space, their 1.5 square meters of privacy and independence, their survival in this forgotten 110-hectare expanse in the outskirts of ​​Tehran. The same thinktanks issue licenses for corruption, coercion, and thuggery in prison.

According to Prisoner D, “Each unit has expenses of 1,000,000 tomans per day. In order to raise this sum, the unit’s representative, in addition to taking a share from each prisoner, must sell drugs in the unit until the one million tomans is collected ... The wealthy buy carpets, refrigerators and televisions for the unit as soon as they arrive, so that they become the unit’s representative or receive special amenities and privileges in the unit.”

“Units 1 and 4 (dedicated to thieves, smugglers, and felons) is some sort of a Mexico for itself. Every newcomer picks his peon right at the start. All prisoners have to go outside to smoke, but in units 1 and 4 they smoke indoors and openly use drugs. You’ll see it any time of day you go there. They just hide in a corner when they want to inject themselves. The drug business in units 1 and 4 has become a source of income for the prisoners. Services include injections, syringes, shared injections. The inmates are all armed. Blades, razors, all sorts of knives can be found there.”

Prison is a place of decay. Rotting of the mind, the body, and the senses, rotting of human values and human beings. The person leaving prison is nothing like the person they were before prison. Prison creates new beings from people; beings devoid of the rationalities and sensibilities of societal life. Prison time, like a casting mold, can create whatever it wants of its contents. The seclusion and bitter alienation of prison intertwine at sunrise and sunset, and the prisoner, like an isolated bullet on a battlefield, is reduced to a one-dimensional matter. A creature with basic needs wastes away, and if he is lucky enough to go free, he will either be unsettled by returning to the society that offered him to that system of correction and punishment, or he will unplug the cord of innocence and return to the embrace of the same gang, standing at attention for teammate selection.

“An internet company has installed telephone systems in all the units,” Prisoner Z explains. “To make a call, you have to charge your phone card—a smartphone card that stores only 8 numbers. On mine, I have saved the numbers for my home, my mother, my children, the court, your newspaper, and my lawyer. I can’t call any other number. The financial crimes unit doesn’t have any restrictions on the use of telephones, but in the other units, each prisoner is only allowed to use the phone for half-hour a day ... The prison library doesn’t bring worthwhile books. Only two newspapers are delivered to the financial unit and we have to pay for them;  220,000 tomans per month for newspapers ... Units 1 and 4 don’t have enough hot water and they have shower restrictions. Unit 2 also has a hot water shortage because the heating system is old ... In the prison’s outdoor recreation area there isn’t a single green leaf ... The entire prison has only one amphitheater, which is in unit 1, and prisoners in other units can’t use it because going to other units is forbidden ... Our only personal belongings are a pair of pants, a shirt, and shoes for when we have court hearings. When you enter the prison, you are given an undershirt, underpants, a towel, and shampoo. And every 40 days, each prisoner receives a small Daaroogar shampoo, hand soap, and 2.7 kilos of sugar cubes. But you have to buy your own dishwashing detergent, tooth brush, tooth paste, and extra towel. The prisoners of units 1 and 4 don’t have money to buy anything. Sometimes four people use the same towel, and they even wear each other’s clothes ... To work in the woodcarving, carpentry, painting, and mosaic workshops, prisoners must complete an application, which must be approved by the prison council. But there are many applicants and few openings in the workshops. Therefore, prisoners are destined to remain unemployed, with nothing to occupy their days with ... The doctors here have been sent to serve in the prison infirmary either because they have been rebuked and expelled for violations or their medical license was about to be revoked. All they want is to make it to their bus service at the end of the day, even if a prisoner is on his deathbed. One inmate went to the prison dentist to have a tooth pulled and half of the tooth remained in his mouth and is rotting ... Here, with these many prisoners, we don’t have a Dispute Resolution Council, while the statute of The Prisons Organization has made them mandatory. The judges assigned to cases have not even once come to see an inmate’s circumstances. If they came and saw the conditions in this prison, half of the prisoners would be released. Even the head of the Judicial System’s representative has never visited this prison. Only the Prosecutor General of Tehran and the head of the magistrate’s office come, which is of no use to us. We made a mistake, but the penalty for the mistake is to be in prison for 7 years, 18 years? How are we going to go back into society and back to our family? 7 years imprisonment, 18 years imprisonment, what good does it do the plaintiff? My child is now 18 years old. When I go back home, he won’t know me. And he shouldn’t know me ... I have lived with a thief who has a record of 16 thefts and no one has asked him, Young man, why did you steal 16 times? Prison and lockup don’t mean discipline.”

Governments don’t ask a thief why he stole. They don’t ask a murderer why he killed a person, they don’t ask why someone became a forger and fraudster. According to government explanations, theft, murder, forgery, and fraud are crimes; but the ‘whys’ remain unanswered, while social norms and interpretations are mandatory. Russian writer Svetlana Aleksievich writes: The greatest suffering is isolation. Separate from society, alone and silent.

A man who enters prison because he has not acted in accordance to the letter of the law and social norms, is sentenced to isolation for life even after his release, even among his most intimate friends, family, and supporters. A man in prison, in that dense crowd of peers, becomes acquainted with the pain of solitude and senses this anguish seeping into every fiber of his being, as if a cancerous tumor has taken root inside him and no remedy will ever neutralize or pacify it. A prisoner is that small star that we see glimmer millions of light-years away. In the film So Close, So Far, the neurologist’s son says to the village doctor, “Many of the stars we see today have been dead for many years, and we don’t know it ...”