Under the pretext of the collapse of the Rajishhar prison towers (Gohardsht)/ Said Shirzad - you see the image of the prison towers collapsing, as if someone pressed the rewind button of a movie; Images flood your mind as soon as the tower collapses. It doesn't take more than a few seconds, but for you six years of life are in those few seconds. Those few seconds are enough to rekindle the years you thought had rested somewhere in your head. When you close your eyes and let the memories pass through your mind one by one, you reach the last days of Bahman 1393; for a protest and strike in wing 8 of Ovin prison and then exiled to Guhardsht prison; A place you've only heard of before; A name created for you through the memories of the prisoners who were there before you. You knew Guhardsht from the stories, the names, from the sixties, from the bloody summer of 1367, from the lives that were hanged and shot, from the people who were destined to hang between those walls, in those corridors, in those prisons. You have read the memories of those years many times. You knew what happened behind those bars. You knew what kind of people lived there, tortured, resisted and finally did not return. But Gohardasht was no longer to be just the memory of his numbers for you. This time, you were there yourself. Not for a few days. Not for a few weeks. You were supposed to stay there for years. Those few hours and days of the quarantine never felt strange to you. Because there, in that closure, it was as if you were seeing the sixties, the bloody summer of 1367, the red blood of Gohardsht and the shadow of people who passed through those corridors years before you and never came back and now you, without knowing it, are going to live a part of that history. From six months of life among the 400 sentenced to death in Section A, to five years of life with political prisoners in Section Four. Four hundred people. Four hundred people. Four hundred lives. Four hundred floors. You would start the morning with them and end the night with them, and every week several of them would go. Sometimes one sometimes several people.

Under the pretext of the collapse of the Rajishhar prison towers (Gohardsht)/ Said Shirzad - you see the image of the prison towers collapsing, as if someone pressed the rewind button of a movie; Images flood your mind as soon as the tower collapses. It doesn't take more than a few seconds, but for you six years of life are in those few seconds. Those few seconds are enough to rekindle the years you thought had rested somewhere in your head. When you close your eyes and let the memories pass through your mind one by one, you reach the last days of Bahman 1393; for a protest and strike in wing 8 of Ovin prison and then exiled to Guhardsht prison; A place you've only heard of before; A name created for you through the memories of the prisoners who were there before you. You knew Guhardsht from the stories, the names, from the sixties, from the bloody summer of 1367, from the lives that were hanged and shot, from the people who were destined to hang between those walls, in those corridors, in those prisons. You have read the memories of those years many times. You knew what happened behind those bars. You knew what kind of people lived there, tortured, resisted and finally did not return. But Gohardasht was no longer to be just the memory of his numbers for you. This time, you were there yourself. Not for a few days. Not for a few weeks. You were supposed to stay there for years. Those few hours and days of the quarantine never felt strange to you. Because there, in that closure, it was as if you were seeing the sixties, the bloody summer of 1367, the red blood of Gohardsht and the shadow of people who passed through those corridors years before you and never came back and now you, without knowing it, are going to live a part of that history. From six months of life among the 400 sentenced to death in Section A, to five years of life with political prisoners in Section Four. Four hundred people. Four hundred people. Four hundred lives. Four hundred floors. You would start the morning with them and end the night with them, and every week several of them would go. Sometimes one sometimes several people.