In March 1978, we were temporarily transferred to a new ward, also located in Ghasr Prison, supposedly because the well in the yard of our ward was clogged. Here, in this temporary ward, I would have the strangest visit ever with my family in more than a decade of my imprisonment under the regimes of Shah and the Islamic Republic. On the day of our meeting, at nine in the morning, a guard called my name, but I looked at him with confusion because I did not know where I was to meet my family. There seemed to be no meeting room attached to this ward, like the one in the permanent ward. The guard told me to go to the room across the hall and climb up to the third story of the only metal bed in the room and look out the window. As I looked through the window, I saw, on a wide dirt road, my father nearly running while looking around in confusion, evidently not knowing where to go, and my mother trying to keep up with him, perhaps both waiting to see an entrance to a meeting hall. Suddenly my father saw me and I heard his sigh—I am not sure whether this was a sigh of relief, exhaustion, a mixture of joy and grief, or all of these. They stopped, looking bewildered yet happy to see me alive and well. My joy was, however, tarnished by the awkwardness of this meeting. I was sitting on the bed and looking down at them while they stood on the ground with their necks bent backward so they could see me. From above, they both appeared smaller. I felt ashamed both for putting them through all the torments that having a loved one in prison entailed and for making them look smaller. My father was exemplary in his resistance to living an undignified life but, since my arrest, how often he had endured humiliation for my sake.