In this 300-square-foot cell, my mind is in turmoil. My flesh has imprinted itself on the walls and floor. My thoughts grow deeper, and my wishes multiply like the sands of the ocean.

I was more of a prisoner outside this cell than inside it. I changed myself for acceptance, living like a prisoner seeking the favor of the warden. Once worried over meals I could control, now I’m fed scraps, a fraction of the whole.

Looking left, I see men clinging to remnants of home. To my right, a man steps on pictures of home to fight for food. Survival instinct doesn't care about home, culture, or principles.

The only thing that...