Back then I was not waiting for somebody to grieve for me, or for those who were with me in this farce called homeland. I was not waiting for a smile or encouragement for what I was doing as a sacrifice for the revolution of a country. Back then I was Sarmad—just Sarmad, the 18-year-old whose torture was seen as a basis on which to build a country, and whose death under torture would be perceived as is a path to enter heaven.