A blindfolded prisoner who can glimpse the floor through a gap must act as if she sees nothing, even stepping straight onto blood stains rather than flinching away. Keeping that small window of sight means pretending to be fully blind, because showing awareness would invite the captors to take it away.
Places like this work as schools whose lesson is to make people lose their memories of who they are. Holding on to small personal objects, like a broken tooth kept in a matchbox, becomes a way of insisting you are still whole.
In a place built to strip away everything, catching raindrops from a leaking window or joking darkly about the prison as a beauty parlor keeps a person's spirit alive. Black humor and tiny delights are not denial of the horror but a refusal to let it own every moment.
Captors work to keep prisoners from seeing or speaking to each other, because people cut off from one another are easier to break. Prisoners push back by whispering behind the guards' backs, sharing extra bread, and drawing the guards' attention away from a newcomer about to be tortured.
When prisoners own almost nothing, offering what little they have becomes the strongest sign of care: "I'm here. I care for you. I want to share the only possession I have." A friend's jacket left behind can keep shielding someone from blows even after that friend has been taken away.