Behind the coils of razor wire and concrete walls, glimpses of the horror emerge from the warren of dank, airless corridors of what has been dubbed “The Slaughterhouse.”
A coarse, heavy rope lies on the ground, tied into a hangman’s noose. Prosthetic legs are scattered outside a cell, the fate of their former owners unknown. In one cell, names are scrawled all over the walls – for some, perhaps the only testament they were ever there.
