A recurring dream comes to mind. Seemingly following catastrophic natural disaster, or the genocide of war, I was searching for myself in a mound of wreckage, waste, and ruins. Amongst the rubble, there were corpses, their deaths either by massacre or misfortune. I called out my name. While ascending the hill of barb and stench, I dug, barehanded, calling my name. I was there, somewhere, still alive, scornfully defiant at this renewed attempt to quell my rage, to silence my cry for insurrection. Raving, despite and still, but where. Siwan, Siwan, where are you? You are here. You are waiting for me to find you, certain that I will. An arm emerged from beneath those already perished; a murmur, hardly audible. Of course, I knew, how could I not, for we are one, alive.