I was a girl in a war-torn, Islamic country... it could be Afghanistan or Saudi Arabia in the old times of war. I was witnessing the hanging of three people for betraying their faith, for collaborating with the godless enemies and seeking to defend themselves after commiting the greivous crime of speaking against the insurrection and the anarchists. The first of them was shot with an arrow through his heart, the second through his head. The third man, terror write on hsi face and struggling with everything he had in him, managed to untie the ropes than bound him, and ran to the chief law-maker, begging him for mercy and for life, asking pardon that he had not seen the sin in wanting to protect his people from murder and power-driven violence, wanting to side with those he believed knew humanity better than the ones at the helm of his beloved country, for risking his life and his family in a slient fight that he knew he was alone in. He was summarily stabbed by the chief. I was standing in the crowd, close to the ropes. I turned away, and started walking back. He noticed the movement and shouted into the crowd, "Who dares turn their back on an act of justice?" I turned towards him, my face hidded in my scarf. "I dare. Because that man is dead, while men like you live."

I'd liked to know what happened after that; I was beginning to seem like a rather interesting protagonist to have in a medieval Islamic war dream, but a misplaced wake-up call effectively ruined the possibility of knowing.