he lived in a small village in north sumatra and a vast area of oil, palm, and rubber plantations.is story was not so much his position but the fact that his was one of the only murders that had witnesses. tens of thousands of other people have been taken to rivers, killed and their bodies allowed to drift out to sea and their families were never told what happened. they were then unable to grieve to mourn, they could not even say that their loved ones had died, they just had not come home yet. which meant that they lived in this prison of cognitive dissonance, where they knew that the person must be dead, but they could not say it. a small part of that grieve, they could articulated by talking about his brother. over the decade until i arrived in 2003, over the decades, he became a synonym for the genocide as a whole. when i started this work, i was introduced to his family. his mother and father wanted me to meet his brother. his mother said, i was going crazy after he was murdered but because i had his brother, i was able to live. she called into the village. i met a young man w