Despite my family being so far away, my relatives too, and especially my mother, I dreamt at night of returning to them. The feeling of being home was something different in the dream. I had always thought that it was only my city that was dangerous because of the militias, but this time it was like the entire country was in danger. There were masked men everywhere. Houses fell in on themselves. In the dream I met my father, my mother, and my whole family. This feeling was different too, strange, as if I had been banished and was meeting them unexpectedly. But I still enjoyed the dream, enjoyed it so much. But just as we had all been reunited, a car full of masked men pulled up, who approached us and started shooting at us. We ran from them, but they followed us. We ran towards a wall, and hid behind it. After a while, we realised that the shooting had stopped. We thought that the armed men had gone away and left us in peace. But when we came out from behind the wall, to find somewhere else to hide, they shot at us again. They hit my mother and my cousin. My cousin died from the wounds, my mother survived. Even to this day, when I remember this dream, I shake and my soul is smashed to pieces, because I wished that the bullets had hit me instead. In the dream I cried for hours. Finally I woke up, shocked, distraught. Even though I hate it, I can’t forget it. The dream is woven in me.