She said, 'Over my dead body,' and so they killed her. The soldiers carried her screaming and grasping at shirt collars, lapels, tablecloth, and hurled her out of the fifth-floor window, and because she was fat and asthmatic, she probably died before she hit the hard tar road in front of the hotel. This was five years ago and I was in America in my second year at NYU and so the story came to me in snippets, a casual line in an email, a paragraph online as I browsed through the home papers. My auntie's death was only referred to in passing by the papers, like a footnote to the lengthy columns about the famous general whose arrest she died trying to stop.