I went to see the corpses. I wanted them to have names, for their voices to cry out still. I wanted to touch them, run my hands down their preserved bodies and kiss them. It was a heavy feeling, this love and sorrow for the dead flayed and shown. Nothing vulnerable, until I saw the exposed spine of a man leaned over a chess board. Something in that made me want to cry. Why were these people not allowed to keep their names? Why were they taken down from being less than human and put on a pedestal celebrating our fiery glory? I craved a word about their lives. Maria Chan, schoolteacher. 1967 – 1998 She collected butterflies. I needed to touch them, to lick their skinless faces, hold them, cradle them into my arms and say that I was sorry. I never wanted them to be stripped of voice as well as skin. There was a pressure, I wanted to take photographs. I needed to share it and the quotes on the walls.