You… Yes, you… This is not an exhibition, neither is it a performance… We, human charcoals, are not paintings… I know, I know we were presented like this to put us here. We are wounds on the wood. Charcoal and paper… they are both wooden. It’s the wood that bears the memory on it… Silence. That dead past living in the future. For, wood is both dead and alive. It is like us… the survivors… Like those who systematic destruction of genocide did not manage to eradicate. We are the talking dead. We are the alive remaining silent. We are those who should not have existed. We were born innocent and we die innocent, because they did not have the time to genocide us. We are a question of time. I do not know whether god was with us or he himself was alone, too, but, time is with us. And now we also have the Justs with us in that piece of humanity which cannot forget us. Are you a Just, too? Look at me more carefully. Sit a little bit opposite to me, so I can see you… Your eyes… are wet…I can tell… don’t try to hide it… your hands can’t stop the tears… they simply get wet, too. Come closer…Time. I want to tell you my story… Will you remember it? Time. You don’t know yet… It’s okay, you aren’t a monster… So, you human, I come from where the skin color is the same with the land’s one. You don’t know of my land… Silence. It’s few who know… Don’t worry. What matters to me is that you belong to them… Otherwise, who will talk about the crimes against humanity? So, you are a witness… You can become a Just, later…It depends on how much pain you can afford… If you have a master, he will teach you… otherwise, find one… Do you understand? It’s only he that is able to teach you how to see us. I only show you how to look at us… My story started like this.