"I am a citizen without an identity; I was not a number in government papers; I am... canceled!" An identity written for me since birth. I was born watching a flag being raised and a homeland greeted by students every morning, while I was behind bars, deprived even of the right to stand among them. I grew up bleeding in hospital corridors, without the right to a bed or medicine. Every door was officially closed in my face in silence. Little by little, I realized that I was not just forgotten, but canceled. I tried to belong, to be part of this place, but my homeland had turned its back on me long ago, so I did the same, and went looking for an alternative homeland, a shore that would embrace me and those I love. But the sea was not kind; it was cruel and without memory. It took from me the little one I raised with love, who shared with me the identity of the "canceled."