Picture it: Oaxaca City, Oaxaca, Mexico. 1996. The Day of the Dead. Hotel Las Golandrinas. I awakened in the night to find a woman in traditional peasant garb floating, face down, near the ceiling, over the foot of my bed. “Come with me,” she said in Spanish. She led me through the roof, over the city, into the nearby cathedral, where dozens of peasants hung by their necks from the gold ceiling. “This is where they killed us.” As she spoke, the corpses opened their eyes and stared miserably at me. But there was nothing I could do but witness.