This is an exquisite piece of writing. I'm not sure I can do it justice - it's hard, when reading the sentences, to put together what works. I finished it, and then started again - it's that kind of book.
The title, for example, is both about the politics of immigration and who belongs, and heartbreakingly, about the impossibility of replacing what we lose with a record of it. Crawford's prose loops back and forth, from the mundane to the profound, but always searching for the lost. How to reconstruct something out of the experience.
There are some strange intersections, Crawford falls into passion for activism at around the same time as I fell out of passion with it. Her conviction, carried through significant protests of the early 2000s contrasted for me with my growing cynicism at the same events: this glorious unity of S11 united my experiences with the authors.
Crawford uses protest to explore what unites us, and what we need to reach past. All of which is, as I have said, coloured by loss and the glory of having someone to lose. It's something.