the things i read while doing art essays :( Artists notations on drawing and etching of same title 23 April,1995, Kibeho Camp. Rwanda. Two days ago there were thousands of people standing and pleading for help. Now everything is flattened - bodies crumpled amidst rubbish - their few discarded possessions useless. This was a sanctuary, a Catholic girls school and Cathedral, where for several years girls have had visions of the Virgin Mary - making it a place of pilgrimage. The IDPs came here seeking the protection of the Virgin Mother. The RPA soldiers herded refugees into a compressed sea of humanity - denied food and water - tightly contained behind razor wire and barricades. As the killing has moved through them there have been wave-like bursts of panic - shifts and changes in the pattern of slaughter - bodies crushed and torn, rolled in mud and caught in the razor wire as crowds in herds press over them. These are proud people who cling to their dignity until the filth and horror of this place tears it from them. I helped drag a man out of the shitter yesterday morning - he had survived a night of massacre by hiding in the heat and vile stench of the pit, but lost his mind. Seeing him stretched out in the sun, shit caked and drying - a condom hanging from his shirt pocket, I felt relief when a passing RPA soldier casually put a bullet through his head. During something like this many realities operate at the same time. This afternoon, as if walking through an invisible door I came into a group who were calm. Though bursts of machine gun fire surrounded them - continually getting closer with terrifying inevitability - they remained a solid congregation - bound together not by walls, but by prayer. A solitary preacher read to them from a ragged bible - he was a tall man in a yellowish coat, sitting high on a sack of grain. He spoke in French with a thick dialect - his voice hoarse and broken - but I could recognise the sermon on the mount, Heureux les coeurs purs: ils verront Dieu. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God… Those around him clasped their hands or hugged their children. The Preacher was aware of me - he was not going to plead for help he knew I could not give (my blue UN helmet meant little anymore, to this congregation). Our eyes met and in rapid succession I saw anger, despair, courage - then he smiled - the purity of his faith unquestionable. For these people who had lost everything the Preacher helped them regain their dignity. The guns silenced for a moment and I took this opportunity to sneak two young boys past the RPA gauntlet. I did not look back - the boys demanded my complete focus. Where the Preacher was, there were only trampled bodies. Ive searched for his yellow coat, but now have to concentrate on the survivors.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 10:49:14 +0000
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