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Category Archives: War
From Genocide to Hope in Rwanda – A Visit to the Genocide Memorial
What we Learn: A Visit to the Rwanda Genocide Museum
Out of the Darkness, Light
As I emerged from the area of the museum that described the brutal killing and mutilation of bodies carrying souls, the lights went out. I stood at first in the dark and considered the ironic metaphor of such an occurrence at that particular moment, though a brief interruption of power is not so unusual here, and the generators kick in quickly and efficiently. But this — “The moment the lights went out” was a symbol for a country. A time when all was dark and seemingly hopeless. A solemn visceral reminder of what “dark” looks like.
I sat down on a small stool in the anti-room where I had been walking, waiting for the light to reappear. Suddenly I realized that, indeed, there was light coming from somewhere. My eyes simply had to adjust and refocus. I turned and towering above me, standing like a beacon, stood a stunning stained glass window.
At the base of the mosaic were many skulls, tumbled together in chaos and the stark white of death. But upon looking closely, through red scythes, arose a solid staircase reaching upward. Held by swirls of activity on both sides, the stairway was strong and reached up and up, into an abstract sphere that appeared to be a globe at the top of the window. A better world, perhaps?
When the lights came back on, I found myself amidst a display room that spoke of those who helped potential victims escape from the bloody horror, exposing themselves to great harm, torture and sure death through their offering of aid and assistance. As I read each panel, I imagined a life. Moving along at a rhythm and then interrupted instantaneously and brutally. The word of an airplane down, roadblocks, and the unspeakable massacre, carried out in such haste that there was no time to find safety, or even to understand what was occurring.
I imagined two lives. One at risk of being snuffed out without mercy. Another with assurance that their cleverness and assistance could easily lead to punishment in the same cruel way — simply for offering assistance to another human being.
Taking a break, I walked among the mass graves and memorial garden. I saw the beginning of a series of plaques that will commemorate each victim by name. My mind and heart traveled to the Viet Nam Memorial with the same black surface on which the many who died were etched. But at the memorial in D.C. there were only names of Americans — not the hundreds of thousands whose lives were wasted in their own homeland, with no understanding of why. For what? And here, in Rwanda, for what? A politician’s ambition? Wasted lives, wasted human potential. Massive suffering — all in the name of power.
Following my walk through the memorial garden, I re-entered the museum to conclude my visit by walking through the memorial to the children who were lost.
Filette, age 2
My heart beat hard as I walked through and, breaking the rules, I took photos of the children, and sat to write their stories as chronicled under their image. Only a few were featured, although hundreds of thousands were killed in unspeakable ways. Enough to break one’s heart.
Fabrice, age 8, loved chocolate and swimming; bludgeoned with a club
Canelle, age 8, loved jogging with her father, also loved chocolate and milk. Her favorite song was “My Native Land Which God Chose for Me.” Hacked to death with a machete.
Ariane, age 4, loved cake and milk, singing and dancing. Stabbed in the eyes and head.
Ariane, age 4
David, age 10, loved futball and wanted to become a doctor. His last words were, “UNAMIR (U.N.) will come for us.” Tortured to death.
Umatoni (6) and Umawezi (7), grenade through into their shower where they were hiding.
Fillette, age 2. Loved rice and chips. Little body smashed against a wall.
At the entry had been a plaque:
“In memory of our beautiful and beloved children who should have been our future.”
***
Unable to yet join with my group, I made my way in silence to the coffee house and sat down to write. How are we to explain this world to our children, our grandchildren? How do we share that these things exist and that the world is not only full of joy and laughter, but pain and despair? When are they old enough to understand? Are we ever “old enough” to understand? I, for one, am not.
This is not just about Rwanda. Rwanda has healed in ways I will never understand. This is about what we as humans have the capacity to do to one another. Whether it be incinerating in a chamber, blowing limbs off by land mines, or sending drones into homes. This is about life and human decency.
Rwanda teaches me so much about forgiveness, about all that is best in the human condition. I will keep telling the story.
Inscription at the exit from the Genocide Memorial. One million people had died in a short few months.
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Soul Rubbings upon leaving Camp Casey
What Have We Given?
Now that we have left Camp Casey and are perched on the porch of my mother’s serene home on a hill overlooking Kerrville, I will explain my choice for the name of these musings — “Soul Rubbings.”
One way of finding one’s lineage, one’s “place” as it were, involves rubbing thin sheets of paper over the gravestones of ancestors in cemetaries and family plots and, using pencil or charcoal, making an impression of their markings. Reaching back and touching the ancestors brings them more alive somehow. By rubbing the ancient grave markers, I name them and find a visceral knowing of their existence — when they came, and when they went. Through that physical act, I have identified my people, finding clues to who I am at the deepest level. The simple effort involved in making contact through rubbings with those who have come before allows me to access those lives that informed mine through their very being on the earth plane, whether or not they actually held me in their laps, rocked me for afternoon nap, or cupped my face in their hands.
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Camp Casey Chronicles
Reflections on War, Crawford, and the Case against THIS War
This morning we leave Camp Casey with mixed feelings. We leave behind many new friends who will scatter, literally, across the continent over the next week. We are complete with what we needed to do, connected to our next steps, and exhausted from the heat, the humidity, and the week-long strong emotions. Now we can unravel and absorb all that we have experienced.
We are now traveling down I-35 headed toward Austin, the liberal bastion of Texas, and then on through Dripping Springs to Kerrville, to see my mother.
Had we told her we were in Crawford, she would have been right out there with us, which is why we did not tell her. She would have loved waving her own American flag and ‘cussin’ at the right wing Connecticut Yankee occupiers whom she thinks stole Texas from the “real Texans,” those Johnny-come-lately’s who wouldn’t know the Alamo from the internet.
Now 81 years of age, sporting high blood pressure and even higher spirits, she would have no doubt created a scene! We did not feel it was appropriate to let her loose in a tent with peace activists. Actually, neither one of us wanted to be responsible for her if she got out of control while “straightenin’ those old boys out,” which she does frequently with enthusiasm and abandon. She reminds us, if we dare chide her,
“ What are they going to, hit me? I’m an old lady.”
The Crawford Sherriff’s Dept. is depending on our side to be peaceful, at least.
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August 28 Camp Casey Good byes
There are few words to express the experience of being amongst a group of people who care so deeply about an issue that they drove, hitch hiked, rode bus and train, car pooled, and otherwise moved hillsides to spend two weeks speaking out against a war of choice that has put so many at risk — from many nations. While most of the people present at the protest rally were from U.S., the effort was on behalf of all global citizens — old and young, military and civilian.
We leave this desolate ground knowing that the road back will be long and arduous. Both our country and our world hang in the balance of decisions that were made on false evidence and intentional deception. Representations were made for ill founded reasons and now children will grow up without parents — parents will grow old without children. Grand parent stories will be lost to the little ones forever.
The crosses are descansos, marking the indelible fact that “something happened here.” Something indeed that will shade my life for a long, long time.
I leave with a full heart and hope that people, in the end, are the deciders.
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Camp Casey Grows and Swells
Oh, what a day it was! Oh, what a day!
The tent was full, our hearts were full, and my own experience became very palpable in the reality of what it means to have a child in a position to have to lead in a conflict that has been so radically misfounded.
I spoke with a young West Point grad who has just returned from Iraq and is on his way to a base in Texas. He spoke of the difficulty of being a liberal in the Army right now. When I asked him how the soldiers dealt with the facts that have come out regarding the lack of weapons of mass destruction. He said that they simply do not choose to believe the evidence, even when faced with the results of a congressional hearing. It is a most uncomfortable position to be in when they are being asked to defend what is indefensible.
The rally was moving, inspirational, exhausting, and beautiful. Nonviolent dissent at its best. A courageous thing to watch and experience
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Ten Commandments and Hot Cowgirls in Crawford, TX
Good Morning, America!
Finishing a Whataburger with cheese and “no katchup” for breakfast, we drove out to Crawford, stopping to take a picture of the two “Barbie” cowgirl posts that guard the entrance to an enormous ranch house along the road near Camp Casey. With those breasts, who would dare trespass?
The Barbie’s are made of black sheet metal, but this morning for the first time since we have been driving this road, they have white hats and painted boots. Gettin’ dressed up for the weekend?
Down in the center of town, at the blinking light, is Texas Star gift shop with the “biggest selection of Bush items in the world.” I was definitely tempted to go inside and see! On the side of the building stands a huge banner “We love W” with “George” on one side, “Laura” on the other, and a civil war cannon on the roof above, painted red white and blue. Beside the cannon flies an American flag waving for liberty. A picture will be posted tonight on this site. The signal in the tent is too weak to upload.
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Counterinsurgency Reported at Camp Casey
Insurgent Sleeps on Watch
If this is the counterinsurgency I am concerned! What fills this camp is a huge group of middle aged women with floppy hats and sagging breasts from nursing those kids who intended to serve their country and ended up building bases in Iraq for Bush and boys.
Joining us is an entire contingent of older-than-middle-aged men who know the meaning of war from the inside out. Many of them date back to the “Great War” WWII. Some with cowboy hats, bolo ties and “Hi, Ya’ll” accents. Some of them can’t hear anymore, but they are INTO it.
And then there are the Viet Nam vets who look pretty darn good, considering! They actually look younger than I figured they would. I am certain that some of them die their hair ’cause they aren’t as gray as I am!
Followed by the the Iraq Vets Against the War who are gentle giants — so young, so reminding me of my own son. One towering Marine plays taps each night at dusk, as we gather around the crosses. Last night we were joined by yet another Gold Star mother. Wearing her grief fresh and raw. Not very scary as an insurgent, but very frightening to me as a mother of a soldier in Iraq. 
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