A month of gloom
My site statistics thingie tells me that my average clicks a day has dropped.
Just because I'm writing about death, genocide, and sketchy egyptians shouldn't scare you away. This weekend has been the beginning of the commemoration of the genocide, 13 years later. So we're bombared with images of dead babies and macheted moms. On saturday I attended the official commemoration ceremony, held in Murambi this year (the site of a massacre of about 50,000 Tutsis). Hundreds of exhumed bodies, contorted and almost perfectly preserved with limestone, are on display in every classroom. One, after the other, after the other. The public walked through them all after the ceremonies, they let little kids in, one woman with a baby on her back got pushed in the commotion and bumped into a protruding severed, chalky shin.
Watching the survivors' reactions to the site - many of which survived Murambi and were maybe looking at their relatives - and people breaking down, getting carried away by the red cross' "comfort committee" was enough to make me stay in all Easter Sunday. Ah, right. Happy Easter. Life, death. lifedeathlifedeathlifedeath. I can't think of anything meaningful to write here.
Well, I think I've just made a wonderful case for you to keep reading. Tomorrow, jolly posts I promise. And now I have to apply for jobs.
Just because I'm writing about death, genocide, and sketchy egyptians shouldn't scare you away. This weekend has been the beginning of the commemoration of the genocide, 13 years later. So we're bombared with images of dead babies and macheted moms. On saturday I attended the official commemoration ceremony, held in Murambi this year (the site of a massacre of about 50,000 Tutsis). Hundreds of exhumed bodies, contorted and almost perfectly preserved with limestone, are on display in every classroom. One, after the other, after the other. The public walked through them all after the ceremonies, they let little kids in, one woman with a baby on her back got pushed in the commotion and bumped into a protruding severed, chalky shin.
Watching the survivors' reactions to the site - many of which survived Murambi and were maybe looking at their relatives - and people breaking down, getting carried away by the red cross' "comfort committee" was enough to make me stay in all Easter Sunday. Ah, right. Happy Easter. Life, death. lifedeathlifedeathlifedeath. I can't think of anything meaningful to write here.
Well, I think I've just made a wonderful case for you to keep reading. Tomorrow, jolly posts I promise. And now I have to apply for jobs.
posted by Diala at 9:32 PM
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