Walking through the genocide memorial at the church in Nyemata I am dull, disgusted by the broken skulls and bones of people murdered without mercy–babies and their mothers, toddlers, adolescents, and elders, 50,000. Trudging inert after the tour guide, so distant from the frenzy of violence that raced to outdo every act of humiliation, rape and torture. I descend steps into the mass grave behind the church where shelves of skulls are neatly arranged in rows and columns, rescued from jumbled tangles where they lay dead, pulled from rivers and latrines. I question my reason for looking at these horrors. Am I learning something that will save a life or stop a hand from violence? Or do I indulge ghoulish curiosity like the creative fiends with their long knives?
