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26 February – 28 March 2010

In 1994 Angela Blakely and David Lloyd were commissioned by the History section of the Australian Army to accompany the first rotation of troops to Rwanda and photo document Australia’s involvement. In 2006 and 2008 they returned to Rwanda and discovered that for many survivors there is no life after the genocide. They have lost, and continue to lose, their health, their dignity, their security and their liberty. Justice remains elusive. Never Again makes visual the voice of the survivors of the Rwandan genocide.

In 1948 the world cried out “Never again!” In 1994 the world watched quietly and ultimately ignored the genocide in Rwanda.

Ten days have passed since I visited the exhibition, Never Again, and the impact of the images and the emotions I felt are fading. As I sit here and try and pull back the memories of my responses to the exhibition, I find myself thinking about the women whose images I saw, whose cries I heard and whose tissues were also there as a tangible reminder of their sorrow.

I felt a kinship with these women, a sisterhood of sorrow shared and it was important that I read their stories, that I pay homage to their grief. I was also very conscious of the need to protect myself, so as not to be swallowed by their grief. I was thankful that I could step back and have some respite from their pain and as I caught my breath, I was very conscious that there is no respite for these women, that the images they keep inside their heads and the emotions they felt will never fade.

I moved to a perspex box half filled with yellowing tissues and tentatively picked up the headphones provided. As I listened to the taped cries of the women in the crying room, I began to cry myself. I listened to their tears for as long as it took me to read the text assosciated with that part of the exhibition, text that I can not remember a single word of. I was thankful that I could stop listening to the sound of their pain and then wondered if they had anyone left to listen to them and so I listened again.

I was pleased that someone had thought to save the tissues, to save the women’s tears. Tissues are so easily discarded and they were a powerful symbol of how easily a human life can be discarded.

Photographs in subdued colours and muted sepia tones,of dead flowers and an empty chair in an empty room. Images of discarded prosthetics, a church where the villagers went for sanctuary and were slaughtered instead, as well as portraits of some of the survivors line this wall. Next to each photograph is a printed block of text that tells the story behind the photo. Each block of text starts the same way, I met a woman today. I met a man today and each story demands to be read. Each story needs to be re-told.

One of the stories accompanying the photographs was Marcella’s.

I met a woman today, Marcella told me what life was like for her during the genocide: watching her husband be killed; knowing her children were slaughtered; feeling the spear stab her pregnant abdomen. she related how “the neighbours, the militia and the soldiers came to kill us with guns,machetes and clubs”. what Marcella wouldn’t explain is how the women were killed. She simply said it was “inappropriate”.

And so the stories go on, each one as compelling as the next.

I met a woman today. she was sitting on a gravestone at the memorial museum, weeping quietly.She held a tissue in her hand and wiped her tears. Walking past, I didn’t want to interrupt her. She was sitting on one of the nine tombs that hold the bodies of 250,000 people – only some of those killed in Kigali during the genocide.

I wondered for whom she was crying?

On the other side of the room, I sit facing a long line of photographs on another wall. Large black photographs with small lines of text with a name and age in the centre. A powerful series of photographs, depicting a whole family decimated. The Mother, one of only four survivors left from a large, extended family is the centrepiece on this wall of death and her eyes are compelling.

A line from my journal, written as I tried to collect my thoughts and process my emotions.

As I sit opposite the wall and look at the Mother’s face I am compelled to reflect on what it means to be a woman, a mother, a daughter.

The pain of having nearly all of your extended family wiped out was reflected in the Mother’s eyes and I sat staring into her eyes for a long time thinking about how we are so vulnerable and how easily it could be any woman staring back at me. How women and children are generally the hidden, silent casualties in war,how women are viewed as legitimite spoils of war and being extremely grateful for the ability to do so I walked away from the woman’s pain.

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Birthdays,bloggies,stone tools and stuff.

Happy Birthday to me. I am 44 today. I am an Aquarian Fire Horse hear me snort. heh.

This is the year of the tiger and I can almost see the creative electricity in the air. I feel like I am on the cusp of a great adventure and all I have to do is be brave enough to grab hold of the tiger’s tail and enjoy the ride.

Grief manifests itself in many ways. One of the ways that my grief really had hold of me was through my photography. I just could not be bothered picking up the camera at all.There was a complete absence of joy in any photo that I took. I had even stopped taking photos of my grand children that was how deep my despair was.

Then my friend Robin came all the way up here and took me for a drive specifically to take photos. A wedgetailed eagle on a ledge was all it took for me to feel something, a spark of my old self returning.

In the same week along came the bloggies and an echidna. I had forgotten how much I enjoy sharing photographs of my part of the world. And you my readers, old and new have no idea of the enormity of the gift that you have given me. My camera is talking to me again and I feel a touch lighter for it.

I return to my studies next week and I am excited. This year is my final year with my tutor Ben Richardson and I am determined to wring every bit out of this year in the studio that I possibly can.

As a potter I find that I use an awful lot of plastic. Plastic to store my clay, plastic wrap to keep my work damp, plastic plastic plastic. So I am going to see if I can be plastic free in my work by the end of the year. Which leads me on to these stones that I found down by the river I think they will make nice tools to use with my work and the clay has to respond better to them than to plastic. We will see.

Now I am off to buy myself some birthday chocolate. Happy birthday to me.

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I can’t like this…

When something isn’t quite right my grand daughter Amy wails, “I cant like this!”

I have been on an emotional rollercoaster all week.The bloggies nomination has had me on such a high that I have been skipping around the house hugging myself with excitement.The counterpoint to that joy has been the pain of knowing that the new people would be moving into Mum’s house sometime this week as well.

It has been a big week.

Yesterday I was out on the balcony admiring the beauty of the morning and mentally composing a blog post when I noticed a glint of shiny metal in Mum’s driveway. It was a moving van, the new people were moving some of their stuff into Mum’s house.

All my words vanished with a pop and I wanted to wail like a three year old, “I cant like this!” I wanted to screech my displeasure at the injustice of it all.I wanted to tell them to go away, get out of my mum’s house. But most of all I just wanted my mum.

Today the real estate agent rang me asking if I had noticed the new people moving in and if there was a trick to getting the hot water running as they were having some problems. I offered to go down and see if I could help.

I dont think I can adequately describe how it felt to see their furniture in Mum’s house. It wasn’t quite as horrible as I had imagined it would be and sitting here trying to analyze how I am feeling all I can think of is relief. I am feeling less stressed, my shoulders feel lighter and I now have a small measure of closure.

I couldn’t help with the hot water and after some small talk I came home. It isn’t Mum’s home any more it is the new peoples house.

So this afternoon I sat down to write a blog post about Tasmania in reply to some lovely emails from my new American readers. Just as I was about to start writing the pigs escaped from their yard. Blue, the larger of my two girls just went through the hot tape as if it wasn’t even electrified and they are having a fine old time wandering about the place wreck rending. After following the pigs around for about an hour or so, to make sure they didn’t wander off the property and become somebody else’s dinner. I snuck inside for a bit of a rest and to grab my camera because if I was going to follow them all over the place, I was at least going to photograph them for you as well.

Pigs are really friendly, intelligent animals. They are supposed to have the cognitive ability of a three year old child. I can certainly vouch for the fact that they are able to get up to as much mischief as a couple of toddlers.

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Birthdays and other things.

My grandmother is 87 today and Isaac will be one in a few days.

I successfully avoided getting together with my extended family at Christmas.Today we will all be together for the first time since Mum’s funeral. Combined with the fact that I handed the keys to Mum’s house over to the lawyers on Monday has made this past week very emotional.

Tears are never very far from the surface and my men are tiptoeing around me lest I rip their heads off.

Veronica has been busily disagreeing with a “hate blogger” which has provided me with a much needed distraction from myself. The comments section of that blog is a hoot. Accusations, sweeping assumptions,aspersions and arseholiness are the main themes.

It is all very amusing for about five minutes until you realise that it is real people they are ripping on. I am very proud of Vonnie for standing up for what she believes in and loudly saying that by our silence we are giving these stupid hate bloggers more power. Personally I believe in Karma and I cant be bothered with the small mindedness of chicken liver and her pathetic cronies but I will stand shoulder to shoulder with my daughter and say this crap shouldn’t be tolerated.

David is aghast at the ramming and subsequent sinking of the Ady Gil by the Japanese security ship the Shonnan Maru. The Japanese are killing whales in Australian territorial waters and our government is hoping that by ignoring the problem, it will just go away.

I have been very impressed by my son’s articulate and passionate response to the sinking of the Ady Gil. David would love to join the Sea Shepherd’s crew and be actively involved but the ships are vegan and my son is honest enough to admit that he isn’t quite that committed. Yet.

There is a rally to support Sea Shepherd at the Abel Tasman Memorial fountain at Salamanca at 11 am on Saturday the 16th of January.David is keen to attend his first environmental/political rally.

I am very proud of both my children for passionately standing up for what they believe in.

Thankyou for the response to my video of Harry and the pigs. Jientje and Barbara have asked me to make some more videos and so I will. What sort of things would the rest of you lovely people like to see?

I have had the camera out a bit this past week and I think that I might have enough decent shots to post a couple of photos later on this week.

Lastly I want to thank you all my dear internets. I really don’t know how I would have gotten through the last six months without your support. Thankyou.