Out
of the historical sites visited at our time in Johannesburg, one hit me with
astounding grief and emotion. After a tour through the Sharpeville museum,
which was powerful enough, we went to the graveyard where these victims were
buried. For some reason, I am able to contain the emotions I go through in
museums, photographs from history books, stories and retellings are all
distant. I related to them the same way I would relate to reading about the
holocaust or other terrible events, with grief, but contained, Iʼve grown
accustomed to this kind of pain. The graveyard however, was physical, real the
stone slabs that marked the meadow were an unmovable permanent reminder of the
hatred that exists in this world. A hatred not shown by photographs or text,
but one I could touch with my hands and taste the bitterness of palatable
horror in my mouth. I took my time to walk side by side with each grave, and
each name that came filled me with more dread. Why must we hate our brothers
and sisters so much? We are all one race and being killed because of the color
of oneʼs skin, because of a singular genetic difference out of the millions
that exist...its preposterous...evil and sickening in every sense of the world.
This trip certainly has posed more questions than answers.
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