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Am working my way through Gourevitch's We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families: Stories From Rwanda. Another 70, 80 pages tonight, and I need a beer.

This is one of those things which propel me to do something which will, maybe not being me to Rwanda, where I could stand like a self-righteous white and be caught in the contradictions of that, but will maybe bring me someplace where I'm tying the wider world and the insular, arrogant, ignorant world in which I grew up, in which I live, closer.

Even a heartbeat of passion in the jugular, compelled by contemplation, at any level, of Rwanda (Kigali, the Goma camps, Kibeho), Nagasaki, and Kitamori, Mbiti, martyrs in Sudan, together, juxtaposed, united in crucifixion, dying for resurrection to judgement and vindication, that heartbeat flickering for a second could justify everything I do.

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