Today will be my shortest post. A post with few words, and fewer images.
Today we are at Oradour-sur-Glane. A small, simple village, just to the north and west of Limoges, in France.
If you have not heard of Oradour this is it’s story. The barest of bones of it’s story…
The village has been preserved as a permanent memorial to it’s inhabitants – massacred during World War II.
The men were separated from the women and children, and taken to six different barns where they were shot in the legs, locked inside, and burnt alive.
The women and children were locked in the church, which was then set alight. Machine guns were placed ready around the walls outside to shoot anyone who tried to escape.
Today I stood where they died, these babies, and placed my fingers in the bullet holes in the walls.
It is not a place to take pictures. It is a place to visit. To walk in silence as the village blackbird sings, and sings and sings from his tree.
It is a place to look upon the faces of the gone and remember. Remember them. Remember cruelty has no country, no faith, no flag. And kindness the same.
I have no desire to find words for these things. For this place. Go. See. In your own silence.