Last night on Nightline the topic was Rwanda. A reporter went back to the very spot he visited just 11 years ago. They replayed the footage from his previous visit to a large refugee camp. There was death and pain for as far as the eye could see. There were trucks dumping corpses into mass graves — bouncing off each other like worthless refuse wrapped in Glad trash bags. There were starving orphaned children as young as one years old laying in the street crying as people walked by — looking for any amount of food and safety for themselves. The land was volcanic, nothing could be planted to grow for food. The only water source was a lake that eventually poisoned those who drank of it.

Today there is only a large field. No sign of a death camp. No memorials. No trace of the large amount of human suffering that took place at this particular place on the earth. A near by volcano has layed down a new layer of lava and surface level vegetation has over grown the landscape. The blue lake and green field are surrounded by the beauty of the majestic mountians rising up into the background. Life goes on.

We have on average 70 years to effect two, maybe three generations — after that we are just a memory. If you aren’t featured in history books, then after those generations die you are only a name in the thick accounting books of human existance (which have been know to get destroyed from time to time). Funny how such a thought can make me feel so insignificant and yet also inspire me to want to make the most of the short time I have here.