When Humanity Failed—and Individuals Did Not

Disasters happen. But it seems to me that we can all learn from our own mistakes. A little honest reflection can allow even a catastrophe in our lives to become a pivotal moment: a point at which we change our behaviour or take a different direction. Yet when we confront mass killings, the horror can be so overwhelming that we do not want to look, listen or read about it. We turn away. Some even deny that it happened.

On 14 December 2012, a gunman murdered twenty children, all aged six or seven, and six members of staff at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Afterwards, the American broadcaster Alex Jones promoted the false claim that the massacre was staged and that grieving relatives were actors. Families already suffering an unimaginable loss were subjected to harassment and threats by people who believed these lies.

Relatives brought civil proceedings against Jones and were awarded substantial damages. Yet, according to reporting in August 2026, they had still collected no money from him, while he continued broadcasting on other platforms. Nearly fourteen years after the shooting, their grief had been compounded by years of abuse and legal battles. It hurts the heart to think of them. What can one say—and what on earth has been learned?

Justice matters. When the scale of suffering beggars belief, we must resist the temptation to avert our eyes. Examining what happened gives us a chance to recognise warning signs, confront failures and prevent further harm. Otherwise, history becomes a dreadful repeating record, and we seem continually surprised to hear it playing again.

On 11 January 1994, General Roméo Dallaire, commander of the United Nations peacekeeping force in Rwanda, sent an urgent cable to his superiors. Drawing on information from an insider in the Interahamwe militia, he warned of preparations for attacks on Tutsis, political assassinations and the killing of Belgian peacekeepers to provoke Belgium’s withdrawal. The informant reported being ordered to register Tutsis and suspected that this was preparation for their extermination. This was almost three months before the genocide began.

The warning did not produce an effective preventive response. Worse still, after the killing had begun, the UN Security Council voted on 21 April to reduce the peacekeeping force drastically. At the very moment civilians most desperately needed protection, international support was being withdrawn.

The genocide unfolded on the night of 6 April and into 7 April 1994, following the shooting down of President Juvénal Habyarimana’s aircraft. Habyarimana was Hutu and had signed a peace agreement providing for power-sharing with the predominantly Tutsi rebel movement and opposition parties. Hutu extremists opposed that settlement. Within half an hour of the aircraft’s destruction, roadblocks were being established to identify Tutsis. The assassination became the trigger for organised mass killing.

An estimated 800,000 people were killed over roughly one hundred days. The principal targets were Tutsis, but moderate Hutus and others who opposed the extremists were also murdered. Extremist radio broadcasts spread hatred, encouraged killing and helped direct the violence.

Yet alongside this terrible history are accounts of extraordinary courage. Those stories deserve to be remembered too.

General Dallaire remained in Rwanda with a greatly reduced peacekeeping contingent, trying to protect civilians amid the slaughter. Their efforts are credited with saving approximately 32,000 people. That was no small achievement. Nevertheless, he returned to Canada deeply traumatised and developed severe post-traumatic stress disorder. He has spoken openly about surviving four suicide attempts. With treatment and support, he went on to serve as a Canadian senator, write about his experiences and campaign for veterans’ mental health and the prevention of the recruitment of child soldiers.

Another courageous figure was Damas Gisimba, a Rwandan orphanage director who turned his family’s orphanage in Kigali into a refuge for more than four hundred people, mostly children. Despite shortages and repeated threats, he worked to protect those sheltering there. His commitment to vulnerable children continued long after the genocide.

Then there was Zura Karuhimbi, a Hutu woman who sheltered more than one hundred people, mainly Tutsis, in and around her home. About sixty-nine at the time, she exploited the attackers’ fear of witchcraft, pretending that supernatural forces would punish anyone who harmed those in her protection. It was an ingenious way for an unarmed woman to confront armed killers. In 2006, she received Rwanda’s Campaign Against Genocide Medal, although she continued to live in poverty. She died in 2018, aged approximately ninety-three. 

We cannot undo these atrocities. But we can listen to warnings, challenge lies and refuse to look away. These stories reveal how cruel human beings can become—and how astonishingly courageous others can be. Remembering both matters. Perhaps the most useful lesson is that, even in terrible circumstances, the choices individuals make can save lives.

Be as a lamp unto them that walk in darkness, a joy to the sorrowful, a sea for the thirsty, a haven for the distressed, an upholder and defender of the victim of oppression. Let integrity and uprightness distinguish all thine acts.

 Bahá’u’lláh

Not All Flowers Bloom in View

Not everything that a man knoweth can be disclosed, nor can everything that he can disclose be regarded as timely, nor can every timely utterance be considered as suited to the capacity of those who hear it.

Bahá’u’lláh

It’s thought-provoking to be reminded that not everything we have to say should necessarily be shared. To complicate matters further, even when something is worth sharing, it may not be the right time to do so. And finally, even if we find the right words and choose the right moment, those who hear them may not be ready to benefit from them.

I love the way this passage reminds us of the fragility of true communication. Sometimes we’re so convinced of our eloquence, so proud of our rigorous thinking, that we forget to consider whether the other person is ready, willing or able to hear what we are saying.

I was talking with some friends about the challenges of communication when one admitted that it had been several months since they could remember expressing a particular point clearly and well to someone. Then, rather ruefully, they added that it had been much longer—decades—since they themselves had felt truly heard. Perhaps, in this world of sound bites, broadcasting and social media, we have forgotten the gentle art of listening.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

Ecclesiastes 3:1, King James Bible

This quotation, one of my favourites, reminds us that our lives, like the natural world, have their seasons. To me, it also speaks of the patience, determination and perseverance needed to bring something worthwhile to fruition. Wanting something to happen does not necessarily mean that its time has come.

All great things are slow of growth; nay, this is true even of a grape or of a fig.

Epictetus

When we look at nature and follow the slow journey from seed to plant, blossom to fruit, we are reminded that some processes cannot be rushed. It’s interesting that Epictetus mentions grapes and figs: grapevines bear their flowers openly, while the fig’s tiny flowers are hidden within the structure that becomes the fig we eat. Perhaps there is a reminder here that growth is not always visible. Each of us develops in our own way, and much may be happening inwardly long before there is anything to show the world.

Seize thy chance, for it will come to thee no more.

Bahá’u’lláh

Yet patience is only part of the story. There is also a time to act.

Since different plants bear fruit in different ways and at different times, there seems little point in measuring our progress entirely against that of those around us. Each of us has our own capacities, circumstances and purpose. We can learn from others without expecting our lives to follow the same pattern.

But a harvest still depends on planting and tending. We cannot neglect the sowing, leave our plants unwatered through a dry spell, and then expect an abundant crop. So, alongside patience, we need attentiveness: a willingness to recognise an opportunity and the courage to take it before it passes.

Perhaps the challenge is to recognise when to speak and when to listen, when to wait and when to act.

Finding My Missing Courage

I have not put pen to paper for some time. Giving reasons feels like making excuses, so no explanations here. Writing is when I reflect and debrief. More than that, it is a kind of catharsis. It can take years for me to reach the point where, having reflected inwardly, brooded and rethought things, I can finally put an event on paper. Relief follows. But these days my mental and physical gymnastics have caused an injury, and I must sit in silence for a while.

I must gather my strength and find my missing courage. Sometimes the world, too, seems frozen in its tracks. The only voices heard are those with little or no conscience. Their siren calls offend the senses and seem to sink to ever lower levels of discourse. One retreats from debate or discussion as the foulness of tone diminishes all who participate. Not sure where this is going, but in the words of Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that!”

Wrinkles, Invisibility and Other Superpowers

There is an ageing population here in Malta. I include myself in that category! However, there is also a proportion with massive disposable incomes, and many of them invest in cosmetic surgery, facial treatments and laughably expensive creams in order to roll back the remorseless ageing process. It is certainly the deterioration in the facial region that jumps out at me when looking in a magnifying mirror or wearing really strong reading glasses.

I know it can be distressing to see the reality of one’s aged face. Have you, like me, looked up in a lift and been appalled by the harassed, cross old woman glaring back from the mirrored interior?

There are coping strategies that do not include cosmetic surgery or expensive creams. Mine is not to wear glasses, which creates a sort of soft haze of uncertainty about what actually exists. It’s almost an aspect of special relativity, where the glasses create a different frame of reference that includes length contraction (finer wrinkles) and time dilation (a more youthful appearance). Mind you, only in my frame of reference does that reality exist. It does not affect or impact what others may see. But one has to factor in that other important superpower acquired with age: our cloak of invisibility.

I remember, as an adolescent, getting into my swimsuit on the beach beneath a huge beach towel with much difficulty. My mother asked the wounding question, “Who is looking at you?” She was undoubtedly right, but the younger me smarted under this perceived insult. Now, I recognise it as a fundamental truth. 

No one is looking at me, provided I don’t wear my pants on my head, put my clothes on inside out or leave the house in my slippers. I must, in all honesty, also confess to committing two out of the aforementioned three mistakes in the last year. One needn’t dwell on such things. My memory, like the elasticated waist of my trousers, can shrink and expand at will.

Gone are those adolescent years when embarrassing mistakes caused flashbacks, trauma and many tears, even when remembered months later. I have grown kinder to this older, flawed self. I can giggle over small mistakes, try to cover up the larger ones and generally beam at the world with good-natured intention.

Strangers have become universally kinder to me. I am offered seats on buses, and people even offer me their arm when I gingerly step off. Drivers lower the bus to aid my entry and exit without being asked. It sometimes feels as if the bus is kneeling and paying homage to all my infirmities and weaknesses.

At such times, I am reminded of those parts of the world where the elderly face poverty, hunger, disease and neglect. Famines and wars add to the misery and agony of their old age. Forced displacement and refugee camps cause much suffering, and perhaps we should all, like the buses, lower ourselves in recognition of their pain.

"Be ye a refuge to the fearful; bring ye rest and peace to the disturbed; make ye a provision for the destitute; be a treasury of riches for the poor; be a healing medicine for those who suffer pain ..."

ʻAbduʼl-Bahá

If looks could kill!

Sometimes it’s only decades after a person has passed away that you begin to gain perspective on them and their life. One member of our writers’ group, in Northern Ireland, was an 87-year-old English lady called Winnie. She was from Yorkshire and spoke of wearing clogs with metal soles as a child, making sparks fly as she and the other children ran down the road.

Her poetry was about simple things like fish suppers, fuel poverty or just living on her estate. It was one of the rougher estates, and whenever I visited her in Coleraine, I remembered my own time living in such challenging places.

We had so much laughter in that particular writing group, and I remember the warmth of their voices and their openness. I suspect it was the desperation in all our lives that made honesty necessary. Those who live in relative affluence probably have just as many problems, but seem to cloak themselves from others and hide their indiscretions better. Winnie has since passed away, and I miss her smile and her jokey sense of humour.

There was a retired local policeman who was also in the group. He was like a breath of fresh air, causing everyone to erupt in laughter over the simplest things. I remember he once ended up spending a night in custody through no fault of his own.

He’d been awakened in the early hours of the morning in his block of flats by the sound of a woman screaming for help. When he came out of his apartment, he could see two figures, a woman and a man, having an altercation on the walkway outside the third-floor flats.

Climbing the stairs, he joined them on the walkway and discovered that the man was beating the woman severely. He intervened and brought the man down in a rugby tackle. When the police were called, it turned out to be a domestic violence incident, but both the man and the woman blamed him for instigating all the violence, and he ended up spending the night in custody.

Poor guy! He swore he wouldn’t help anyone ever again: the risk was too great. But he made us all laugh with his tale of the evening and the confusion—thinking he was doing his good deed for the day, only to end up in a jail cell.

Winnie had her own issues. She and her husband had been unable to have children, so they had adopted two brothers, aged seven and nine. Unfortunately, the boys caused no end of trouble during childhood and went on to commit worse offences as they grew older. As adults, they seemed to gravitate towards trouble, and trouble seemed to gravitate towards them.

When her husband died, things seemed to get worse, and the two men seemed to take ridiculous pleasure in upsetting Winnie. I remember her telling us about one occasion when she was walking with her younger son Paul walking on the pavement in front of the shops in Coleraine. As they walked, he was saying the most offensive and hurtful things to her. He was cursing and shouting so loudly, and gesticulating with his fists so aggressively, that two middle-aged women walking behind them challenged him about his behaviour and intervened.

Pulling him aside, away from Winnie, they called the police and gave him a good scolding as they stood on the pavement waiting for the police to arrive. Middle-aged ladies working in tandem can give a powerful ticking-off, and these two were well built and very well intentioned. I think her son was more afraid of these two well-built and thoroughly outraged middle-aged women than of the small policeman who eventually appeared to take down the details.

Winnie said her son was completely shocked by how they spoke to him and by their fearlessness. The small policeman gave him a warning not to behave in such a manner, but apparently the two middle-aged women needed to be restrained by the policeman from giving a more physical response to his misbehaviour.

The police had been called on many occasions to deal with her son, and he had no fear of them. But Winnie said that, over the policeman’s shoulder, one of the women pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then at her son—a warning that had him scared indeed. Who knew when he would encounter them again? And without police intervention, would he be safe?

I remember calling Winnie once and hearing her son shouting furiously at her in the background. I was so angry at his tone that I told Winnie to give him the phone so I could give him a piece of my mind. She told him I wanted to talk to him and offered him the phone. There was silence, and then she told me he’d run out of the door and onto the street rather than talk to me.

I visited Winnie several times and was so upset to see her in her big armchair, wrapped in blankets. She told me that was where she slept now. Apparently, the upper floor, where her bedroom was, was far too cold. It upset me to think of her life being restricted to this one tiny room and the armchair. I wish the world were more aware of what age and poverty do to so many people.

During one of my visits, her son was there. I was pretty annoyed with him but tried not to show it. I didn’t want to make things worse for Winnie, but I couldn’t stop myself glaring at him. He was in a placating mood, all smiles and very subservient in the way he greeted me. That made me want to slap him really hard.

Then my son suddenly appeared, helping to carry in some things from my car for Winnie. He is six foot two, and Paul, thought I’d come to get some justice and had brought a heavy along for that purpose. He practically fell to his knees before us. However, my son greeted him warmly and shook his hand, and I could see that Paul was beyond relieved.

I had to stop myself copying the middle-aged lady’s two-finger warning, pointing to my eyes and then at Paul over my son’s shoulder, just to freak him out.

Paul continued to plague Winnie’s life with his violence, his moods and his anger. It seemed so unfair. One of Winnie’s stories was about Paul’s neighbour down the street, who had attacked and frightened him. I enjoyed her story, but I’m afraid I knew exactly how that neighbour felt, as I’d really wanted to give him a good thrashing myself. Winnie was a lovely lady and didn’t deserve any of this.

Sometimes you have to ask what lessons are learned in life. I think Winnie had a wonderful married life with her husband, and when they decided to adopt two children, they did it for all the right reasons. It’s just a shame that some children are so scarred by what they’ve been through that they seem never to find their feet or make a better life, despite all the help and love they receive.

Addiction played a big role in much of the harm I saw in those lives. Alcoholism blights many Irish lives and causes so much distress and heartache. I wonder whether those who make so much money out of this dirty business ever think about the anguish and violence so often associated with their product.

Lessons learned by granny this month

 

I told my grandson that he was so cute.  "How did you get so cute?" I asked. Then I asked a harder question, "Do you think I could be as cute as you?" He did not hesitate, he said "No, you are too old!" Out of the mouth of babes!!!

He lost his first tooth and excitedly hid it under his pillow expecting the tooth Fairy to do her business.  No money appeared and he was telling his younger cousin that he's waited days and the tooth was still there but no money.  Although, only five his cousin broke the brutal news, "there's no such thing as a tooth fairy it is just parents who put the money under the pillow".  My grandson digested this news with stoic resignation.  The real world is a tough show.

This youngest grandchild is not really interested in computers but I found he had carefully constructed a cardboard version for himself and was happily playing on it!

Baxter is the family dog and his good nature is tangible.  He approaches everything and everyone like gigantic puppy happy and really for fun.  When he is greeted with a growl, snap or shout he quickly runs away to safety.  He is not the sharpest pencil in the pack and is totally terrified by feathers, even the little tiny ones that come out of pillows.  But all of it makes up a very loveable character to have around. I hope now like me you are happy to hear about all these cheery chappies and valuable lessons learned from them.

Magical Maltese Taxi Driver

Our Maltese taxi driver was a large, middle-aged woman with a warm smile. While our cases were being loaded in her boot, another driver hooted impatiently. Her car was blocking his way through the narrow street. She responded with an open-handed gesture that seemed to say, “What do you expect me to do?” His irritation did nothing to disturb her good humour.

As we drove off, she explained that many taxi drivers were paid per ride and therefore rushed to get their customers to their destinations. With eCabs, she told us, she was paid by the hour.

“No need to race,” she said, smiling. “We can go at a reasonable pace.”

On the way to the airport, she told us about her life as a taxi driver, a mother of five and a grandmother of many more. Then she announced her household rule.

“No mobile phones in my house. They all have to put them in a box at the front door. That way, I get proper conversations with them all, instead of their heads in a screen all the time!”

I was impressed and asked how she kept her grandchildren amused without screens.

“We play the old games. I draw a line in the yard and we all throw coins to see who can get closest to it.”

I pictured them gathered in the yard, absorbed in this simple competition, with their grandmother joining in. What memories those children would carry with them: the games, the laughter and the conversations, all presided over by this good-natured matriarch. I wondered how those hours together would shape the people they became.

There was something worldly-wise about her, a weariness perhaps, but also a resolute good nature. She was not blind to the faults around her. She simply seemed determined to remain loving and cheerful despite them. Another driver could hoot, the world could hurry, and her grandchildren could arrive with phones in their hands. She would still set her own pace and insist on time together.

By the time we reached the airport, we felt heartened. An ordinary taxi journey had become a reminder of how much one person can bring to the lives of those around them.

We all have choices about the kind of world we create in our own homes. Hers began with a box by the front door.

“Every child is potentially the light of the world…”

‘Abdu’l-Bahá