When the stories are done being told, if you are quiet and still, you can feel the press of bodies, smell the prickle of sweet sweat, hear the laughing and the singing, the moaning and the weeping.
In the dank cells of Goree, on the fields of Gettysburg and the beaches of Dunkirk, in the Low Country’s graceful, light-filled plantations and humble slave cabins, in Tuol Sleng, Kigali, Revensbruck.
The air is heavy with sorrow and the burden of shared responsibility.
Photo: Annie Hogan and Castell Gallery, Ashveille, NC
Vermillion walls with sea green trim, these houses, built cheek by jowl on this rocky lip fronting the Atlantic and the New World beyond, had been warehouses of misery, holding pens with a single exit -- the “last door” as it was called – a bolted gate through which men, women and children, Africa’s black gold, were thrown on to waiting dinghies and ferried to ships anchored on the horizon.
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