According to the psychoanalyst Dori Laub, “the empty circle symbolizes the absence of representation, the rupture of the self, and the erasure of memory that together constitute the core legacy of massive psychic trauma.” In this work, an aerial view of Rwanda’s Amahoro stadium takes centre stage, itself an empty circle from which chaos emanates. From 1993 and during the Rwandan Genocide in 1994, the United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda set up their headquarters in the stadium, which became a haven for thousands of Tutsi refugees who were only safe while in the confines of the arena. The route to protection was perilous, with armed enemies patrolling the perimeter. Dudek displays this with turbulent forms all around the arena, like knife blades cutting into the sacred space. He then sands, slices and hacks away at the collaged material, leaving open wounds that have yet to heal over. This damage continues even to the edges of the artwork, with chunks of the wooden frame removed with a machete.

The emptiness inside of the stadium is also a comment on the lack of reporting around the Rwandan genocide. The only image from 1994 represented in the work is a low resolution photo reflected underneath the sanded, wounded panel which hosts the arena. The photograph is manipulated to be even more grainy and incomprehensible, creating a scrambled view of events. Empty seats wind their way across the work, emphasizing the silence. Since the end of the violence, the effort of healing has also taken place in the stadium, with ceremonies and screenings of films commemorating the events during the 100 days of slaughter, in addition to regular matches and other celebratory events. The phrase “together we prosper” is lisible on a length of tape, which was plastered outside of the stadium post-genocide; a reminder of the desire to reunite the nation. While life attempts to move on, the stadium will forever remain a place of trauma for survivors, and a living memorial for the nation.