I visited Rwanda a year ago to observe development and justice projects run by Trocaire. The streets of the capital Kigali were still riddled with bullets and the air was thick with tension, fear and suspicion.

I thought I had been "in touch" with the atrocities in Rwanda. I had watched BBC reporters standing on the road to Goma in 1994 as thousands upon thousands fled the genocide itself and then the revenge.

Having an interest in the Holocaust, I followed this contemporary equivalent with growing anger that the most powerful nations were standing idly by while it happened. Why did the French army withdraw? To "let them at it"?

The United Nations seemed totally ineffectual. Where was the swift response of something like Operation Desert Storm? But Rwanda did not have massive oil reserves or other economic commodities deemed as valuable to the superpowers.

When I stood on the road to Goma, the tide of refugees had slowed to a trickle. The camera and film crews had long since gone and people were attempting to come to terms with the horror that had taken place in their midst. It was rarely mentioned that up to 200 people were still being killed daily in that tiny country.

The magnitude of the destruction and evil which took place there cannot be communicated by the media. It is impossible for us to comprehend the total breakdown of society, relationships and trust. Over 800,000 people were deliberately massacred in 90 days, by neighbours, acquaintances and even relations. The majority were hunted down and hacked to death with machetes or beaten with clubs.

In Murambi it is estimated that between 29,000 and 40,000 people were slaughtered on a hill and then dumped in a mass grave. The evidence is now on display in the rooms of an abandoned school.

A soldier whistled a tune as he opened door after door of these rooms full of bodies enveloped in the stench of death and covered in lime. In one room there was a handmade coffin to restore some semblance of dignity. It was the soldier's wife.

Entire families lay on the floor, even little ones with the mark of the fatal blow to the head plainly evident. Imagine the physical work involved in slaying such a crowd of people as would be in Croke Park on a good Sunday, and the terror. The reality still greatly disturbs me.

"How can human beings do such things?", I ask myself. There must have been as many as 200,000 people actively involved in the killings. Over 100,000 rot in prison awaiting trial. The long-lived tribal hatred spurred on by a Hutu political propaganda machine seemed to have completely eradicated from the hearts of the killers any religious values or principles they espoused, or indeed any human pity or decency.

In Cyanika we heard of a baby snatched from its mother's arms and its head smashed against a wall before she too was killed. The hunt for the Tutsi was so ruthless that the false ceilings of buildings were speared or sprayed with bullets so that not one would escape.

Those who harboured or helped them were slain. Father Joseph had tried to save many people in Cyanika, but was discovered and hacked to death as an example outside his church. This could have been done by someone who received Communion from him on a previous Sunday. Those who had offered the sign of peace to a neighbour at a liturgy were to slaughter them days later. When the surface is scratched, how deeply rooted in any of us are the Gospel values we claim to hold dear? Christ's parable of the sower comes to mind.

Some people have been appalled to hear that three dozen Catholic religious, as well as ministers of every denomination, have been accused of direct involvement in either the killing or in failing to protect those who came to them seeking sanctuary (as reported by Vincent Browne in this newspaper on July 22nd last, when he quoted an African Rights report).

Monsignor Augustin Misago, the then bishop of Gikongoro, is one of those indicted for refusing to shelter refugees in his house. He claimed it was too small. I met him during my visit and could sense his discomfort. He has given answers to the allegations made against him, the same rationalisations that any of us can come up with at any time to make sense of why we did not live up to the values we claim to hold dear.

For all the unease within myself on leaving him and having seen the evidence of the genocide first hand, I wanted to believe that I would have behaved differently. But would I, if paralysed by fear of a frenzied tribal mob outside the door? I still want to believe that I would. Perhaps Monsignor Misago does too. But that does not explain away or lessen the dismay amongst survivors that God's ordained ministers could have been a part of this betrayal of humanity.

There are many religious and clergy who took no part in the killings and some who made heroic efforts to save lives and continue the work of healing, comforting and seeking justice. There are others who, like many Rwandans, deny that the genocide was as horrific as it was and who fail to face up to the truth.

Can the church as a body be held responsible for the faults of members who act totally against the Gospel? As the Pope said in his message to the people of Rwanda in 1996: "They will be called to account for their actions. All the members of the church who have sinned during the genocide must have the courage to bear the consequences of the acts they committed against God and their neighbour."

The Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace and the Rwandan Priests' Assembly (APRERWA) are preaching the message that a process of open dialogue, accountability and recognition of past mistakes is required throughout the whole rendered fabric of Rwandan society so that it can be freed from the bonds of fear and suspicion.

It is within the Catholic Church, its liturgies and other forums that Hutus and Tutsis find themselves together without any obvious division or sectarianism. Such an environment offers a potential for forgiveness based on truth and justice and then real reconciliation. Otherwise, the horror will happen again.

Father Damian McNeice works in the Communications Office of the Dublin archdiocese and is editor of Link-up, the diocesan network magazine.