 Mae'r ffordd o'r lleidio ei chweithio i'r gwneud o'r gweld o'r lleidio yng nghymru. Mae'r lleidio i'r gweld o'r lleidio ynghymru yn niad i'r Gweithlun Lesley Ballinda, yr adnodd y Cyfrwynt Andrews Church, Fulwyn Fields, a'r gweithfawr yn y Llywodraeth ynghylch diwrnodd ynghylchol i'r Cwylodraethau. Rwy'n credu'r cyfrwynt o'r Llywodraeth, rwy'n credu'r cwylodraeth. I've been watching this Scottish Parliament TV channel. I have to admit it's not something I regularly do. In fact, this was the first and perhaps the only time I've watched it. But a friend gave me a heads-up that there was going to be an item on the 25th anniversary of the Rwandan genocide, and I have a particular connection there. In April 1994, when the genocide began, I had been living in Rwanda for nearly five years. I was a midwife running a community health programme with tier fund, and I was married to an Anglican Rwandan priest. Rwanda was my home. However, from April to July 1994, as the world's media brought graphic images of massacre and genocide into our sitting rooms, most people reached for the atlas, there were no Google Maps in those days of course, to try and locate this tiny, little-known country. Savages was the word most often used to describe the perpetrators. But for me both those being killed and those doing the killing were my friends, my neighbours and my colleagues. My husband Charles was a tootsie, and although many of his family survived thanks to the immense kindness and courage of Hutu neighbours, Charles was not so fortunate. The genocide didn't start with clubs and machetes. It was many years in the making and it started with words. It began in subtle ways, discrimination, humiliation and mocking, treating others as less than human, the language of hate. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes of how genocide emerges out of the dehumanisation and demonisation of the other, and this was most certainly the case in Rwanda. Tootsies and tootsie sympathisers were described as rats or cockroaches, vermin to be trampled on and annihilated. But when we treat others as less than human, we lose something of our own humanity. When we try to destroy others, whether physically with a machete or ideologically with our words, we destroy something of ourselves. It's only when we treat one another with dignity and respect, regardless of our differences, that we can be truly and fully human. Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu describes that as ubuntu, the southern African concept of interdependence and mutuality. A person with ubuntu, he says, is affirming of others, not threatened that others are able and good, and is diminished when others are humiliated or treated as if they were less than who they are. In the Christian Church, when we as Christians meet together to share the bread and wine, the reminder of Jesus' giving of himself for the world, we put aside our differences. We're on a level playing field and we focus on the bigger picture, which is God's kingdom, on all that unites us as brothers and sisters together. To say never again to genocide means that we pledge ourselves not only to deter future genocide, but to avoid the factors that lead to polarisations and divisions by treating one another with dignity and respect, even those with whose ideas we totally disagree. In this way, we pledge to build a stronger community locally, nationally and globally. Thank you.