Yes, I know it's too long ...

Somehow peace, reconciliation and Coventry have never sat easily together in my mind. It’s not that I’ve noticed more unrest here than in other cities, just that I haven’t noticed much harmony either.

But appearances can be deceptive. In fact the city’s face was mutilated beyond recognition when a war-time air attack destroyed more than 4,000 homes, countless factories and the iconic St Michael’s Cathedral on November 14th 1940, reducing Coventry city centre to rubble.

And ever since the Luftwaffe’s destruction of the Cathedral that night, Coventry has been quietly focused on the path of peace. Now the Peace & Reconciliation Gallery, part of the impressively revamped Herbert Museum, asks us the big question. Is forgiveness really possible after such an overwhelming atrocity?

The exhibition is built around a few poignant objects juxtaposed with spoken and written witness accounts. The handwritten diary entries of the Cathedral Provost, scribbled down immediately after the bombing, can be read and handled. His mellow prose gives an insight into the stoic reaction to destruction, not to mention ironic humour at the ‘excessiveness’ of the Daily Express’s reporting. (They claimed that the Provost himself had helped to put out 30 incendiary bombs).

Then you spin round and see a German military map of Coventry highlighting the places to be taken out in red.

A recording of Provost Howard’s speech on Christmas Day 1940 loops, urging the people of Coventry ‘hard as it may be, to banish all thoughts of revenge.’ His words led to the setting up of an international ministry of reconciliation at the Cathedral which gradually and arduously transformed itself into a site of peace. Connections were made with other ruined cities across Europe. The shell of the ruined Cathedral still stands as a perpetual reminder and inspiration to visitors: a space where forgiveness can be renewed time and time again.

Linking the objects and words are the personal stories of Coventry people who survived the attack. It was 11 hours until the all clear sounded, with no way of knowing what had happened to loved ones, homes and neighbourhoods. Snapshot accounts of survivors, spoken voice and on the page, vividly capture what it was like to live through that night.

The exhibition is fully interactive. It continually nudges us with the question of forgiveness versus revenge and then asks us to make up our minds whether the Provost was right.

We all know the answer. Seventy years on, the message of forgiveness is still rippling out from the ruined shell of St Michael’s Cathedral into the wider world. It’s a solid symbol of both atrocity and the well of forgiveness that must spring from it, encouraging us to value understanding and tolerance and share our horror of the impact of violent acts of war.