Shake Hands With the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda

by Roméo Dallaire

  He had just turned the meeting over to Ndindiliyimana when the fifties-vintage telephone on a small table behind him rang so loudly that we all jumped. A staff officer picked it up. He briefly listened, then calmly responded in Kinyarwanda. When he hung up, he said that not only had Habyarimana been killed in the plane crash, but so had Cyprien Ntaryamira, the president of Burundi, and Déogratias Nsabimana, the chief of staff of the army. He began to smile as he told us that the plane had crashed in the backyard of Habyarimana’s own home near Camp Kanombe, but caught himself. Bagosora gave him a dirty look, then turned to me for a response.

  I didn’t even pause to offer condolences. I stressed that as far as UNAMIR and the world were concerned, Rwanda still had a government, headed by Prime Minister Agathe. All matters should now be under her control. Bagosora snapped back that Madame Agathe didn’t enjoy the confidence of the Rwandan people and was incapable of governing the nation. This Crisis Committee had to assume control until a new group of politicians could form a government. He had summoned the senior military leadership of the RGF to meet the next morning in Kigali.

  I referred him once again to the authority of Madame Agathe: she must be brought into this now. She should address the nation over Radio Rwanda, the government radio station, urging people to stay calm. UNAMIR and the Gendarmerie could work together through the night to conduct joint patrols to maintain order in Kigali. A secure Kigali was the key to controlling the situation.

  Bagosora stood up then and leaned toward me, his knuckles pressed hard on the table. He vehemently insisted that Prime Minister Agathe had no authority. The officer next to Brent smelled of alcohol and muttered an insult in French at the mention of Madame Agathe’s name. Here was Bagosora swearing his solidarity with the Arusha Peace Agreement, yet not a single officer in this room respected the prime minister’s authority.

  I turned to Ndindiliyimana, who said he wanted to place Gendarmerie guards at Radio Rwanda, the telephone exchange and the utilities and fuel complexes. These were sensible sites to secure, though I insisted that everything be coordinated with Kigali Sector under the rules of the KWSA agreement. Ndindiliyimana agreed. I had always found his loyalties an enigma. Until now I had assumed he was no friend of Bagosora.

  I demanded that UNAMIR be permitted to secure the crash site so that a proper accident investigation could be conducted. Bagosora agreed so promptly I thought that either he had nothing to hide or it was already hidden. Since many of the questions we needed to discuss were of a political nature, I suggested that Booh-Booh be involved. I asked for a phone to call him, and they offered me one in the office next door.

  It was around midnight and my call woke Booh-Booh up. I quickly briefed him on what had happened so far. Bagosora stuck his head in the door, interrupting me to see if Booh-Booh could see him right away. After a few words with the SRSG, I told Bagosora that I could take him straight over and hung up. Bagosora had another request: Would I approach the RPF to tell them that nothing that had happened or would happen should be interpreted as anything other than an attempt to maintain order?

  I called Henry at the CND and directed him to tell the RPF that they must fully comply with the KWSA rules and stay calm. While I was talking to Henry, the Belgian and French military advisers arrived at the door of the office, insisting on an immediate investigation into the crash. The French had an aircraft accident investigation team in Bangui in the Central African Republic that could be here in twelve hours. I told them there was no way I could use a French team: the French were seen to be pro-RGF, and an investigation by them would not be perceived as impartial. I told them I was sure I could get a team here within twenty-four hours from either NATO forces in Europe or from the Americans in Somalia. They left in a huff.

  Luc arrived as Robert and I were heading out with Bagosora and Rwabalinda to see Booh-Booh—I’d ordered Brent to remain behind to stay on the phone and keep a link to Force HQ. Luc told me that barricades were going up in the inner city, manned by the Presidential Guard, though the streets were quiet. His people were attempting to account for all Kigali Sector personnel. He had sent a section of Belgian troops to secure the crash site, but the Presidential Guards near the airport refused them access to the area and they were now in a standoff. I directed Luc to link up with Ndindiliyimana to work out the details of joint patrols and joint security of vital points, while I pressured the Crisis Committee to get the Presidential Guard back in their barracks—we would minimize our own troop movements in order to avoid confrontational situations, and use negotiation to restore and maintain calm in the city.

  We left to see Booh-Booh, with Robert driving and Bagosora and Rwabalinda dead quiet in the back seat. We took the most direct route through empty streets to the home of the SRSG and had no trouble until we came upon two Presidential Guard checkpoints on the main access road near their barracks—a direct violation of the KWSA agreement. A couple of cars were stopped and a few civilians were being questioned; in the light of a street lamp we could see one man lying on the grass in the median with his hands over his head.

  I asked our back-seat companions to find out what these soldiers were up to and get them to let us pass. Bagosora rolled down his window and barked gruffly in Kinyarwanda at the Presidential Guard NCO at the second barrier. The corporal was clearly astonished at who was in the car shouting orders at him and stood to attention. No matter what he said to the contrary, Bagosora clearly had some control over the Presidential Guard, and we were waved through.

  Back at the RGF headquarters, Brent and Luc were putting together other pieces of the puzzle. Brent noticed that the troops were being issued orders out in the compound and saw armoured cars leaving—more direct violations of the KWSA agreement. Each soldier carried an RF4 assault rifle, a weapon Brent had never seen before in the hands of a Rwandan government soldier. The rifles were brand new, some with the packing grease still on the barrels. Luc approached an officer of middle rank to protest the KWSA violations but was ignored.

  At Booh-Booh’s residence, all the lights in and around the compound were on but no one was outside. After we banged on the gate, the UNAMIR guards opened up and we entered the walled courtyard where we were met by Booh-Booh’s bodyguard and ushered inside. The SRSG was in his bedroom, and we had to wait a few minutes before he came down to greet us. He led us into a large room on the main floor and took his place at the top of a rectangle of sofas. Bagosora placed himself on the sofa farthest from Booh-Booh and looked tiny on the large expanse of upholstery. He was convincing as he laid out the country’s situation and asked for increased support from UNAMIR to help deal with this débordement by a few units close to the president, who were understandably unhinged by the loss of their protector. But his eyes contradicted his reassuring words. Booh-Booh heard him out and then reiterated that Prime Minister Agathe was the legitimate head of government and that she should be consulted on all matters. She was the one who should be issuing orders to the army, not the Crisis Committee. Bagosora protested, and for a time he and Booh-Booh politely debated the issue.

  Then Booh-Booh abruptly went upstairs, and though he hadn’t asked us to, we knew we were supposed to wait. Fifteen minutes later he returned and told us that he had consulted with certain diplomats and there would be a meeting at 0900 at the American ambassador’s residence. Bagosora was invited to attend and he accepted immediately. Staring hard, Booh-Booh told him that this invitation was not recognition of the legitimacy of the Crisis Committee. The meeting was over.

  As Booh-Booh walked us toward the car, I sent the others on ahead and asked for a moment in private. He approved of my plan for joint patrols and vital point and VIP guards with the Gendarmerie. He, too, had received calls from Prime Minister Agathe, who was staying put in her house. There was no word on the whereabouts of the MRND ministers. The prime minister was still planning to carry on with her address to the nation by radio the next morning, when most Rwandans in this radio-based culture would be tuning in for the day. Th
e prime minister’s speech was our best hope in stabilizing the situation. I told him I would provide an escort for Madame Agathe to get her safely to Radio Rwanda. Booh-Booh asked for an escort in the morning as well to take him to the American ambassador’s residence.

  Bagosora was becoming childishly impatient, sighing loudly and opening and closing the door to our vehicle. So I left the SRSG, and we made our way back to RGF headquarters. There were no new checkpoints or roadblocks. It was so completely quiet it reminded me of the minutes before an assault in a military exercise, when all your nerves are stretched and nothing can be done to change anything. You are committed, looking at your map for the last time, muscles taut and eyes straining in the dark. Your mouth is dry and your fingers are so tight around your weapon that your hands start to get very cold, you can’t breathe and any noise sounds like a nuclear blast. I knew that the entire nation could explode.

  It was about 0200 when we got back to the compound. Fewer troops were milling around but all of the defensive positions were manned and on full alert. Luc had worked out a comprehensive plan for joint patrols with Ndindiliyimana. The trouble was that the plan called for a lot of Belgian troops to be moving around town at night, which I thought would be a provocation. I asked him to cut back since that was the last thing we needed. I also told him to send an escort to Mme Agathe’s home.

  Brent and I needed to get back to Force HQ to report to New York and receive direction. The trip across the city was uneventful and we were back by about 0300. I asked Brent to draft our written report to the DPKO, then met with the chief and deputy chief operations officers, Colonel Moen and Lieutenant Colonel Ballis, who had left their billets at the Meridien with a few other officers and made their way here through back streets. Moen gave me the bleak news that fewer than a dozen officers were at work, of which three were the unilingual Bangladeshi duty officers. He was desperately trying to gain control of the radio nets and get situation reports from all six of our operational sectors, including UNOMUR in Uganda.

  Henry had run the gauntlet back from the CND and had been lucky to make it through a short firefight between the RPF and the Presidential Guard: he stressed that the RPF had been responding to provocation. The weekly Belgian Hercules with its cargo of troops returning from leave—including many key staff officers and my driver—had been diverted to Nairobi. The Hercules had been scheduled to land before the President’s plane but had been waved off to give the head of state priority. The air traffic controllers had closed the airport immediately after the crash under orders from the Presidential Guard. For the moment we were cut off from the world. The Belgian troops at the airfield were in a standoff with the Presidential Guard, and negotiations were underway to reduce the tension.

  Moderate leaders, ordinary Rwandans and nervous UN civilian staff continued to call for information or to demand security. There were only so many troops to go around, and every soldier that was tied down on a guard post was one less we could put on patrol or have available for emergencies. We told callers to stay in their homes or go into hiding until the situation stabilized.

  I finally placed a call to New York by satellite phone. It wasn’t secure but it was the only means I had. Maurice was on leave. (Later I found out that around the time the president’s plane had crashed in Kigali, Maurice and his wife had been in the living room of my home in Quebec City, visiting Beth to reassure her that I was fine.) I briefed Iqbal Riza. When I was done, he said, “UNAMIR is not, repeat not, to fire unless fired upon.” I reminded him that our rules of engagement allowed us to intervene and use an escalation of force up to and including the use of deadly force to prevent crimes against humanity. He repeated that UNAMIR was not to fire unless fired upon—we were to negotiate and, above all else, avoid conflict. He said he fully appreciated the crisis we were in but that we must not create any incident that could be exploited. There was no persuading him. I told him that a written sitrep was on the way and we hung up.

  Brent had left Robert’s notebook of contacts and addresses behind on the Belgian military adviser’s desk, and he and Robert decided to drive back to RGF headquarters to get it. They ran into an army roadblock manned by a group of angry, drunken soldiers who had an armoured car as backup. Brent got out of the vehicle and attempted to negotiate his way through, but when the soldiers pointed their weapons at him, including the armoured car’s gun, he and Robert withdrew and drove back to Force HQ. When Brent told me what had happened, I tried to call Bagosora. But he was not in his office at the Defence Ministry; he was not at the army’s headquarters; and he was not at home. So much for his promise to stay in touch. We couldn’t locate any of the members of the so-called Crisis Committee.

  Colonel Moen was trying to make sense of the radio nets, which had never really been operational let alone secure; our numerous outposts were cobbled together with hand-held Motorolas and too few repeater stations to boost the signals. Different contingents had brought their own radios with them, while the UN standard issue were the insecure Motorolas. From Force HQ to Kigali Sector, we operated on the Motorolas. Kigali Sector communicated with the Belgian battalion on the Belgian army’s VHF radios, which were incompatible with our Motorolas. The Belgian, Bangladeshi and Ghanaian unit command posts also talked to their various subunits, patrols and outstations, such as the VIP guard posts, on a different set of VHF frequencies over incompatible radios. Every message of concern to the mission or to me could pass over four different insecure radio nets and between operators who had a wide variety of languages, accents and technical skills. At the moment it was all Moen could do to stay in touch with the few sector commanders who could reach us.

  Prime Minister Agathe called regarding the radio address. We reached the station manager by phone, and I told him I was bringing the prime minister to the station within the hour. He said he’d have to get back to me. A few minutes later, he called and said he would only give the prime minister air time if I could guarantee that UNAMIR would provide security for himself and his family. I told him I would find out what was available and get back to him. I called him back in ten minutes, but this time he said there was nothing he could do. The Presidential Guard had arrived and was blocking the station entrances, not letting anyone in or out. I asked whether he could do a phone patch from Madame Agathe’s home. In a nervous whisper he said he could do nothing more and hung up.

  I called Madame Agathe to tell her the address was off and urged her to stay inside her walled compound, protected by the extra Belgian troops. She agreed. I counted off the men designated to protect her: the five original Ghanaian guards, several gendarmes who were loyal to her personally, and whoever Luc had sent to reinforce and escort her. There could be as many as twenty well-armed men with her by now. She was as safe as we could make her.

  There was no sleep that night. As the sun came up over the mountains, the phone calls pleading for help and protection dramatically increased. Brent fielded these calls without a break for the next twelve hours, sometimes as many as a hundred an hour. Moustache, the security officer for the UNDP, called by radio to tell us that an “important figure” had sought refuge with them, but he wouldn’t say who it was over the radio. Brent relayed the message to Kigali Sector, which directed two Bangladeshi APCs to the UNDP.

  We began to get ever more disturbing phone calls reporting that elements of the Presidential Guard, the army, the Gendarmerie and the Interahamwe were going from house to house with a list of names. Shots and screaming had been heard. It was terrifying and surreal to be talking to someone, sometimes someone you knew, listening to them pleading for help, and being able to do nothing but reassure them that help was on the way—and then to hear screams, shots and the silence of a dead line. You’d hang up in shock, then the phone would ring again and the whole sequence would be repeated. Help might or might not be arriving, depending on whether Kigali Sector received the message and had a patrol to dispatch and if the patrol was not held up at a roadblock.

  Information wa
s sketchy, incomplete and hard to collate. This difficulty was compounded by poor radio discipline. Everyone from UN civilians to military staff was speaking in English—which was their second, third or fourth language—and everyone was trying to speak at once.2 Of the 2,538 UNAMIR military personnel on the ground on April 7, Brent was the only one who spoke English as his first language. Panic was erupting and only the direct intervention of senior officers maintained any discipline whatsoever on the radio nets. Users lost their tempers, yelled louder and became incomprehensible; less and less information was getting through. Even the most vital messages had to be repeated time and time again as a Bangladeshi tried to relay it in broken English through a Uruguayan who in turn had to relay it through a Ghanaian who in turn had to relay it through a Flemish-speaking Belgian.

  Early that morning I received a call for help from Hélène Pinsky. I told her to remain with her guard in her home until we could arrange transport to bring the family to Force HQ. There were already five UNAMIR troops and at least two gendarmes who were loyal to the Ndasingwas with her family. I believed that they would be safer at home than to try to move on their own. She was very fearful for her husband and two children; she’d heard that some of their moderate politician friends were being attacked in their homes. I assured her that we would get there as soon as we could, and Brent passed the message to Kigali Sector. Even as I was telling her this, she stopped me to say she could hear people in the street outside her home. Her voice became indescribably calm, as if she had no choice now but to be resigned to her fate, and she hung up. I found out the next day that her husband had then called Luc Marchal and while still on the phone with him, the Presidential Guard arrived, overwhelmed the guards and killed the entire family. Hélène, like so many others, trusted UNAMIR to protect them. Luc had heard them being murdered over the phone.