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

by Roméo Dallaire

  I told him that in order to prevent a full-scale civil war he should talk to the RPF directly, outlining the measures he was taking to calm things down. Bagosora sat back, unimpressed with my suggestion and returned to his papers. But Ndindiliyimana thought this might be a good idea and asked me if I could arrange a meeting. I told him I would do everything in my power to make it happen.

  I left to make the calls, but the phones were jammed at the Force HQ and the CND. While I was trying to get through, I watched a large, ugly RGF colonel enter Bagosora’s office and close the door behind him. I had never seen him before and didn’t see his face again until years later, when the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) showed me his picture. He was one of the military leaders of the genocide, and one of the most ruthless characters in the slaughter that was about to unfold.

  When I finally got through to Ballis at the CND, he said that the RPF had been under direct fire from the area of the Presidential Guard compound and that they were taking down the fences and preparing for military action. The Tunisians were in a very precarious situation, sitting between the two forces, and had spent most of the day holding the gate closed and digging their trenches deeper. I told Ballis to inform their commander to reduce their presence around the perimeter and consolidate most of his force in their protected area inside the CND offices and in trenches outside. If the RPF decided to punch out, all of the Tunisians were to withdraw without confrontation to their safe area.

  I then asked Ballis to bring any one of the RPF’s political leaders to the phone. Major figures, such as Pasteur Bizimungu and Patrick Mazimhaka, had gone to Mulindi several weeks earlier, leaving three second-string politicians behind in Kigali. There didn’t appear to be a well-defined hierarchy among them: none of them ever claimed to be in charge. The one I negotiated with most often was Seth Sendashonga, who was also the most vocal of the three. A Hutu who had fled Rwanda and joined the RPF in Uganda, Seth spoke fluent French and a little English. He was extremely self-confident, ambitious and aggressive. It was Seth who came to the phone, and he was quite cold to my suggestion of talking directly to Bagosora. He said that he would consult first and get back to me. This was typical for the RPF political leaders, who always needed to consult with their peers. The clock was ticking on Kagame’s deadline.

  I called Force HQ and dictated my responses to Kagame’s six points to Brent, spelling out extensively my response to point F: “UNAMIR wouldn’t conduct any offensive operations as it is mandated for defensive peacekeeping tasks only. UNAMIR with the Gendarmerie and elements of the Army loyal to Rwanda are attempting to stabilize the situation. UNAMIR is not in an offensive posture and if the RPF initiates action at the CND and/or RPF offensive in the DMZ tonight, this will be deemed to be a serious ceasefire violation. UNAMIR’s peacekeeping mandate will be totally violated. Request you reconsider these actions as loyal forces and UNAMIR are attempting to establish order and control on aggression in Kigali.”

  I asked Brent to send this message to Kagame as soon as possible with a copy to the DPKO. Since it didn’t look like I’d be back at the Amahoro any time soon, I also asked him to forward the written sitrep to New York. There had been no movement on the political front and no word from Booh-Booh, though with the shooting increasing near the SRSG’s residence, Henry was planning to escort Booh-Booh and his staff to the Meridien hotel, which had become a safe haven for UN personnel.

  I returned to Bagosora’s office as the huge RGF colonel was leaving, after receiving some last words of instruction in Kinyarwanda. Again I harangued Bagosora and Ndindiliyimana over the violence that was breaking loose throughout the city, over the release of my soldiers and over their seeming detachment from the whole catastrophe. I asked when the Crisis Committee would hand over control to the politicians. And who were the politicians, since many of the ministers named to the BBTG were unaccounted for? All the hardline ministers had disappeared before midnight last night. Madame Agathe was dead. Who would be the chair? Bagosora responded that the politicians were gathering to take over the situation within the next day or so. I demanded that Booh-Booh be invited to assist. Bagosora refused to answer and returned to his papers. Ndindiliyimana was nearly asleep beside me.

  Out of the blue, Bagosora suddenly volunteered that there was something I should think about: it might be best to get the Belgians out of UNAMIR and out of Rwanda because of the rumours that they had shot down the presidential airplane. What had been happening in Camp Kigali might happen to the rest of the Belgians if the Crisis Committee continued to have problems regaining control of the situation.

  Was he hoping that the best combat unit in UNAMIR would desert the field? This was the first time I had ever heard a senior leader of the Habyarimana government even mention that they did not want the Belgians here. If the Belgians withdrew, New York would surely order UNAMIR’s departure.

  A short time later, the phone rang in the little office I had been using. It was Seth confirming that he would talk to Bagosora. I told him to call back on Bagosora’s number and headed for his office. His phone was ringing as I entered the room, and Bagosora picked it up. If he was a man intent on saving his country from civil war, there was no sign of it in his voice. After a few words, he passed the receiver to Ndindiliyimana. That conversation was a little longer and more amiable. When Ndindiliyimana hung up, he said that there was nothing to be done—the RPF insisted that the Presidential Guard be arrested and jailed and the killings stopped immediately. Ndindiliyimana had told Seth that they were doing their best to regain control, but from Seth’s negative reaction, he concluded that the RPF would most likely attack soon. Bagosora was nonchalant in the face of this new crisis. He told me that the interim chief of staff of the RGF, Colonel Marcel Gatsinzi, would arrive in Kigali in time for a meeting of the Crisis Committee at army headquarters around 1800 and invited me to attend. I said I would, but I wondered why Bagosora had chosen to appoint Gatsinzi, a southern Hutu from Butare, a known moderate and an honest man.

  There were about two hours left until twilight and the only chance to avoid a civil war had just been lost. When hostilities broke out, we could expect that large numbers of innocent people would be slaughtered, as had happened in Burundi after the coup in October. I decided to stay for the upcoming Crisis Committee meeting. Maybe Gatsinzi’s presence would encourage Ndindiliyimana to try to wrestle control from Bagosora. Half an hour later, Ballis called to say that the RPF battalion had just broken out of the CND at company strength and were advancing toward the Presidential Guard’s camp.

  I needed some political advice on how to move this situation out of the hands of this military clique as soon as possible. I decided to send Maggen and Robert to pick up Dr. Kabia and bring him here. I waited outside in the compound in the cool breeze of the early evening. There were long shadows cast by the tall trees, and a disarming serenity barely touched by the echo of distant gunfire. A sense of despair suddenly overwhelmed me; the path to war and slaughter was now open. It was high time to consolidate my troops to ensure their safety, do what we could to keep our safe havens open for civilians from both sides and try to flush out the nature of the politics at work behind Bagosora. What was I going to do if the 450 Belgians had to withdraw under pressure from the RGF, or were pulled by their own government? I would be left with a very lightly armed, nearly useless Bangladeshi contingent of about 1,100 soldiers, an excellent Ghanaian battalion of about 800, mostly deployed in the demilitarized zone with no operational equipment or vehicles, 300 or so unarmed military observers scattered around the country, and a ragtag Force HQ, undermined by the loss of the Belgian staff officers and manned by Bangladeshis who listened to their contingent commander and not to me. My headquarters support group as well as my logistics group were made up of civilians, and they would surely be evacuated for safety reasons. And what of the thousands of civilians under our protection? Our food, water and medical supplies were barely enough for my force, let alone these displaced persons. Th
e dispassionate professional side of my nature was telling me to cut my losses and get all my troops to safety. My gut, my emotions—my sense of the right thing to do—was telling me to do everything I could to stop the coming onslaught.

  I was still struggling with my thoughts when Dr. Kabia, Robert and Maggen drove into the compound at about 1730. They had been threatened and had turned back on their first attempt to get through the roadblocks and had commandeered a Gendarmerie escort to try again. Hundreds of barriers were now going up all over the city, manned by militia, military, gendarmes and civilians, all of them angry and armed with clubs, axes, machetes, Belgian FN rifles and even the odd AK-47. The radio in the vehicle was crackling with descriptions of the RPF assault on the Presidential Guard—a vicious firefight in which the RPF was being held just short of the Presidential Guard’s camp.

  It was almost 1800, so we drove to the Crisis Committee meeting. For the first time that day, we were allowed inside the gates of Camp Kigali, passing through a gauntlet of steel barriers, past an armoured car and a large group of guards with machine guns. Where were the mutineers? I left Maggen and Robert with the vehicle, and Dr. Kabia and I headed for the same conference room as the previous night. As we reached the top of the stairs, the newly promoted Major General Gatsinzi came forward to welcome us, with Ndindiliyimana close behind. It was good to see Gatsinzi and we exchanged regards. Bagosora was nowhere around.

  As the meeting began, I wondered if Gatsinzi and Ndindiliyimana were simply Bagosora’s puppets. Of the two, I was certain that Gatsinzi was more at risk from the hard-liners: he had been a member of the group of moderate army officers who had warned me of the third force in their open letter of December 3. Could he actually be in control of the army? Why would Bagosora countenance it?

  The briefing was sombre. The Presidential Guard had captured and, as far as Gatsinzi knew, executed all of the moderates in the government who hadn’t been able to escape. He read the list of persons who were killed or missing. Two survivors were Faustin Twagiramungu and Anastase Gasana, the foreign minister. Faustin was at Force HQ, and Gasana was in Dar es Salaam after Habyarimana had unceremoniously kicked him off his plane to seat the president of Burundi. Gatsinzi also confirmed that command of the RGF had broken down, particularly in Kigali. He assured me that he was committed to Arusha and would do all he could to get the Presidential Guard under control and the RGF units back in their barracks. He urged me to inform the RPF that he wanted peace but needed time to exert control over his forces.

  I believed him. Here was my hope. The forces in southern Rwanda were mostly moderate. Gatsinzi could perhaps rally these elements and suppress the Presidential Guard, the Interahamwe and the third force. I had to talk to Kagame and get him to wait.

  Then Ndindiliyimana took over. The first item on his agenda was to tell me that with the hate RTLM was spewing, and the mood of the army and the citizens of Kigali, it would be prudent to withdraw the Belgian contingent as soon as possible. I told him I would take the recommendation under advisement but first had to get my Belgian soldiers back. The camp was quiet now. Why hadn’t they released my soldiers? Ndindiliyimana sent one of the officers to get me an answer.

  The meeting droned on and on and the officer didn’t come back. The Crisis Committee still hadn’t issued the press communiqué that was supposed to calm the nation. Rwandans were listening to the non-stop hate and lies put out by RTLM. The only concrete sign of the committee’s good faith would be the detention of the Presidential Guard in its garrison, the return of all units to KWSA rules, and an end to the killings. But no one in this group, well-intentioned though it might be, seemed to know just how to achieve all these objectives and prevent the looming war.

  Suddenly everyone was standing up, stretching and collecting their papers, behaving as though this were a normal meeting on a normal day. It was then that I lost my temper. I banged on the table. “Enough is enough,” I yelled. No more time, no more excuses, no more discussion. I told them to either turn over my Belgian soldiers to me now or I wouldn’t leave this headquarters and they would get absolutely nothing more from UNAMIR or me.

  Ndindiliyimana got on the phone again and dispatched several more staff officers. After twenty minutes of silence, with me sitting immobile and furious, the phone rang. Ndindiliyimana picked it up and, after a murmured conversation, turned to tell me that my soldiers had been found in the Kigali hospital nearby. I announced that we were all going to the hospital, right now, and together we would secure the Belgians’ release.

  The hospital was only two hundred metres away. Several soldiers, including a number of wounded, were milling around the entrance. Ndindiliyimana took the lead at that point and got us through the crowd and inside. We nearly plunged into an operating theatre where the doors were open to let in fresh air. There was screaming, moaning, blood on the tables and floors, and staff in red-stained medical gowns. The room seemed full to overflowing with wounded, both military and civilian, lying on cots and even on the floors. The nearest doctor growled angrily at us to get out.

  At the back door, an officer told Ndindiliyimana that the bodies of the Belgians were at the far end of the large courtyard in front of the morgue. The word bodies hit me right in the heart and shocked me for a moment. I heard gasps and other sounds of disbelief all around me. They were all dead. We made our way down the dark path toward a small hut with a twenty-five-watt bulb over the door. There were more injured in the yard, along with dozens of bodies. I could not believe that this scene was unfolding so close to the meeting room where I had sat all evening.

  At first, I saw what seemed to be sacks of potatoes to the right of the morgue door. It slowly resolved in my vision into a heap of mangled and bloodied white flesh in tattered Belgian para-commando uniforms. The men were piled on top of each other, and we couldn’t tell how many were in the pile. The light was faint and it was hard to identify any of the faces or find specific markings. We counted them twice: eleven soldiers. In the end it turned out to be ten.

  I wanted to take justice into my own hands, an eye for an eye—the first time I had ever felt the toxic pull of retribution. I ordered Robert to photograph the bodies, and he went about the task numbed and silent. I asked the commanders who had done this. They said renegade soldiers and amputee veterans in Camp Kigali. I asked them what they were going to do about it. Gatsinzi assured me he would investigate the incident and that all of those responsible would be brought to justice. I told him that these murders would be immediately reported to New York and that Rwanda could expect the wrath of the international community to descend upon its head. He and Ndindiliyimana were genuinely distraught. They apologized profusely, offered their condolences and sympathies—and pleaded with me that these deaths should not deter UNAMIR from helping their country.

  I told them to have the bodies cleaned and properly laid out and demanded that a guard be put on them. UNAMIR forces would pick them up at first light. I said I would hold each of them personally responsible for my dead soldiers.

  When I finally turned away, I nearly bumped into Dr. Kabia, who appeared to be praying. I made my way back up the path to the hospital, where the moans of the wounded and the shouts of the doctors and nurses seemed much louder than when we had arrived. Maggen had pulled up in front of the hospital, and there was a small crowd of injured soldiers and some civilians waiting near the vehicle. I looked at him and couldn’t remember whether he had been with us at the morgue. What a day of fear and courage he’d been through.

  Ndindiliyimana offered me his escort of six men and a vehicle to get us safely back to the Amahoro, giving his orders to them in French, no doubt for my benefit. He told them to defend me with their lives. We drove forward into the pitch-black night. Many of the street lights weren’t functioning. Still I could see Robert’s face in the back seat, bone white and motionless. Maggen, shaken by the deaths of his countrymen, was concentrating hard on the driving. In the distance we could see a few fires burning and could hear li
ght weapons and the odd grenade explosion. The mobs were retiring to their homes, but a number of barriers were manned by aggressive militiamen.

  The RPF and the Presidential Guard were still engaged in sporadic firefights near the Meridien hotel roundabout. To take the curve at a major intersection, we had to reduce speed, and we drove straight into an ambush. Several fusillades of machine-gun fire and red tracer bullets streaked over our heads. The para-commando unit from Camp Kanombe had moved out and were controlling this intersection. The crack of bullets was piercing as they whizzed by our heads. My white vehicle, with UN painted on it in large black letters and flying both a large, blue UN flag as well as my smaller UN commander’s flag, was distinctive. Clearly, we were now a target. Bullets struck the car. The gendarmes in the vehicle behind us returned feeble fire. I yelled and hit Maggen to push the gas pedal to the floor and race through the ambush site. The diesel engine didn’t respond quickly, and we felt like sitting ducks for what seemed an eternity. Despite the bullet holes in the car, no one was hit. It was the first time I had ever been shot at. It had been twenty-four hours of terrible firsts. No one in the vehicle uttered a sound as we sped toward our headquarters.

  The mob had been cleared away from the entrance to the Amahoro, and the gates were closed and well-guarded by Ghanaian troops. Once we were safe, my Gendarmerie escort did not want to risk the trip back to Camp Kigali to pick up Ndindiliyimana and decided to remain with us for the night.

  As we entered the building, the noise from the operation centre was very loud. I told Maggen to carry on to his place of duty and get a grip on his duty officers. Dr. Kabia and Robert followed me up the stairs to the command offices, where Brent and Henry were hard at work and the phones were still ringing off the hook. Both of them were tired, red-eyed and nearly talked out. I told them to get an orders group together and I would brief them in the conference room beside my office. I spoke to Henry alone for a few minutes while Brent assembled the few officers at Force HQ. I had not radioed in the information that the Belgians were confirmed dead; this was news I needed to deliver in person. Henry grimaced at the realization of his worst fears. I told him I was not about to give up. I may have failed to prevent civil war so far, but I was not about to run for cover, leaving the country in this state. We were going to salvage whatever we could of Arusha. I emphasized the point that Bagosora and the RGF senior leadership wanted the Belgians to leave as soon as possible. If the Belgians left and we were not reinforced, the weight of the mission would certainly fall on the Ghanaians’ shoulders. Henry stood before me listening intently. He was my deputy force commander and chief of staff, but he was also the contingent commander of the 800 Ghanaian soldiers in UNAMIR, the majority of whom were dispersed in the demilitarized zone and at this moment extremely vulnerable. Without any hesitation and with a fierce scowl on his face, Henry said the Ghanaians were staying. It was not we who had failed, he said. He had always doubted that there was enough genuine good will and desire for peace on either side for anyone to succeed.