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

by Roméo Dallaire

  Next I called Luc at his Kigali Sector headquarters and told him that I had seen the bodies of his men at the morgue, that they had been mutilated and that I had counted eleven bodies. He uttered a short, cryptic, “Oui,” showing his distress only by the raggedness of his breathing. But no, he said, there must be ten. Ten soldiers were sent out to protect Prime Minister Agathe, a mortar section commanded by Lieutenant Thierry Lotin, and these were the only men not yet accounted for. He had been told earlier in the day that some of them were probably dead but not all. He couldn’t believe the news I was giving him now. I offered my condolences and told him that the bodies were now under guard and should be picked up the next morning with an escort from the Gendarmerie.

  Luc regained his composure and briefed me. I congratulated him on saving Faustin, and then I passed on my instructions for the next day. We all had to help Gatsinzi and Ndindiliyimana gain control of the Presidential Guard and stabilize the city. I was going to continue to pressure Kagame not to move south and pull his troops back into the CND. Luc said he would work closely with Ndindiliyimana so that his troops and the Gendarmerie could help each other with the escalating demands for assistance. I warned him about what Bagosora and Ndindiliyimana had said about the wisdom of pulling his contingent out, and Luc said the Belgian ambassador was demanding a lot of his time concerning the needs of the Belgian nationals and diplomatic corps. He was to consolidate his troops as much as possible, improve defensive postures and continue to provide support to those in peril. But one thing was certain: We were not pulling out. As we finished the phone call, I once again offered my condolences to him, to his troops, to his government and to the families of the soldiers who had died.

  Then I went in to talk with the orders group: the same officers I’d left in the morning were still running the show because the rest were stuck at the Meridien hotel, trapped by the firefights between the RPF and the Presidential Guard. I directed that all staff were to be at their place of duty just after dawn. Henry would coordinate this effort. And then I told them that the Belgian soldiers were dead. The news hit these tired men and knocked the last vestiges of energy out of them. Moen reiterated that all the rest of the missing men were now accounted for. The Belgians were freed at the airport but still could not get near the crash site. The RPF had no objection to having an outside investigation of the crash, but there was no answer from the RGF side. I moved on to instructions for the next day. I wanted Kigali Sector to consolidate its troops, with the airport as a priority, and we should do the same with our Force level unit troops, such as the logistics company. We were to continue helping Rwandans seeking refuge, supporting our own UN staff and any others in emergency situations. I closed the meeting by urging all of them to get some rest.

  I took a walk around the HQ. There were a few hundred Rwandan civilians—men, women, children—asleep on the floor in our cafeteria and the hallways. Earlier in the day Brent had ordered the gates be opened to these people, but stipulated that they all be searched before they came in. He told me that Henry was quite angry at him for committing this breach of security and wanted him disciplined (nothing ever came of it). These people were among the thousands of Rwandans who had fled to UNAMIR compounds all over the city. Most were Tutsis, some were moderate Hutus, but all feared for their lives.

  Some of our rescue attempts were successful, as with Prime Minister Faustin, but most were not—our patrols had been blocked time and again by drunken militia and hostile youths. In the midst of all this, Ottawa’s National Defence Headquarters had called to demand bi-daily reports. They had never shown any particular interest in our mission and for the past six months had not responded to a single one of our weekly reports. I thought it was a little late for them to be showing an interest now.

  We had no food stored at the Force HQ, but somewhere Brent had found some chocolates for sustenance. He’d also located an old mattress in a storage room out back and had torn down some curtains for blankets, making a bed for me on the floor of my office while I called New York. It was past midnight in Kigali, and about 1600 at the UN.

  On the line were Kofi Annan, Iqbal Riza and Hedi Annabi. I went through the failures of the day: the deaths of my soldiers and the moderate political leaders, the systematic killings, the failed political meetings, Kagame’s offers and threats, Bagosora’s actions, the resumption of hostilities—but they had no suggestions on how to put the evil genie that had been released back in the bottle. I told them we had thousands of Rwandans from both ethnic groups in all of our compounds and that Prime Minister Faustin was in the Force HQ, and that we would not give him or any of the others up without a fight. They all reassured me that such an action was within my mission mandate.

  I raised the possibility that the moderates might coalesce overnight and give us some opportunities to get things under control, at least on the military side. This would require me to show support and give them some sense that the international community would provide security. They told me no, I was to let the moderates come forward first. I was not to offer UNAMIR up as a protection force for a faction within one of the two belligerents. I was confused by this direction. The moderates wouldn’t show their hand without me showing mine first. I said if we had a chance to put Rwanda back on the Arusha path, we must not let this opportunity slip by. Otherwise we would again be surrendering the initiative to the extremists and become nothing more than witnesses to a human catastrophe. The answer came back loud and clear: I was not to take sides, and it was up to the Rwandans to sort things out for themselves. I said that as long as the RPF did not cross the demilitarized zone I felt I still had a mandate. No one objected to that, and I was reminded to stay within its strict parameters.

  They told me not to risk UNAMIR troops, to help with the security of all UN civilians and dependants, to keep in close touch with the expatriate and diplomatic communities and to update my withdrawal plan and be ready to implement it. I hung up feeling angry, empty and in a state of moral and ethical conflict.

  It was 0100 but, before going to bed, I went to see Faustin, who after he’d been rescued had spent the day listening to the radio. All day long RTLM had been reporting the murders of his moderate allies and their families. The station encouraged its listeners to kill Tutsis and called for the death of all moderate Hutus, calling them traitors. The statements were accompanied by taped music from popular singers, violence-provoking songs with lyrics such as “I hate Hutus, I hate Hutus, I hate Hutus who think that Tutsis are not snakes.” As far as Faustin was concerned, we had entered the apocalypse. What could I tell him? Only that he was safe at the Force HQ and we would try to find the members of his family who had fled. I left him in a state of mourning.

  As I lay down, the window was open and there was the sound of gunfire and grenades coming from the east side of the city. My head was filled with sounds and images: The mangled bodies of my Belgian soldiers. Hélène, Lando and their beautiful children crying for help and then resigning themselves to their fate. The congealed blood and screams in the Kigali hospital compound. Bagosora’s deceptive smile. The Presidential Guards and Interahamwe militiamen at the roadblocks, their faces filled with blood lust. The enigma of Ndindiliyimana. The voice of Prime Minister Agathe as she realized she could not get to the radio station to speak to her nation. Her children cowering in a dark corner of the bedroom, expecting the next footsteps to be those of their executioners. The shock in Robert’s luminous face at the morgue.

  My mission had failed. I, the stubborn lobbyist for and commander of UNAMIR, had failed. There was no chance of sleep.

  My troops had died, not in the defence of their respective nations and citizenry but in the defence of decency and human rights. Was this the true price of peace? Was it an expense that the families, friends and governments of my blue berets were prepared to pay? The loss of the ten Belgian soldiers would be the defining factor: either the international community would give me more support and possibly stop this lunacy or, as in Somalia,
they would use these deaths as an excuse to desert in the face of calamity.

  Today would most likely be much worse than yesterday. If the killing continued and the RPF decided to engage the RGF below the demilitarized zone, we would either be ordered out or reinforced. However, I might be asked to stay in place with only what I had. I wasn’t going to run from this mess. Between Luc, Henry, Tiko, Moen, Yaache and myself, we would reposition the force, try to support the moderate RGF initiatives, seek help from the UN to stop the killing in its tracks, and launch ceasefire initiatives to get the RPF back north. I got up and scribbled some notes about this in my agenda, then lay down again and finally fell asleep.

  It was the end of the first day of a hundred-day civil war and a genocide that would engulf all of us in unimaginable carnage.

  * * *

  1. Though they had never co-operated with UNAMIR in the past—insisting that they could not serve their home governments, Rwanda and the UN mission at the same time—perhaps they would have had a change of heart and given us their insiders’ view. I had often wondered about the stance of the Belgian military adviser. I could understand that he needed to be loyal to his original mission of advising the inner core of officers in the RGF, but why did he refuse to help UNAMIR, especially his countrymen?

  2. Even though we were in a francophone country, English was the mission language, as is usual in UN peacekeeping operations. Some exceptions had been made (in Western Sahara the mission had used French, and in Central America, Spanish) and I had strongly recommended French for UNAMIR in my technical report. I was turned down by the DPKO, the rationale being that we would not find enough French-speaking civilian personnel to staff the mission. I now regret not insisting on French.

  11

  TO GO OR TO STAY?

  I AWOKE AT dawn on April 8 to the sound of heavy gunfire. Brent had scrounged a cup of tea for me, and after I drank it, I washed and shaved using a glass of water. This would be my morning routine for the next hundred days. The city water supply had already been cut off, and we had to conserve as much as we could of our bottled water for drinking. None of us would see a shower or bath for months, and we were rationed to a single glass a day for keeping ourselves clean. We began to save rainwater in order to wash our uniforms—by hand, often without any soap—and all of us soon carried a very distinct and unpleasant odour.

  With the dawn, the mobs were back on the streets, and firing was being reported across the city. The RPF’s attack on the Presidential Guard compound had been repulsed, and the RPF was consolidating their positions around the CND complex. Elements of the RGF and the Gendarmerie had joined the Presidential Guard and the Interahamwe in the rampages of the previous day, and it appeared that the power of the Third Force now extended well beyond the known extremist units.

  All UN compounds were sheltering thousands of fearful Rwandans. I needed clarification from New York as to what authority I had to protect these people, whose plight posed both a moral quandary and a logistics nightmare. How could I possibly keep them safe? In the meantime, we continued to open our gates to all those seeking sanctuary. At the first morning prayers of the war, I directed that everyone entering the compounds be searched and disarmed. I also directed that the few hundred Rwandans already in the Force HQ be escorted to the Amahoro stadium as soon as possible. The lack of water and food would take a toll over the next days and weeks. We protected these citizens from certain death at the hands of the extremists or the RPF, but then had to watch helplessly as some of them succumbed to dehydration, disease and ultimately hunger. Many of my troops living among them would also fall ill: they simply could not eat what little rations they had in front of starving people, especially children, and gave what they had at the expense of their own health. Humanitarian assistance was still a long way off.

  I also directed that all staff officers be moved by convoy from the Meridien to Force HQ that day. If I could drive around the city with no escort, they could find a way here under guard. This was a priority: we needed to be fully staffed and as functional as possible. All sectors were to account for their people and to launch patrols to rescue any missing military and civilian personnel. I wanted to know that by nightfall everyone associated with UNAMIR was in a guarded UN compound. We were still faced with the restriction on our ROE that Riza had outlined, which made these rescue efforts a matter of luck and persuasion rather than of force. To make things even more complicated, just as my officers began these tasks, the telephones in the Force HQ went dead.

  The day before, along with the killings of the Belgians, two of our Uruguayans, one Bangladeshi and one Ghanaian had been wounded, and I knew we were bound to suffer more casualties. Despite all our requests for resupply, even the field hospital’s cupboards were bare; only the Belgian contingent had any medical supplies. The Belgian Hercules that had been denied landing on April 6 was sitting on the ground in Nairobi. The airport in Kigali was under RGF control and remained closed to traffic. Our two contracted helicopters had disappeared yesterday—with the country exploding, the pilots had fled to Uganda. They were both civilian contract employees, so who could blame them? But the result was that we were confined to Kigali with no ability to evacuate casualties. In all likelihood any seriously wounded would die. In every decision I was to take over the coming weeks, I had to balance the risk of the operation against the fact that we had no medical safety net, and a lack of ammunition.

  Robert and I left for the home of the SRSG. The CND was taking fire from several directions, and the RPF were returning as good as they got. Once again we drove through a battle in our four-by-four. Driving under a firefight is unnerving to say the least, especially in an unarmoured vehicle, but it would become a daily experience.

  When we got to Booh-Booh’s house, he and his staff were in a state of shock. I recommended that they all move to Force HQ where Booh-Booh could better control the situation and have satellite communications with New York. Clearly he had already been in contact with the UN by phone, and heaven knows what he had said or if the wrong people had been listening. He insisted on staying where he was, even though he was obviously overwhelmed and uncertain about what to do. I didn’t understand why he was unwilling to move to a location where he could stay abreast of what was happening, especially as I thought we could guarantee his safety on the journey. Later that day, his house was caught in a crossfire between the RPF and the Presidential Guard, and the Belgians moved him and his staff to the Meridien hotel. It was an awkward command post, and Booh-Booh relied on his political adviser, Mamadou Kane, to shuttle between Force HQ, his rooms at the hotel and any political meetings we arranged.

  I left for the CND. I wanted to get Kagame to halt his resumption of hostilities. We drove through what was now the no man’s land between the RGF and the RPF. Ballis met me at the entrance to the CND building and whispered in my ear that the RPF was not listening to reason; it was sticking unwaveringly to its preconditions to negotiating any ceasefire and was preparing for military action. Many Tutsis, including members of the RPF’s families, were being hunted down and slaughtered—a compelling argument for taking up arms. If the RPF went on the offensive, however, it would lead inevitably to civil war.

  I met with what remained of the RPF political leadership in the grand hallway that separated the assembly building from the hotel complex, formally greeting Seth Sendashonga, Tito Rutaremara, Dr. Jacques and Commander Charles, who stood like dignitaries in a reception line. I followed them into a small, poorly lit conference room. The heart of my argument was that if the RPF resumed military hostilities, the moderates wouldn’t be able to rally elements of the army and Gendarmerie to their cause. I urged them to keep the peace and permit me to organize a meeting with the RGF moderates of the Crisis Committee. “What moderates?” Seth wanted to know. The prime minister and the other leaders had all been killed, and the extremists were obviously enacting their long-anticipated plan. If there were moderates still alive and in a position of power, Seth insiste
d that they show their hand, and quickly. Commander Charles would soon implement Kagame’s orders, and UNAMIR better not get in his way. Seth left a small door open. If I could arrange it, the RPF would agree to meet with the Crisis Committee, which was a creature of the army, not the government. I pushed them to commit at such a meeting to negotiate for the resumption of the ceasefire status that existed under Arusha. As usual with this group, they told me they had to refer all decisions to the RPF high council. At least, I said, they could clarify their preconditions. Seth rhymed them off: (1) the slaughter of innocent civilians must stop; (2) the indiscriminate shooting by the RGF on the CND must stop; (3) the Presidential Guards must be disarmed, returned to their camp and arrested; (4) the Crisis Committee must openly condemn the actions of the extremists, particularly the Presidential Guard; (5) the telephone system must be fully restored; (6) the Crisis Committee must identify its leader; (7) the Crisis Committee should produce a joint communiqué with the RPF regarding the true state of affairs and broadcast it to the nation; (8) the Crisis Committee had to fully account for all the officials who had died or disappeared. Then and only then would the RPF be open to negotiating a ceasefire. The meeting came to an abrupt halt when some glass from the skylight came crashing down, the result of heavy machine gun-fire.