Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Full Chapter The Genocide Against The Tutsi and The Rwandan Churches Philippe Denis PDF
Full Chapter The Genocide Against The Tutsi and The Rwandan Churches Philippe Denis PDF
https://textbookfull.com/product/sharing-the-burden-of-stories-
from-the-tutsi-genocide-rwanda-ecrire-par-devoir-de-memoire-anna-
marie-de-beer/
https://textbookfull.com/product/the-zimbabwe-council-of-
churches-and-development-in-zimbabwe-ezra-chitando/
https://textbookfull.com/product/in-praise-of-blood-the-crimes-
of-the-rwandan-patriotic-front-judi-rever/
https://textbookfull.com/product/the-armenian-genocide-legacy-
nestor-medina/
The Transgenerational Consequences of the Armenian
Genocide Anthonie Holslag
https://textbookfull.com/product/the-transgenerational-
consequences-of-the-armenian-genocide-anthonie-holslag/
https://textbookfull.com/product/the-soviet-union-and-the-
gutting-of-the-un-genocide-convention-anton-weiss-wendt/
https://textbookfull.com/product/the-other-microsoft-second-
edition-philippe-boucher/
https://textbookfull.com/product/the-limits-of-tolerance-
enlightenment-values-and-religious-fanaticism-denis-lacorne/
https://textbookfull.com/product/brits-the-war-against-the-ira-
peter-taylor/
Contents
The Genocide against the Tutsi, and the Rwandan Churches
JAMES CURREY series information
The Genocide against the Tutsi, and the Rwandan Churches
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Abbreviations
Map
Introduction
CHAPTER 1 The burden of the past
CHAPTER 2 The run-up to the genocide
CHAPTER 3 Religion in the midst of the genocide
CHAPTER 4 The Catholic Church in the aftermath of the genocide
CHAPTER 5 The Presbyterian Church’s confession of guilt
CHAPTER 6 The Missionaries of Africa’s response to the genocide
CHAPTER 7 Church and state relations after the genocide
CHAPTER 8 A case of two narratives: Gabriel Maindron, a hero made
and unmade
CHAPTER 9 Remembering 1994 in Congo-Nil
CHAPTER 10 The quest for forgiveness and reconciliation
Conclusion
Select bibliography
Previously published titles in the series
Fountain Studies in East African History
The Genocide against the Tutsi, and the
Rwandan Churches
JAMES CURREY series information
ISSN 2398-8673
Series Editors
Barbara Bompani, Joseph Hellweg, Ousmane Kane and Emma Wild-Wood
Series description
The series is open to submissions that examine local or regional realities on the complexities of
religion and spirituality in Africa. Religion in Transforming Africa will showcase cutting-edge
research into continent-wide issues on Christianity, Islam and other religions of Africa; Traditional
beliefs and witchcraft; Religion, culture & society; History of religion, politics and power; Global
networks and new missions; Religion in conflict and peace-building processes; Religion and
development; Religious rituals and texts and their role in shaping religious ideologies and theologies.
Innovative, and challenging current perspectives, the series provides an indispensable resource on
this key area of African Studies for academics, students, international policy-makers and
development practitioners.
Please contact the Series Editors with an outline or download the proposal
form at www.jamescurrey.com.
Previously published titles in the series are listed at the back of this
volume.
The Genocide against the Tutsi, and
the Rwandan Churches
Between Grief and Denial
Philippe Denis
James Currey
is an imprint of
Boydell & Brewer Ltd
PO Box 9, Woodbridge
Suffolk IP12 3DF (GB)
www.jamescurrey.com
and of
Boydell & Brewer Inc.
668 Mt Hope Avenue
Rochester, NY 14620-2731 (US)
www.boydellandbrewer.com
publishing@fountainpublishers.co.ug | www.fountainpublishers.co.ug
The publisher has no responsibility for the continued existence or accuracy of URLs for
external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee
that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover image: Nyundo cathedral with panels marked ‘Ibuka’ (Remember), commonly used
in the genocide commemorations, and ‘Ugaye’ (Feel indignant). (Photograph by
Rwandarushya Taki).
To Lorie, Lucas, Aquilin and Kuelo
Acknowledgements
PL Liberal Party
UN United Nations
Rwanda, 1994, showing the towns and localities mentioned in the book. Brice Gijsbertsen,
University of KwaZulu-Natal.
Introduction
This study explores in what way and at which point of their history the
Rwandan churches preserved and processed – or not – the memory of the
genocide against the Tutsi. Two churches whose memory practices stand in
stark contrast with each other, the Catholic Church and the Presbyterian
Church, will receive special attention. The focus will be on the period
1994–2000, during which these two churches re-envisioned themselves in a
context profoundly affected by the genocide and its aftermath.
Between April and July 1994, under the guise of fighting the
‘accomplices’ of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) (an armed movement
of Tutsi refugees which had invaded Rwanda in October 1990 with the
intention of gaining access to the country), Hutu militia and crowds of
ordinary people exterminated an estimated 800,000 (mostly Tutsi) men,
women and children, with the logistical support of local and national
authorities.5 In a mere three months, three-quarters of the Tutsi population
residing in Rwanda as of April 1994 were assassinated in schools, churches,
municipal halls or open fields.6 It was not only the (assuredly enormous)
number of Tutsi victims which mattered, but the message, administered
with the most extreme cruelty, that these people were no longer fellow
human beings and that, for this reason, they did not deserve to exist. Most
of the Hutu who were also killed were targeted because they opposed the
massacre of Tutsi. Under the influence of the Hamitic theory, which was
rooted in colonialism, the Tutsi had been described for a while as strangers,
supposedly superior in stature and intelligence but devious and power-
hungry.7 Now they had to be eliminated en masse for the mere reason that
they were Tutsi. The genocide was not only immoral; it was also irrational.
Which regime has ever won a war against an invading army by slaughtering
a significant part of its own population?
Like the Holocaust, an admittedly very different episode of extreme
violence,8 the mass murder of the Tutsi claims a certain degree of
exceptionalism. It is more than a war crime and even more than what
international justice lawyers call a crime against humanity. It raises a
daunting question for the human consciousness. This is why, in reference to
the Jewish extermination programme carried out by the Nazis during the
Second World War, the term ‘genocide’, coined by Raphael Lemkin in 1944
and adopted at the United Nations (UN) Convention on the Prevention and
Punishment of the Crime of Genocide in 1948,9 is used to describe it. The
term is emotionally loaded and has political and legal implications. During
the genocide, it was used for the first time by Médecins Sans Frontières
(MSF) staffers on 13 April 1994.10 Key to the notion of genocide is the
intent to exterminate or grievously harm a national, ethnical, racial or
religious group as such in whole or in part. As the international criminal
law expert William Schabas put it, ‘the definition of the 1948 Convention
fits the Rwandan genocide like a glove’.
There used to be no word in Kinyarwanda for genocide. At first,
people used the term itsembabwoko, which refers to the destruction of a
clan or a tribe. In the aftermath of the genocide, Rwandan officials and civil
society organisations commonly spoke of itsembabwoko n’itsembatsemba,
which translates into English as ‘genocide and massacres’. Along the way,
the neologism jenoside was introduced. In official documents, the dedicated
phrase currently is jenoside yakorewe abatutsi or ‘genocide against the
Tutsi’. This phrase omits reference to the non-Tutsi victims of state
violence, an absence that some observers find problematic but which makes
sense considering that there is no evidence of an intent to exterminate the
Hutu group as such in the Great Lakes Region in the 1990s. This is the term
I use in this study.11
The memory of the genocide against the Tutsi is contested. We have
what Rwandan historian Paul Rutayisire calls a conflict of memory.12 The
debate started when the genocide was in full swing and is still active today.
It affects the churches – inside and outside Rwanda – as much as any other
sector of society.
This debate is two-fold. It concerns the genocide as a historical event
and the politics of memory in post-genocide Rwanda. We shall not dwell on
the first aspect of the debate here, except in the chapter that deals with
religion in the midst of the genocide. All our attention will be devoted to the
question of whether or not the churches remembered and commemorated
the genocide against the Tutsi during the period under review.
Few people squarely deny the reality of the genocide against the Tutsi.
There are, however, more subtle forms of denialism. One consists in saying
that the genocide was merely an episode in the conflict initiated by the RPF
when it invaded Rwanda in October 1990. A variation of this argument is
that more Hutu than Tutsi died not only before the genocide, in the war
fought in the north, or after the genocide, in Rwanda itself and in Zaire after
the dismantlement of the refugee camps, but during the genocide, when the
RPF was making headway from the north-east towards the south of
Rwanda.13 The RPF itself admits that its soldiers committed crimes against
Hutu civilians during this period. What is in dispute is the scale of these
crimes, their motives and the level of commandment involved.14
Many aspects of the genocide are in discussion. First, there is the
vexed question of who shot down the president’s plane on Wednesday, 6
April 1994 at about 8:30pm. Other debated issues include the degree of
preparation of the onslaught, the nature of the involvement of the
government ministers, prefects, burgomasters and gendarmery commanders
in the genocide, the number of Tutsi who lost their lives, the extent of the
participation of ordinary Hutu people in the killings, the level of anti-Tutsi
hatred in the population and the proportion of Hutu people who resisted the
militiamen and sheltered Tutsi refugees.
Tzvetan Todorov made the point that there is a difference between the
recovery of the past and its subsequent use. Each of these procedures has its
own characteristics and paradoxes.15 He did not refer to the Rwandan
situation, but he could have done so. As much as it is necessary to
document the history of the genocide, we should equally pay attention to
the use that is made of that history.
According to Paul Ricoeur’s typology, the use of memory encounters
three types of challenges. First, memory can be pathologically ‘blocked’.16
Genocide survivors know how painful and difficult it is to remember what
has happened and how risky it is to share their memories with an outsider.
The memory of the genocide is very traumatic, not only at an individual
level but also at a social level. The genocide deeply affected Rwandan
society’s sense of identity.17 Time heals, but, even after many years, the
memories of the genocide remain wounded. If we do not keep this factor in
consideration, we cannot understand otherwise incomprehensible
psychosocial and even political reactions.
Second, memory can be ‘manipulated’. It happens, explains Ricoeur,
when the confrontation with the other is felt to be a threat.18 Memory is
associated with power and ideology. Systems of authority – in our case, the
Rwandan state and the forces that try to undermine or topple it – select or
omit components of collective memory in order to strengthen their
legitimacy.19 Like any institution, churches can also manipulate memory to
consolidate their authority. Any form of collective memory is susceptible to
abuse.
Lastly, memory can be ‘summoned abusively’, when the injunction to
remember is heard as ‘an invitation to short-circuit history’. There is then a
strong temptation to transform the duty to remember into ‘a claim on behalf
of memory in opposition to history’.20
In Rwanda and abroad, numerous ‘agencies of articulation of
memory’, to use the language of Timothy Ashplant and his colleagues,21
have developed a discourse about the genocide. In this, they include the
state, the survivor organisations, the churches, the human rights
organisations, the academia, the organisations of Rwandans in exile and the
opposition parties. The task in this study is to identify these agencies of
articulation of memory, look at their background, examine the narratives
they produce and confront these narratives with those of other social actors.
The genocide-memory activists in Rwanda and their associates in the
rest of the world insist on the duty to remember. They claim that it is
necessary to put on display the horrors of the genocide in order to avoid
their repetition in the future. Other role-players cast suspicion on the duty of
memory, claiming that the memorialisation of the genocide, the annual
genocide commemorations and the development of genocide memorials, for
example,22 are a ploy of the RPF government to entrench its power.23 When
looking at the manner in which the churches confronted the memory of the
genocide, we must keep in mind that for them memory is also a site of
struggle.
That the genocide is the object of a conflict of memory should not
come as a surprise. Unlike the Nazi regime, which suffered a terminal
military defeat in May 1945, the government and the army that promoted
the genocide against the Tutsi took refuge in camps on the other side of the
Zairian border in July 1994 with the firm intention of coming back and
winning the ‘war’. The former leaders never admitted any guilt, let alone
expressed remorse. Two years later, the refugee camps in Tanzania and
Zaire were dismantled – some violently – but incursions of former
Interahamwe (Hutu militiamen) continued for several years – not without
the use of great force against the Hutu assailants and the local population
which sheltered them on the part of the army of the Tutsi-led Rwandan
government. In a way, the genocide never came to an end. There has not
been a political compromise followed by joint constitutional arrangement as
in South Africa, for example. In that country, the April 1994 democratic
elections symbolically signified the decision of the nation, Black and White
citizens alike, to turn its back on apartheid. Some of the worst perpetrators,
like the police commander Eugene de Kock, expressed genuine remorse for
their actions at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC).24 Nothing
of that nature has happened since the genocide against the Tutsi.25
This sense of ‘unfinished business’ has great repercussions on the
politics of memory in Rwanda. The various forms of genocide denialism
that find expression overtly around the world or more discreetly in Rwanda
exacerbate the problem. They revive the wounds of the survivors and create
frustration among those who believe that lessons should be drawn from the
history of this apex of ethnic violence. The absence of a genuine consensus,
internationally and nationally, about the reality of the genocide against the
Tutsi explains, at least in part, why the Rwandan government and the
genocide survivor organisations put so much effort into memorialising the
genocide with the help of international partners such as the Aegis Trust.
Genocide memory is a national cause in Rwanda, benefitting from the full
support of the state.26 The ongoing debate in the international media and in
academic publications on governance in Rwanda also explains why, by
reaction and not without causing controversy, so little is said in public on
the other victims of mass violence in the 1990s. Where does one draw a line
between too much and too little memory? Which aspects of the past can be
legitimately forgotten?
The fact that history and memory are sensitive issues in Rwanda with
legal implications27 affects the manner of conducting research in the
country. One has to seek advice from the best sources and reflect on how to
navigate in a difficult terrain.28 At the same time, Rwanda attracts young
researchers more than ever. In some way, the ideological war outside and
inside the country is less acute today than it was immediately after the
genocide. The International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) has
judged and sentenced some of the main instigators of the genocide. An
active policy of reconciliation has been implemented in Rwanda. There is
still tension about the past, but arguably less than before.
Death, old age, are words without a meaning, that pass by us like the
idle air which we regard not. Others may have undergone, or may
still be liable to them—we ‘bear a charmed life,’ which laughs to
scorn all such sickly fancies. As in setting out on a delightful journey,
we strain our eager gaze forward——
‘Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail,’—
Well might the poet begin his indignant invective against an art,
whose professed object is its destruction, with this animated
apostrophe to life. Life is indeed a strange gift, and its privileges are
most miraculous. Nor is it singular that when the splendid boon is
first granted us, our gratitude, our admiration, and our delight
should prevent us from reflecting on our own nothingness, or from
thinking it will ever be recalled. Our first and strongest impressions
are taken from the mighty scene that is opened to us, and we very
innocently transfer its durability as well as magnificence to
ourselves. So newly found, we cannot make up our minds to parting
with it yet and at least put off that consideration to an indefinite
term. Like a clown at a fair, we are full of amazement and rapture,
and have no thoughts of going home, or that it will soon be night. We
know our existence only from external objects, and we measure it by
them. We can never be satisfied with gazing; and nature will still
want us to look on and applaud. Otherwise, the sumptuous
entertainment, ‘the feast of reason and the flow of soul,’ to which
they were invited, seems little better than a mockery and a cruel
insult. We do not go from a play till the scene is ended, and the lights
are ready to be extinguished. But the fair face of things still shines
on; shall we be called away, before the curtain falls, or ere we have
scarce had a glimpse of what is going on? Like children, our step-
mother Nature holds us up to see the raree-show of the universe; and
then, as if life were a burthen to support, lets us instantly down
again. Yet in that short interval, what ‘brave sublunary things’ does
not the spectacle unfold; like a bubble, at one minute reflecting the
universe, and the next, shook to air!—To see the golden sun and the
azure sky, the outstretched ocean, to walk upon the green earth, and
to be lord of a thousand creatures, to look down giddy precipices or
over distant flowery vales, to see the world spread out under one’s
finger in a map, to bring the stars near, to view the smallest insects in
a microscope, to read history, and witness the revolutions of empires
and the succession of generations, to hear of the glory of Sidon and
Tyre, of Babylon and Susa, as of a faded pageant, and to say all these
were, and are now nothing, to think that we exist in such a point of
time, and in such a corner of space, to be at once spectators and a
part of the moving scene, to watch the return of the seasons, of
spring and autumn, to hear
——‘The stockdove plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustles to the sighing gale’——
could be borne only amidst the fulness of hope, the crash of the fall
of the strong holds of power, and the exulting sounds of the march of
human freedom. What feelings the death-scene in Don Carlos sent
into the soul! In that headlong career of lofty enthusiasm, and the
joyous opening of the prospects of the world and our own, the
thought of death crossing it, smote doubly cold upon the mind; there
was a stifling sense of oppression and confinement, an impatience of
our present knowledge, a desire to grasp the whole of our existence
in one strong embrace, to sound the mystery of life and death, and in
order to put an end to the agony of doubt and dread, to burst through
our prison-house, and confront the King of Terrors in his grisly
palace!... As I was writing out this passage, my miniature-picture
when a child lay on the mantle-piece, and I took it out of the case to
look at it. I could perceive few traces of myself in it; but there was the
same placid brow, the dimpled mouth, the same timid, inquisitive
glance as ever. But its careless smile did not seem to reproach me
with having become a recreant to the sentiments that were then sown
in my mind, or with having written a sentence that could call up a
blush in this image of ingenuous youth!
‘That time is past with all its giddy raptures.’ Since the future was
barred to my progress, I have turned for consolation to the past,
gathering up the fragments of my early recollections, and putting
them into a form that might live. It is thus, that when we find our
personal and substantial identity vanishing from us, we strive to gain
a reflected and substituted one in our thoughts: we do not like to
perish wholly, and wish to bequeath our names at least to posterity.
As long as we can keep alive our cherished thoughts and nearest
interests in the minds of others, we do not appear to have retired
altogether from the stage, we still occupy a place in the estimation of
mankind, exercise a powerful influence over them, and it is only our
bodies that are trampled into dust or dispersed to air. Our darling
speculations still find favour and encouragement, and we make as
good a figure in the eyes of our descendants, nay, perhaps, a better
than we did in our lifetime. This is one point gained; the demands of
our self-love are so far satisfied. Besides, if by the proofs of
intellectual superiority we survive ourselves in this world, by
exemplary virtue or unblemished faith, we are taught to ensure an
interest in another and a higher state of being, and to anticipate at
the same time the applauses of men and angels.
‘Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries;
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.’