For more than three decades, I have listened to testimonies of survivors of the Genocide Against the Tutsi. Not a single year has passed without hearing accounts that shake the human spirit to its foundation.

Testimonies that do not just describe suffering, but expose the collapse of humanity into a theater of premeditated evil. Some horrors are so outrageous that language itself becomes embarrassed trying to carry them.

I became an eyewitness to part of this catastrophe. I saw piles of Tutsi bodies in and around churches. I saw and helped children searching for mothers who would never answer again. I saw and carried babies suckling dead mothers whose bodies were already decomposing under the indifferent sun.

I heard testimonies of women raped in sacristies — such places supposedly reserved for holy vessels and sacred rituals. Long sticks were forced into women’s reproductive organs after rape, an evidence the killers wanted not only to murder bodies but also to desecrate womanhood itself. Babies’ heads were smashed against walls and rocks inside or around churches. The killers were not content with death; they sought humiliation before annihilation.

This was not criminality at its penultimate rung. It was criminality at its highest possible stage — a metaphysical assault against the idea of human dignity itself.

And up till now, among the many things that continue to disturb me, one remains especially haunting: the invocation of God by the killers and, paradoxically, by some survivors.

During the genocide, genocidaires bragged on Radio Rwanda and RTLM that God was no longer interested in the survival of the Tutsi. They declared with triumphant certainty: "Abatutsi Imana yarabatanze.” God had forsaken the Tutsi. God had authorized their extermination. The killers did not see themselves merely as murderers. They saw themselves as executors of divine will.

RTLM’s notorious propagandist Kantano Habimana sang joyfully on-air thanking God because the "cockroaches” had allegedly been annihilated. Imagine the obscenity: thanking God for annihilation of a people. Worship transformed into celebration of slaughter. Prayer converted into applause for machetes.

Then on June 2, 1994, Valérie Bemeriki—repeatedly declared on RTLM that the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ were on the side of the genocidal government. She even invoked the Marian apparitions of Kibeho, during the slaughter—claiming heaven itself supported the regime. As if heavenly beings had become cabinet members in a government of extermination. Would seem Christ had exchanged the Sermon on Mount Huye for the editorial line of RTLM.

And what was the response from the institutional Church to such blasphemy? Silence. Not at least, timid murmurs buried beneath the noise of slaughter.

When heaven was drawn into hell

One remembers the unnamed missionary quoted in The Times on May 16, 1994, who declared that "all devils were in Rwanda.” Indeed. But some of those devils carried rosaries, quoted scripture, attended Mass, sang hymns, and crossed themselves before picking up machetes.

This is why I increasingly find myself asking uncomfortable questions whenever survivors say: "I thank Almighty God for saving me.”

There is nothing wrong with a believer thanking God for surviving. We are told faith can console and heal shattered souls. Faith can help human beings endure the unbearable. But there is a profound difference between saying "I thank God” and claiming that God directly intervened to rescue one person while allowing hundreds of thousands of others to be butchered in churches, schools, swamps, and hills.

That distinction matters. When someone insists that God actively saved a few survivors, then logically — whether intentionally or not — they validate the genocidaires’ claim that God abandoned the majority who perished.

If God intervened to rescue some, why did He not intervene to stop the genocide itself?

If God is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent — as classical theology insists — why did He not paralyze the hands holding machetes or grenades? Why didn't He silence RTLM broadcasts that directed killers to hiding places? Why didn't He blind militias at roadblocks? Why did He not stop grenades from exploding inside churches packed with terrified refugees?

Why did heaven remain acoustically functional enough to hear prayers of gratitude from killers but mysteriously deaf to the screams of babies being smashed against walls?

The theological evasions usually offered here are astonishing in their moral emptiness.

Some invoke "free will.” Yet this explanation flops under scrutiny. If God never intervenes because of human free will, then why do believers simultaneously insist that God sometimes intervenes to rescue individuals? One cannot have it both ways. Either divine intervention occurs or it does not.

Others say: "God’s ways are mysterious.”

Indeed. But mystery should not become a theological laundering machine for moral absurdity.

The German theologian Jürgen Moltmann and The Crucified God (1972) once asked, after Auschwitz: "Where was God?” It remains one of the most distressing mystical questions of modern history. Auschwitz and other concentration camps in Europe shattered one-dimensional religious certainties. Rwanda should have done the same. Yet too often, instead of confronting the abyss honestly, people rush to cover it with religious clichés.

In his book, The Cost of Discipleship (1937), theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer warned against what he called "cheap grace” — religion without moral seriousness and responsibility. Rwanda exposed not simply cheap grace but reduced theology itself: a theology capable of blessing massacre while holding liturgical elegance.

Similarly, Elie Wiesel in his book Night (1956) famously reflected on the Holocaust with painful honesty: "Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul.” That proclamation was not atheism. It was a moral revolt against theological complacency.

Rwanda demands similar honesty. Since what happened in Rwanda was not merely mass murder. It was also the weaponization of God-language.

The Genocide Against the Tutsi demonstrated how religious discourse can become an accomplice to extermination. The killers were not anti-religious nihilists. Many were deeply immersed in religious culture. Yet, churches did not prevent genocide. In some cases, they became slaughterhouses.

David P. Gushee, a Scholar in Christian Ethics—in his poignant reflection "Remembering Genocide Against Tutsi in Rwanda: Presence of Churches Guarantees Nothing,” (2014) observed:

"It cannot be assumed that the Christian faith is taught in such a way as to emphasize love of neighbor (all neighbors) and respect for human life. No agency on earth has ever been able to control what is actually taught in a local church on a given Sunday morning. A variety of bastardized versions of the Christian message, including hateful ones, have been and continue to be communicated in congregations all over the world.”

The word "bastardized” is not too unforgiving. It is just precise. And, this is because the Christian message in Rwanda had long been contaminated by racial ideology masquerading as theology.

Colonial missionaries and administrators, who were all Christians, racialized Rwandan society through the deadly Hamitic myth. Tutsi were interchangeably romanticized as foreign Hamites or demonized as domineering foreigners depending on colonial convenience. Ethnic categories became spiritualized. Political identity became theological destiny.

Long before machetes, there were sermons. Long before roadblocks, there were racial theories wrapped in biblical language.

The discourse scholar Teun A. van Dijk in Elite Discourse and Racism (1993), has long argued that elites reproduce racism through discourse — through media, education, politics, and institutional language. Rwanda confirmed this with terrifying clarity. The genocide did not begin in April 1994. It began in words. It began in sermons. It began in newspapers. It began in whispered stories about snakes, cockroaches, and enemies of God.

Language prepared consciences for slaughter. The discourse theorist Norman Fairclough in his and Language and Power (1989), underscored that discourse does not merely reflect reality; it constructs social reality. RTLM did not merely describe Tutsi as enemies. It manufactured a moral universe in which exterminating Tutsi appeared righteous.

Michel Foucault in his work, The Archaeology of Knowledge (1969) observed that discourse and power are inseparable. Control language, and one controls moral perception. In Rwanda, genocidal discourse transformed neighbors into existential threats and murder into civic duty.

This is why the invocation of scripture during the genocide matters profoundly.

Genocidaires were astonishingly biblical when searching for justification.

Kangura’s infamous "Appeal to the Conscience of Bahutu” urged Hutu to show no mercy to Tutsi and drew inspiration from scripture. Old Testament passages were selectively weaponized to sanctify hatred. Psalm 137:9 — "Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones” — became a horrifying source of symbolic inspiration for smashing Tutsi babies against rocks and walls.

Imagine that obscenity: scripture transformed into operational guidance for infanticide. It was ideological cannibalism of "sacred” text.

And yet, after all this, many still insist on inserting God into the genocide narrative as an active rescuer. But why?

It’s not clear as to why this desperate need to preserve divine innocence at all costs. Why do people refuse to allow genocide to remain a human crime?

Somewhat because acknowledging purely human responsibility is terrifying. It forces people to confront the possibility that human beings — ordinary, praying, churchgoing human beings — are capable of inconceivable evil without supernatural assistance.

It is psychologically easier to imagine extra-terrestrial scripts than human agency. Surely, responsibility and complement must go where it is due.

Human beings were the perpetrators. Human beings were the victims. Human beings were the bystanders. Human beings were the rescuers.

The Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) leadership and the young Rwandan Patriotic Army (RPA) fighters who stopped the genocide did not descend from clouds carrying flaming swords. They bled. They died. They marched long distances. They fought with determination. They made strategic decisions. They rescued survivors hiding among corpses and in swamps.

There are Hutu men and women who risked their lives to save their neighbors and friends.

Scripture and the sanctification of cruelty

When people wipe out these human rescuers by attributing survival primarily to God, they unconsciously reduce the moral courage and sacrifice of actual human beings.

It becomes especially ridiculous when one considers that the overwhelming majority of Tutsi were not rescued. What kind of God selectively rescues a tiny number while watching the systematic extermination of hundreds of thousands? A careless God? A tribal God?

Are these survivors imagining a segregative God? A God who supposedly created all human beings in His image yet quietly sided with those who carried machetes to kill their relatives, friends and neighbors?

Such a God begins to resemble not the God of moral goodness, as described by believers, but an accomplice.

That is why I increasingly feel the name of God should be taken out of the Genocide Against the Tutsi conversation — just as the Book of Esther in the Bible noticeably omits God’s name.

The absence is outstanding. The Book of Esther retains the names of Esther, Mordecai, and Haman — human actors. Yet, God remains unmentioned. The drama unfolds as a profoundly human affair involving courage, conspiracy, fear, political manipulation, and survival.

Imaginably there is wisdom in that silence. Since once God becomes the central actor in genocide narratives, human responsibility dissolves into theological haze.

Imagine when killers claim God supported them. And, survivors claim the same God rescued them. And, therefore, somewhere in between, actual human beings disappear.

The genocidaires understood very well the power of divine language. They did not simply seek political victory. They sought metaphysical legitimacy. To claim "God gave away the Tutsi” was to transform mass murder into a blessed duty.

This is why theological irresponsibility is treacherous—even dangerous. Hannah Arendt in her book Eichmann in Jerusalem (1963); warned about the "banality of evil” — the terrifying normality with which ordinary people participate in monstrous crimes. Rwanda expanded this insight. Evil was not only banal; it was liturgical. The evil sang hymns and quoted scripture. It attended choir practice before attending massacres.

One of the most devastating truths about what happened in Rwanda— is that many killers were not religious hypocrites. At least on face value. They were sincere believers. That is what should frighten everybody.

The problem was not the absence of religion. It was the corruption of moral imagination within religion itself.

The sardonic tragedy is almost unendurable. A country with churches almost everywhere became a cemetery.

A population famous for religiosity produced militias singing hymns between massacres.

Some killers, with rosaries hanging on their chests—reportedly paused to pray before continuing extermination.

One imagines heaven’s bureaucratic confusion: "Dear Lord, bless our machetes as we continue cleansing the nation.” And perhaps an angel replying: "Please hold. Your prayer is important to us.”

The irony writes itself because reality itself became grotesque beyond parody.

Religious symbolism saturated the genocide.

Churches became killing grounds precisely because many Tutsi believed sacred spaces would protect them. Instead, those spaces often became traps. The symbolic inversion is staggering: places meant to preserve life became efficient centers of death.

This should permanently destroy naïve assumptions that religious presence automatically guarantees moral behavior. It does not.

A church building no more guarantees morality than a garage guarantees wisdom about cars.

Religious language can cultivate compassion — but it can also cultivate hatred when merged with ideology, extreme fear, and power. And this remains relevant far beyond Rwanda.

Around the world, political actors continue weaponizing divine language. They invoke God to justify exclusion, racism, violence, and domination. Rwanda stands as one of history’s clearest warnings about where such rhetoric can lead.

When people claim God belongs exclusively to their tribe, nation, ethnicity, or ideology, danger begins. When political leaders portray opponents as enemies of God, danger escalates. When the media dehumanizes groups while cloaking itself in moral righteousness, catastrophe becomes possible.

Rwanda teaches that genocidal ideology does not emerge suddenly. It is cultivated gradually through discourse.

The words "cockroach”and "snakes” mattered. The phrase "God abandoned the Tutsi” carried some weight. The manipulation of biblical narratives mattered. The silence of some religious institutions was a very loud speech. Words matter because words shape moral imagination. And once moral imagination collapses, machetes become conceivable.

The tragedy is compounded by post-genocide theological evasions. Some people insist Rwanda proves human beings need more religion. Others insist it proves human beings need less religion. Both responses are inadequate.

The real lesson is more uncomfortable: religion itself is morally unstable unless constantly disciplined by critical thought, universal ethics, and genuine human solidarity.

Without these, religion easily becomes tribal. And tribal religion is among the most dangerous forces on earth because it sanctifies prejudice.

One of the most intellectually dishonest responses to Rwanda is the claim that "true Christianity” had nothing to do with the genocide.

Such statements function as theological escape routes. It is pure gaslighting.

Of course the genocide contradicted Christian ethics. But the painful reality remains: people claiming Christian identity participated massively in it. One cannot simply declare them "not real Christians” and move on. That is too stress-free. Excessively convenient. Purely antiseptic.

The question is not whether Christianity’s ideals condemn genocide. The question is how genocidal ideology managed to coexist so comfortably with Christian identity in Rwanda.

That question requires painful honesty. It requires examining colonial history, church complicity, ethnic politics, theological failures, and institutional silence.

And above all, it requires resisting the temptation to protect God’s public relations department.

Because sometimes theology sounds less like moral inquiry and more like heavenly damage control.

Theological failure, human responsibility and the heavenly silence

One hears absurd explanations: "God allowed genocide for mysterious reasons.” "God was testing Rwanda.” "God brought good out of evil when He used the RPF to demonstrate his greatness.”

Imagine telling a mother whose children were hacked to death that their massacre formed part of a mysterious divine lesson.

Such statements are not thoughtful. They are extremely cruel, since they transform theology into emotional vandalism.

At minimum, intellectual integrity requires admitting uncertainty. Imaginably silence about God is more honest than premature explanations. What happened between 1959-1994?

Maybe the Book of Esther understood something many theologians forget: not every catastrophe should become an occasion for confident claims about divine intentions.

There is moral insight in declining to speak for God. Especially after genocide. Particularly after churches filled with corpses. Principally— after priests and pastors betrayed refugees. Especially after radio broadcasters thanked God for extermination.

And specially after hearing survivors describe babies smashed against walls while killers shouted prayers.

People should accept some truths that are too heavy for theological slogans. What remains undeniable is human responsibility. Human beings created genocidal ideology while others spread it. Some human beings obeyed it, others resisted it. Human beings rescued others at enormous risk. And human beings must ensure it never happens again.

Removing God from genocidaires’ muddle does not require agnosticism or atheism. It simply needs moral clarity. Believers may continue drawing personal comfort from faith. Survivors may continue praying, mourning, and seeking meaning spiritually. That is their right.

But public discourse about genocide should avoid transforming God into either chief rescuer or celestial accomplice.

Because once God becomes an explanatory shortcut, historical and moral accountability weaken. The actual killers become instruments rather than agents.

The rescuers become secondary characters. And genuine genocide becomes metaphysical theater rather than human crime.

We have a duty to categorically say big NO.

The Genocide Against the Tutsi was conceived by human minds, executed by human hands, enabled by human institutions, and stopped by human courage.

The dead and the survivors deserve that honesty. And, even believers should prefer that honesty, because otherwise they inherit a terrifying deity: A God who selectively watched, selectively rescued, selectively remained silent, and selectively answered prayers.

That is not moral dignity but theological chaos. Perhaps the most responsible position is humility. To admit that invoking God during genocide often reveals more about human beings than about divinity.

The killers projected their hatred onto heaven. Some survivors venture their gratitude onto heaven. Both are understandable human responses to catastrophe.

But history itself demands something firmer. It demands recognition that genocide is ultimately a human affair.

Humans construct ideologies; manipulate scripture; turn radios into weapons and transform churches into slaughterhouses.

Humans rescue strangers and risk their lives. While some humans choose silence, others choose courage.

And because humans created genocide, humans must bear responsibility for preventing its return. That responsibility cannot be outsourced to heaven.

Not after Rwanda. Not after the piles of bodies around churches. Not after RTLM. Not after babies smashed against stones. Not after women are violently raped in sacristies. Not after killers sang hymns while exterminating neighbors.

The Genocide Against the Tutsi exposed not the absence of religion but the terrifying possibility that religion itself can be conscripted into evil when stripped of moral vigilance.

David Gushee was right: bastardized Christianity exists. Rwanda proved it in blood. And perhaps the greatest tribute we can pay the victims is refusing to romanticize the catastrophe with comforting theological narratives.

Let the killers own their crimes. Let the rescuers receive their due honor which is recognition. Let human courage remain visible. Let human evil remain undeniable. And perhaps — with trembling honesty — let us keep away the name God where humans made hell on earth.