The Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo) has become a theater of state-sponsored systematic extermination of a people—right under the gaze of a supposedly humane international community. State-sanctioned media and political rhetoric in both the DR Congo and Burundi today bear disturbing similarities to the pre-1994 discourse that preceded the Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda and Burundi. For the genocidaire—whether local, regional, or international—the right to exist, to belong, and to defend oneself is no longer determined by law or common morality but by ethnic identity and political convenience. At the heart of this crisis lies a dangerous contradiction fueled by an impotent, highly corrupt, deeply inept, and frequently weaponized global political order. While the Congolese government openly arms and supports militias like Wazalendo, the Mai-Mai, and the Forces Démocratiques de Libération du Rwanda (FDLR)—a group responsible for decades of devastation—the world remains fixated on M23, a movement born out of the need for survival and a connection to the Rwandan state. This is not just hypocrisy; it is an overt ethnic cleansing strategy. The world watches in passive complicity as the DR Congo and its regional allies, including Burundi and elements of the Southern African Development Community (SADC), enable this campaign of extermination. What is unfolding in eastern Congo is not merely a security crisis—it is a continuation of the genocidal ideology that led to the slaughter of more than a million Tutsis in Rwanda in 1994. Yet, instead of confronting this reality, the international community parrots Kinshasa’s propaganda, turning a blind eye to the systematic attempt to erase an entire people. For three decades, the FDLR has operated with impunity in the DR Congo despite its direct connection to the perpetrators of the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi. This group, composed of Hutu extremists—both military and militia perpetrators who fled Rwanda after orchestrating one of history’s most gruesome exterminations—remains singularly focused on eradicating Tutsis, whether in Rwanda, the DR Congo, or elsewhere in the Great Lakes region. The FDLR is not a rogue terrorist organization lurking in the shadows; it is a heavily armed militia embedded within the Congolese state security apparatus. The DR Congo and, more recently, the Burundian government have integrated FDLR fighters into their national armies, granting globally wanted criminals positions of legitimacy while simultaneously denying Congolese Tutsis recognition as rightful citizens. The justification for this collaboration is always framed as resistance to so-called “Rwandan aggression,” a convenient falsehood that allows Kinshasa to excuse its partnership with mass murderers. The reality is that the DR Congo has no intention of resolving this crisis because the presence of the FDLR serves its long-standing goal: to rid the country of its Tutsi population. One can think of many reasons why, especially in a country where the political class is intent on extracting as much as possible from beneath the surface. Burundi’s involvement in this crisis is equally troubling. The Burundian state, particularly under its current leadership, has aligned itself with anti-Tutsi forces, deploying troops into the DR Congo under the pretext of stabilizing the region while actively collaborating with the FDLR and FARDC to eliminate M23. This is not an accident; it is a deliberate geopolitical maneuver aimed at maintaining a fragile Hutu-Tutsi power balance in the region by ensuring that Tutsi communities in eastern Congo remain weak, displaced, or exterminated. The presence of Burundian forces has only exacerbated the conflict, as they bring with them a history of deep ethnic grievances that align with Kinshasa’s own anti-Tutsi agenda. This regional complicity in the persecution of Congolese Tutsis exposes a brutal reality: the fight against M23 is not about national sovereignty or territorial integrity—it is about making the DR Congo unlivable for Tutsis. M23, by contrast, is treated as an existential threat to the Congolese state not because of its actions but because of its identity. It is not a terrorist group; it is a resistance movement formed by Congolese Tutsis in response to years of targeted persecution, political exclusion, and violent displacement. Its demands are not radical; they are basic human rights. As a self-defense movement, M23 seeks recognition of Congolese Tutsis as full citizens, the right to return to their homes, and an end to the decades-long campaign of discrimination and violence against their people. If the Congolese government were genuinely interested in peace, it would address these grievances through dialogue and reform. Instead, Kinshasa refuses to engage, preferring to paint M23 as a foreign-backed rebellion. This is not a factual characterization; it is a deliberate act of erasure, meant to strip Congolese Tutsis of their national identity and justify their continued persecution. This is the same rhetoric that was used in Rwanda before the 1994 genocide, when Tutsis were labeled as outsiders and enemies of the state. The fact that the world is once again allowing this narrative to take hold is not just negligence—it is complicity. What makes this crisis even more dangerous is the way in which genocidal propaganda has become mainstream in Congolese political discourse. The portrayal of Tutsis as “expansionists” echoes the rhetoric used by Hutu extremists in Rwanda, who justified their genocide by claiming that Tutsis were an existential threat to Hutu hegemony. This dehumanizing language is not just a political strategy—it is an incitement to mass violence. When a government encourages its population to see a specific ethnic group as enemies, the result is predictable: targeted killings, mass displacement, and systematic attempts to eliminate that group from society. The DR Congo government is not just tolerating hate speech—it is institutionalizing it, embedding it in state policy, and using it as a tool to consolidate power. That this is happening in the 21st century, with the full knowledge of the international community, is an indictment of global inaction. Equally alarming is the DR Congo’s decision to arm Wazalendo, the Mai-Mai, and other tribal militias that have long been responsible for the mass killing of Tutsis. These are not disciplined security forces; they are ethnic paramilitaries, unleashed on villages with the explicit goal of exterminating Tutsi civilians in North and South Kivu. Wazalendo, which the Congolese government now hails as a patriotic force, operates with absolute impunity, committing atrocities under the protection of state authority. The failure to address this crisis is not just a failure of diplomacy—it is a moral failure. The international community has had every opportunity to pressure the DR Congo government into dismantling the FDLR, engaging in meaningful dialogue with M23, and ending the militia-driven extermination campaign against Tutsis. But instead, it has chosen inaction. The United Nations, which maintains a peacekeeping force in the region, has done nothing to prevent atrocities against Congolese Tutsis. Western powers, who claim to champion human rights, continue to provide diplomatic cover for a regime that has made genocide an official policy. This is not just hypocrisy—it is enabling mass murder. The time for vague diplomatic statements and empty calls for peace is over. The world failed Rwanda in 1994. It is failing the DR Congo today. Unless something changes, the consequences will be catastrophic. There will come a time when history will judge those who chose to remain silent, those who looked away, and those who allowed yet another genocide to unfold under their watch. The question is: will the world act before it is too late, or will it, once again, wait until the bodies pile up before offering empty apologies?
