Solidarity or subversion? The disturbing reality behind the April 7 "Solidarité Congo" concert

Every year on April 7th, Rwanda and its friends around the world come together to commemorate the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi—a day recognised by the UN General Assembly as the International Day of Reflection on the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi in Rwanda. This solemn occasion serves as a stark reminder of one of the darkest chapters in human history. In Rwanda, it holds profound significance—a day of mourning for the over one million Tutsi who were brutally murdered and a moment to reaffirm the unwavering commitment to Never Again. Although I account as post-genocide youth, I respect this day deeply. This respect stems not from an enforced observance, but from an understanding of the significance of reflecting upon and commemorating the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi. It also comes from the recognition that standing with survivors, listening to their testimonies, and recommitting to preventing future genocides are among the few things we can offer. However, not surprising to those who follow closely the activities concerning Rwanda on April 7th specifically, a disturbing event—the Concert “Solidarité Congo”—is scheduled on this very day. Organised by Skyrock FM radio and Accord Arena, with the support of UNICEF, this concert, ostensibly intended to support victims of the Eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo) conflict, is not only ill-timed, deeply insensitive but there is considerable reasons to suspect that it holds a hidden agenda. This article will explore these reasons. A concert that spreads hate, not solidarity For Rwandans, the concern is not that any random concert, in any random location, should never take place on April 7th. The issue with this particular concert lies in its timing, intent, participants, and location—each of which raises profound ethical and political concerns. The choice of April 7th is no coincidence. It is a calculated act of disregard—an outright affront to a day dedicated to commemorating the Genocide against the Tutsi. Worse still, it provides a platform for individuals who propagate anti-Rwanda narratives and align with groups responsible for ongoing violence in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). This concert is allegedly aimed at supporting victims of the Eastern DR Congo conflict through UNICEF. However, the nature of UNICEF's involvement remains unclear. If UNICEF is indeed associated with this event, it raises grave concerns about its alignment with individuals complicit in violence against innocent civilians. If, however, UNICEF is not involved, then this concert could be a deceptive fundraising effort to fuel the very conflict it claims to address. The latter scenario seems unlikely, given UNICEF’s ability to publicly denounce unauthorized use of its name. That said, this uncertainty should not distract us from the real issue at hand. At first glance, this concert may appear to be a humanitarian initiative or an event organized by individuals indifferent to Rwanda’s history. A closer examination, however, reveals a far more sinister reality: this is not an act of solidarity—it is a vehicle for hate. Who is performing? A closer look at the artists Among those set to perform is Gims, an artist with a documented history of spreading anti-Rwanda propaganda. In a widely circulated excerpt from his Netflix documentary, he states: C’est pas un jus d’orange qui va calmer la haine d’un Tutsi. (“It’s not an orange juice that will calm the hatred of a Tutsi.”) This statement, accompanied by a gunshot gesture, is not merely artistic expression—it is the normalization of hate speech. Gims also raps in his song Thémistocle: J’suis concentré, j’pense qu’à gagner, Kagame rime avec : croix gammée. (“I’m focused, I only think about winning, Kagame rhymes with: swastika.”) The swastika is one of the most notorious symbols of hate, associated with Nazi Germany and the ideology that led to the Holocaust. By drawing a parallel between President Kagame and the swastika, Gims is not engaging in political critique—he is invoking genocidal rhetoric, the same kind that fueled the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi. Another performer, Youssoupha, echoes similar rhetoric in his song ‘Prose Combat’: Tout mon respect pour le peuple du Rwanda mais besoin d’la peine capitale pour Kagame. (“All my respect for the people of Rwanda, but Kagame deserves the death penalty.”) Youssoupha, again, in ‘Free Congo’, a song he is featured in sings: “J'ai rêvé d'un monde meilleur, sans Kagame, sans M23” “Mais à Goma, j'ai vu des barbares, des sapeurs ont des gilets pare-balles Paul Kagame, faut l'condamner mais aussi faut reconnaître, ceux qui dirigent le Congo n'aiment ni le Congo ni les congolais..” (I dreamed of a better world, without Kagame, without M23) (But in Goma, I saw barbarians, sappers with bulletproof vests Paul Kagame, he must be condemned but we must also recognize, those who rule DR Congo love neither the Congo nor the Congolese...) The gravity of such lyrics cannot be ignored. Calling for the execution of a leader who has fought against the forces responsible for the genocide is not merely an opinion—it is siding with the genocidaires. Some may still argue that the concert’s date is just a coincidence, that these artists have simply been invited without deeper implications. But history teaches us otherwise. Words have consequences. Hate speech as a precursor to Genocide This kind of rhetoric is not without precedent. Simon Bikindi, convicted of incitement to genocide against Tutsi, is infamous for composing songs that fueled the killing of over a million Tutsi in Rwanda. Similarly, in the DR Congo, where Kinyarwanda-speaking communities and Tutsi populations are already facing persecution, statements like these legitimize violence. When an artist with such a record is invited to an event supposedly aimed at humanitarian relief, it becomes impossible to ignore the deeper political and ideological undertones. Genocide does not begin with weapons—it begins with words. Before the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, figures like Léon Mugesera and Théoneste Bagosora used hate speech to lay the foundation for mass killings. Today, we see the same patterns emerging in the DR Congo, where high-ranking officials openly call for violence against Rwandophones and the Tutsi community. For instance, General Aba Van has urged civilians to take up arms against “infiltrators”—a term historically used to justify the targeting of Tutsi people. Similarly, President Félix Tshisekedi has publicly declared that Rwandophones within the Congolese army are traitors who must be eliminated. These are not isolated remarks; they are part of a deliberate campaign to dehumanize an entire group—just as it was in Rwanda before 1994. The FDLR connection: A history of impunity To fully understand why Rwandans are, and should be, deeply concerned, we must acknowledge the role of the FDLR—a terrorist organization composed of individuals who carried out the genocide against the Tutsi and who have remained active in the DRC for over three decades. In collaboration with FARDC, the FDLR continues to commit atrocities, particularly targeting the Banyamulenge, a Tutsi community in Eastern Congo. This concert, therefore, is not an act of solidarity with the victims of the DR Congo conflict. One cannot be complicit in mass killings then suddenly claim to stand with victims. Instead, this event indirectly legitimizes the very forces responsible for the ongoing slaughter of innocent people, which raises profound ethical questions: How can an event claim to promote peace when it features artists spreading hate speech? How can an event claim to support victims when it is linked to groups responsible for their suffering? Never Again means recognising the threat This concert is not just a misguided event—it is a dangerous platform for hate. The international community, particularly France as the host country, must acknowledge this. In 2021, during his visit to Rwanda, President Emmanuel Macron publicly recognized France’s responsibility in failing to prevent the genocide against the Tutsi. If those words are to hold any meaning, France cannot now turn a blind eye to a concert that echoes the same hate-filled rhetoric. Rwanda’s concerns should not be dismissed as overreaction. They are a warning—a call to prevent history from repeating itself. Rwandans are not demanding that all concerts be canceled on April 7th. They are demanding that the spread of hate be stopped, that platforms not be given to figures who incite violence, and that support for genocidal forces like the FDLR be unequivocally condemned. Rwandans will always speak out when hate speech is propagated—because we know the cost of silence is too great. The world must remember: Genocide begins with words, and prevention begins with recognizing the danger before it is too late.

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Solidarity or subversion? The disturbing reality behind the April 7 "Solidarité Congo" concert