Kwibuka31: The lasting echoes of Genocide and unanswered questions for Tutsi in Great Lakes

In 1994, Rwanda—a country renowned for its breathtaking scenery and vibrant culture—descended into one of the most horrific episodes of human history. In just 100 days, over one million Tutsi men, women, and children were systematically hunted down and killed in a meticulously planned genocide. The Genocide against the Tutsi left Rwanda devastated, its social fabric in tatters. The international community, shockingly absent in Rwanda's darkest hour, responded with delays and inadequacy—an indifference that remains a scar on global conscience. In the aftermath, Rwandans—against overwhelming odds—embarked on a remarkable journey of recovery and nation-building. The annual commemoration of the genocide is far more than a ritual; it is a solemn reckoning with humanity’s capacity for both cruelty and complicity. Yet, thirty-one years later, as we reflect on the tragedy, deeper questions persist—questions often pushed to the margins of mainstream discourse. While the 1994 genocide is now widely recognised as a crime against humanity, what recognition or accountability has been given to the decades of systematic persecution and violence that led up to it? These questions extend beyond Rwanda's borders—to Burundi and the perpetually unstable Democratic Republic of Congo (DR Congo)—where Tutsi populations continue to live under constant threat. The failure to enforce international laws and uphold justice has enabled institutional neglect of grave proportions. Addressing threats of this magnitude requires unwavering scrutiny. The lived reality of generations who have faced the threat of extermination must not be overlooked. A recent UN commemoration featured a chilling admission: “We remember – with shame – the failure of the international community.” This statement must not remain a ceremonial platitude. It should compel an unflinching examination of the historical conditions that enabled the genocide—and the violence that persists to this day. The genocide did not erupt spontaneously in 1994. It was the culmination of decades of cultivated ethnic division, seeded under the colonial administration of Belgium. As Rwanda neared the end of colonial rule in the late 1950s and early 1960s, the Tutsi became targets of state-sanctioned violence, often orchestrated or directly facilitated by Belgian administrators and military forces. The period from 1959 to 1963 witnessed brutal pogroms against Tutsi communities. Belgian colonial agents are documented as having participated directly in killings—including the execution of individuals like Ngarambe in the Remera area (now Kimironko), and the Reverend Yona Kanamuzeyi, abducted from Maranyundo in Nyamata and murdered by Belgian paratroopers on the banks of the Nyabarongo River. Why has there been no official Belgian acknowledgment of these atrocities? Why the silence from the United Nations, which oversaw Rwanda as a trust territory during that period? These were not isolated incidents of civil unrest; they were targeted campaigns of violence aimed at terrorising and exterminating a specific ethnic group. Failure to contextualize these events erases the roots of the genocide and dishonors its victims. The early involvement of a Western power in both inciting and perpetrating ethnic violence raises troubling questions about the selective application of justice and the narrative shaping of history. Belgium's moral and historical responsibilities require a far more honest reckoning than they have received. Even after colonial rule ended, the Tutsi population did not find peace. Throughout the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s, state-sanctioned killings and displacements continued. Key years—1967, 1972, 1973, 1983—were marked by systematic persecution. This culminated in renewed atrocities in Bugesera and Bigogwe in the early 1990s, foreshadowing the 1994 genocide. The accounts of survivors and witnesses highlight the calculated nature of these attacks. This was not spontaneous inter-ethnic violence but a policy of ethnic cleansing, orchestrated by state actors and tolerated by the global community. This long history of violence prompts a legal and moral inquiry: At what point does a sustained campaign of persecution, even with intermittent lulls, meet the threshold of genocide under international law? Is there a specific body count required for the world to intervene? Consider the current plight of Congolese Tutsis. Despite centuries of residence in eastern DR Congo, they are being dispossessed, hunted, and killed—solely for who they are. The global silence is deafening. Has the international pursuit of coltan, gold, and diamonds eclipsed the basic rights—and lives—of Tutsi populations? Is a Tutsi life less valuable when weighed against global commodity prices? The parallels are striking—and chilling. Just across the border from Rwanda, thirty-one years after the genocide, Congolese Tutsis are enduring atrocities that echo 1994. This is not hysteria or paranoia—it is a sober reflection on recurring historical patterns and the world’s persistent failure to act. The United Nations has acknowledged the catastrophic failure of the international community in 1994, affirming a “shared responsibility” to prevent genocide. Yet, the events unfolding in the DRC—and the ongoing tensions in Burundi—suggest we have not truly learned from Rwanda. If the world continues to show itself unwilling or unable to prevent the targeted killing of Tutsi people, then the right to self-determination and self-defense becomes not just morally defensible but imperative. The moral failure of inaction raises uncomfortable truths. What value does the global community place on different human lives? Are some ethnic groups seen as expendable in the face of strategic interests or donor fatigue? The UN warns that genocide can happen anywhere, anytime—even within our own borders. This underscores the global consequences of failing to address violence in the Great Lakes region. Continued indifference not only undermines international law but also threatens the collective security system built in the wake of World War II. The 31st commemoration of the Genocide against the Tutsi must go beyond remembrance. It must acknowledge the decades of persecution that preceded the genocide—and the Belgian role in laying the foundations of ethnic division and violence. We must also confront today’s ongoing tragedies—the massacres of Congolese Tutsis, the simmering tensions in Burundi, and the echoes of extermination that still reverberate throughout the Great Lakes. Concrete actions are urgently needed: Accountability for colonial-era and post-independence killings in Rwanda International intervention to end targeted violence in the DRC Prevention of renewed persecution in Burundi and across the region These are not symbolic gestures—they are moral and political imperatives to end the cycle of ethnic extermination. The era of moral ambiguity and strategic indifference must end. The world must answer, through tangible action, a vital question: Does a Tutsi life truly matter? The relentless pursuit of wealth must never come at the cost of human dignity. The right to life is not negotiable. The writer is an African scholar, author, and analyst of economics and political affairs.

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Kwibuka31: The lasting echoes of Genocide and unanswered questions for Tutsi in Great Lakes