Every genocide produces not only corpses but also concepts — words that emerge from the ash and horror to explain what human beings became when they surrendered themselves to the logic of annihilation. The Holocaust gave us “bureaucratic murder,” the Armenian Genocide gave us “deportation as destruction,” the Cambodian Khmer Rouge gave us “auto-genocide,” and the Genocide Against the Tutsi in Rwanda gave the world a new and chilling political order: machetocracy. I coined this word from machete in the same linguistic lineage that gives us bureaucratic from bureaucracy or democratic from democracy. The word captures an entire system of rule, authority, ideology, and violence rooted in one symbol: the machete. To the architects of Hutu Power, the machete was more than a tool; it was a badge of political emancipation and the chosen instrument for what they openly called the “final solution” to the invented “Tutsi problem.” Kangura magazine (No. 26) of November 1991, even crowned it with prophetic prominence, placing a machete on its front cover and asking rhetorically a chilling question: Which weapons are we going to use to beat the cockroaches for good?. Thus, machetocracy names something deeper than the physical killings of 1994: it names a worldview in which political authority is achieved, exercised, expanded, and justified through the capacity to commit intimate, face-to-face extermination. But machetocracy did not end at the roadblocks. It mutated, evolved, and became global. And today, its most dangerous practitioners are not those who sharpen blades but those who sharpen words. Understanding original machetocrats During the Genocide Against the Tutsi, the machete became the Hutu-Power’s ‘democratic’ tool of exclusionary nationalism. It converted ordinary civilians into mass executioners, partly through coercion, partly through indoctrination, and partly through the political theology of Hutu Power that framed killing as civic duty. Many perpetrators described the machete as “the people’s weapon,” a symbol of empowerment, a passport to belonging. It generated a sense of pride. The machete created a new social hierarchy: Mass murderers were patriots. Those who resisted or hesitated were traitors. The Tutsis who were murdered were the nation’s poison. This was the untainted form of machetocracy: a political community defined by its willingness to murder. The Interahamwe were not merely militias; they were ideological foot soldiers of a racial utopia. Throughout the country they ruled the streets and hills through the logic of the blade. Their machetocratic governance was uninterrupted, direct—unmediated, and participatory. Sort of an intimate tyranny in which priests turned sanctuaries into slaughterhouses, neighbors butchered neighbors and teachers murdered students. Machetocracy was thus not simply a method of killing. It was a form of citizenship. A citizenship rooted in a crime. A national identity. A political orthodoxy in which the machete became the absolute constitutional instrument. But machetocracy did not perish when the killing ended. It merely changes form. From blades to books After 1994, machetocracy mutated or metastasized into a new, more sophisticated force: the intellectual machetocrats. These new practitioners did not stand at roadblocks. They did not swing blades. They did not dig mass graves. Instead, they wielded computers, microphones, book contracts, media platforms, and academic pretensions. They reinvented machetocracy through discourse — turning genocidal ideology into scholarship, propaganda into investigative reporting, and hatred into “critical inquiry.” Charles Onana, Judi Rever, and Fr. Serge Desouter, among others, became the high priests of this post-genocide machetocracy. They re-packaged the old Hutu Power dogmas into polished French or English prose, covered them in footnotes of dubious sources, and brought to the world exactly what genocidaires needed: exoneration masquerading as analysis. Their machetes are not forged from steel but from phrases and paragraphs. Their roadblocks are not placed on dirt roads but in the minds of ignorant readers. Their victims are not only Tutsi but truth itself. Where the original machetocrats physically eliminated Tutsi bodies, the intellectual machetocrats seek to eliminate Tutsi memory. A dramatic confirmation of this evolution came in 2024: a court in Paris convicted Charles Onana and his publisher for public denial and minimization of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi. The judgement declared that Onana’s 2019 book Rwanda, la vérité sur l’opération Turquoise – Quand les archives parlent constituted an “unbridled deployment of denialist ideology.” Onana was fined €8,400 while his publisher received additional sanctions and damages. It is indeed important that the Paris court described the book’s passages as a gross distortion and trivialization of genocide facts. This legitimate condemnation is historic — the first in France targeting genocide denial about Rwanda. It endorses that the modern machetocrat may not wield a blade, but their machete — in the form of vitriolic rhetoric, books, and intellectual veneer — can be judged just as culpable under the law. On the television screens, the world quickly recognizes a man with a machete as an assassin. But the world struggles to recognize a man with a book as a partner in crime. This is why the new machetocrats are possibly more dangerous than the original ones on roadblocks: One, their hazardous weapon is clean, portable, and easily exportable. A machete kills one person at a time—but a denialist book kills truth across generations and continents. Two, new machetocrats provide ideological cover for future killers. Tomorrow’s roadblocks will not be inspired by Kangura or RTLM alone but by the “respectable” lies of Onana, Rever, and others. Their narratives supply future machetocrats with moral justification. Thirdly, they expunge guilt and manufacture innocence. It is obvious, by turning criminals into victims and victims into perpetrators, they create compassion for genocidaires and suspicion toward survivors. Fourthly, they globalize genocide ideology. While the images of machete wielding Interahamwe remain in Rwanda. But a poisonous PDF travels the world in seconds. Lastly, their narrative enters universities, think tanks, and good-mannered society. This gives them legitimacy that real genocidaires never had. The original machetocrats were visible with their bloody blades. The new ones are camouflaged. And since the world senselessly trusts anyone printed by a Western publishing house, these intellectual machetocrats can do what the Interahamwe could never do: create global audiences and sympathetic markets for genocidal ideology. The difficulty of tracking denialists and why it matters One of the awful strengths of modern genocide denial is its structural vagueness. Unlike the mass media campaigns of the 1990s — radio broadcasts, pamphlets, newspaper front pages — much of the current denialist content circulates in obscure books, minor publishing houses, marginal websites, or poorly documented conference proceedings. Archives are scarce; official records are patchy. This opacity is not accidental — it is part of the tactic. It helps denialists escape accountability, obscure evidence, and maintain plausible deniability. The 2024 conviction of Onana underscores this challenge. It took a formal lawsuit, a detailed judicial process, and a court willing to classify “denial through text” as a crime. That many denialist works remain unprosecuted — not because they are harmless, but because they are hard to trace, document, and litigate — highlights the structural danger of intellectual machetocracy. This difficulty should help as both a caution and a call to action. Memorials, archives, human rights organizations, libraries, and universities must treat denialist literature as they treat militant propaganda archives. Denialist books should be collected, indexed, catalogued, and made available for critical study. Silence or negligence is exactly what the modern machetocrat counts on. The more machetocrats become sophisticated, they encourage future mass murderers. When denialists justify past pogroms against Tutsi, they do more than sanitize history. They send a clear message to future fanatics: “Killing Tutsi is very understandable.” “The history about the extermination of Tutsi was overstated.” “After all, killing Tutsi may even have been necessary.” And, therefore: “This could be done again.” People shouldn’t see this as theoretical. It is a real danger whose results are deadly: First, it encourages ideological inheritors. The DRC’s hate movements, anti‑Tutsi rhetoric, and calls for ethnic cleansing draw directly from revisionist literature produced abroad. The deniers’ narratives offer a pseudo‑intellectual blueprint. Second, it is meant to rehabilitate genocidaires. When deniers turn mass murderers into misjudged patriots, they transform or change genocidal ideology into a sustainable political identity. Thirdly, it helps in normalizing the language of extermination. For every “double genocide” claim, every single conspiracy theory, each inversion of victim and perpetrator brings sharp machetes closer to future killers’ hands. Fourthly, it teaches future murderers that the world will listen to them sympathetically. If a writer in Paris or Montreal can portray genocide survivors and the Rwandan Patriotic Army (RPA) who stopped the genocide as villains and be invited to international conferences, tomorrow’s genocidaires may feel protected by global indifference. Lastly, denialist narratives provide intellectual alibis. Just as Nazi propaganda laid the foundation for denialist historians, Hutu Power propaganda has been elevated by modern deniers into quasi‑academic legitimacy. Consequently, today’s knowledgeable machetocrats do not swing weapons themselves; they sharpen them for the next generation. Machetocracy as a warning system The concept of machetocracy is more than linguistic creativity. I consider it as an analytical tool — a way to detect the conditions that make genocide probable and to identify those who prepare the soil for its return. A forceful theory of machetocracy tells: The crime of genocide does not require states only; it requires ideology. It is a fact that killing does not involve weapons; it also requires belief. We should acknowledge—genocide denial is not an afterthought; it is one phase of the same project. The machetocrat, whether physical or intellectual, is defined by the same conviction: Tutsi life has no value at all — and the world must sooner or later be taught to believe this too. This is why machetocracy should be treated as both a historical phenomenon— a contemporary and existential threat. The genius of the term machetocratic lies in its clarity. It exposes the essential truth that genocide is carried out not only with tools but with ideas — and that both are lethal. The original machetocrats — those who killed with blades — operated under the delusion of ethnic salvation. Their descendants, the intellectual machetocrats like Charles Onana, Judi Rever, Jean Marie Vianney Ndagijimana, Edward S. Herman, David Peterson, Barrie Collins, Eugene Shimamungu, and many others— operate under the guise of analysis, journalism, or scholarship. But their function is the same: to clear the moral, ideological, and political space for future violence. They legitimize hatred and sanitize murder. They prepare believers; cultivate supporters and inspire imitators. And unless they are named, challenged, taught about, and debunked publicly, they will ultimately be read by the very people who dream of resurrecting the roadblocks. Last word The world and humanity must understand: A machete is dangerous—but catastrophic when backed by a book or article. A machete consecrated by a publisher is civilization‑threatening. As a result, machetocracy — in all its forms — must be studied, exposed, and pulled to pieces before it once again explodes into bodies, bones, and blood. And up till now, while machetocrats sharpen words instead of blades, the world fiddles with hashtags, conference selfies, and ceremonial expressions of “condemnation.” The wit is tastily grotesque: international organizations proclaim “Never Again,” yet the very scholars, journalists, and professors who sanitize, invert, and justify genocide are invited to panels, rewarded with prizes, and applauded for their “critical thinking.” One could almost imagine a dreamlike Olympics of Genocide Denial, where competitors submit dossiers of moral inversion, claiming Tutsi were actually the aggressors, and judges award medals for the most creative use of euphemism to glorify the extermination of a people. Meanwhile, survivors, witnesses, and memory activists are treated like inconvenient fact-checkers in a theater of fashionable oblivion. Every sentence penned by known genocide deniers, is a machete for the mind — a reminder that words, too, can carve flesh. And however, the world yawns. It is as if civilization itself has become a voyeur, fascinated by denialist spectacles, indifferent to the moral bankruptcy on display. Let it be known: to read these books without indignation is to nod politely at a roadblock in Kigali, Nyarubuye, Ntarama or Kibeho in 1994. To pay no attention to their intellectual bloodlust is to permit a new generation of machetocrats to graduate with honors, diplomas, and public platforms. If humanity cannot distinguish a killer from a cleverly published killer, a blade from a book, then all the memorials, hashtags, and solemn speeches are merely theater — decorative props for a civilization in denial of its own moral incapacity. If the world was shocked by machetes in Rwanda in 1994, why does it shrug when machetes are digitized and distributed globally? The intellectual machetocrat dresses in tweed, speaks in interviews, and cites sources, yet teaches the same lesson: victims are guilty, perpetrators are justified, history can be rewritten. Their classrooms are forums, their audiences the world. Each published justification, each podcast, each conference talk is a roadblock lesson, training the next generation of killers. They are the intellectual engines of a continuing genocide ideology, propagating the very narratives that could inspire a repeat of history. Silence, ignorance, or indulgence is complicity. Naming them, quoting them to expose ideological venom is an act of prevention, not revenge. The world must treat modern machetocrats as it treated their predecessors: with vigilance, education, and public moral clarity. Let memorials show their faces, let classrooms dissect their words, let every citizen recognize that denial is not opinion—it is instruction in atrocity. Since the machete may have changed form, but the hand guiding it, now typing and publishing, remains just as lethal. Humanity’s survival depends on recognizing the machetocratic continuum: physical blades and intellectual blades are two sides of the same murderous coin. As a necessity— the world must treat intellectual machetocrats as facilitators of future crimes. A new paradigm shift is a must: Genocide denial is complicity and not commentary. Genocide justification is not free speech but facilitation of the crime. Denialist literature is not scholarship — it is ideological armament. Just as those who supplied machetes in 1994 were guilty of aiding genocide, those who supply ideological machetes today are guilty of aiding future violence. If an Interahamwe stands at a roadblock with a blade, he is a killer. If a white Canadian woman writes a book claiming the killers at the roadblock were defending themselves, she is recruiting for the next roadblock. It is time for the media, academia, human rights institutions and international law to recognize this continuum. My fellow human beings who care about genocide prevention, please wake up. The machetocrats are not on their way. They are already here, amused in libraries and bookstores, inviting the world to join them in the crime of forgetting.
