There are moments when speech does more than misinform. When it desecrates memory and destroys history. It spits on graves—not by denying that the dead exist, but by praising the machinery that made their deaths inevitable. On December 19, 2025—a YouTube channel called Real Talk, run from Germany by journalist Etienne Gatanazi working for Deutsche Welle, broadcast a conversation with Adeline Mukangemanyi Rwigara that did precisely that. With serene conviction, Mukangemanyi portrays President Juvénal Habyarimana as a loving, benevolent leader—an exemplar of care for all Rwandans. She went further: she claimed he favored Tutsis in business and enabled their prosperity. This was not a lack of knowledge. It was not a simple blunder. It was a refined act of moral laundering—a retroactive canonization of power that presided over the deliberate construction of extermination. A performance of innocence staged more than thirty-one years after the blood had dried—while the consequences remain painfully alive. Apparently, history now operates on a new seemingly virtuous algorithm. Unfortunately, if spoken calmly enough, crime becomes care—and if repeated gently, ideology turns into virtue. By this logic, exterminatory systems need only be narrated with a warm tone to qualify as humanitarian projects. One sometimes asks why courts bother with evidence when sentimentality nowadays passes as exculpatory proof. In this revised moral universe, responsibility disappears if the speaker smiles persuasively. It is incomprehensible to praise an arsonist while the embers still burn in collective memory. One cannot make into a saint the chief engineer of a system that prepared, organized, armed, trained, and ideologically conditioned a population for genocide—and then plead innocence by raising selective anecdotes of kindness. To do so is not purely intellectually fraudulent, but just morally offensive. Dates around which reality fits No honest discussion of Habyarimana can pass over April 6 and 7, 1994 as incidental dates. These dates are not postscripts. They are the turning points of history. On April 6, 1994, the presidential plane was shot down. Within hours, Rwanda’s constitutional order collapsed. On April 7, Prime Minister Agathe Uwilingiyimana, an outspoken critic of the Akazu and its genocidal machinery, was assassinated. So were Joseph Kavaruganda—President of the Constitutional Court; minister Landouald Ndasingwa; minister of Agriculture Frederick Nzamurambaho and Faustin Rucogoza, Minister of Information. Just to mention a few. These were not spontaneous killings. They followed prepared lists. They followed decisions. They followed prior rehearsal. They were the deliberate removal of obstacles to the genocide against the Tutsi. In the playhouse of denial, these murders are often treated as catastrophic coincidences—like bad weather interrupting an otherwise peaceful day. But coincidences do not arrive with checklists, nor do they execute lawful leaders in sequence. That entails intention, memory, and command. To praise Habyarimana without reckoning with these dates is to commit moral fraud: presenting virtue where vice was not accidental, but systemic, operational, and lethal. The Kanombe Kindergarten of Criminality What unfolded at the Habyarimana’s Kanombe residence after the plane crash was not just grief for friends and members of the family. It was the coordination of genocide point. Witness accounts documented by Andrew Wallis in his book Stepp’d in Blood—describe Agathe Kanziga discouraging tears—warning that mourning would “help the enemy.” Alongside her brother Protais Zigiranyirazo, notoriously known as Mr Z, she placed repeated calls to foreign leaders while bodies lay in the lounge. Lists of enemies, already drawn up, were communicated to executioners. When Suzanne Seminega, a childhood acquaintance of Agathe Kanziga, arrived to offer condolences, she found not a widow in despair, but a woman dictating names of those who were supposed to be killed on the telephone. Among them: Agathe Uwilingiyimana—who would soon be killed. A taxi driver waiting inside the residence later testified to hearing Agathe Kanziga demanding, in fury, “Bring me the head of Agathe Uwilingiyimana.” This was not the figure of speech. It was a command language. What unfolded at Kanombe resembled not mourning but a grotesque civics lesson: how to convert loss into license, grief into authorization, and tragedy into political opportunity. One might mistake the residence for a seminar room—except the syllabus was vengeance, and the graduation requirement was blood. Among those present at the presidential residence were two Catholic nuns, Sister Godelieve Barushywanubusa and Sister Télésphore Nturoziraga. Both were sisters of Habyarimana. Also present was Archbishop Vincent Nsengiyumva, arriving in clerical vestments. Their presence did not restrain violence. It ritualized it. Witnesses testified that during prayers, Agathe Kanziga asked God for intervention to grant victory to the Interahamwe and to ensure that the army had sufficient weapons. From the kitchen, Sister Godelieve was heard saying “all Tutsi should be killed.” This moment carries unbearable moral weight. Two young women present, all in their early twenties—the daughters of Dr. Emmanuel Akingeneye, Habyarimana’s personal physician who also died in the crash—heard these calls for extermination while knowing that their own mother, Leoncilla Mukantagara, was Tutsi. Imagine that fracture: standing in a house of prayer where death is invoked against a people to whom your mother belongs. This is not nonrepresentational hatred. It is intimate, familial, and annihilating. Here, outrage becomes unavoidable. Hatred is no longer abstract when it targets your own mother while cloaked in prayer. This is the moment where ideology crosses from politics into intimate annihilation. As April 7 progressed, names of assassinated political opponents were announced. Each announcement was met not with silence, but with cheers. Witnesses testified that Agathe Kanziga and her sisters-in-law celebrated, drinking champagne and St. Pauli beer as confirmation arrived that Uwilingiyimana, Ndasingwa, Kavaruganda, and others were dead. This was not confusion, but affirmation. Champagne has long symbolized victory. Here it baptized murder as achievement. Each announced death became a toast, each execution a confirmation that the moral compass had not merely broken—it had been deliberately recalibrated. Young graduates of hatred The two days, history shows us children educated in hatred. This is when the ultimate indecency is generational. Jean-Luc Habyarimana, then 18 years old, armed with an R4 rifle, reportedly demanded to see the body of the murdered Prime Minister and had to be persuaded not to shoot at it. Not to kill—she was already dead—but to desecrate. His younger sister, Marie-Merci Habyarimana, just 15 years old, reportedly echoed her mother’s vehemence, demanding that even Zigiranyirazo’s Tutsi mistresses be executed. This is not youthful excess. It is ideological inheritance. Hatred this precise is taught. Violence that is ritualized is learned. To contemplate shooting the body of an already assassinated Prime Minister is not a reflex of sudden grief. It is not rage improvised in shock. It is not the emotional overflow of a teenager overwhelmed by loss. It is something far more revealing and far more damning: the moral fingerprint of someone who wished to kill the living and arrived too late. When Jean-Luc Habyarimana, armed with an assault rifle, reportedly demanded to see the body of Prime Minister Agathe Uwilingiyimana and had to be persuaded not to fire at her corpse, this was not an act of madness born on April 7, 1994. It was a disclosure. Desecration of the dead is the unfinished business of a mind already committed to extermination. One does not aim at a corpse unless one has rehearsed aiming at breathing bodies. This temperament did not fall from the sky. It was cultivated. Long before April 1994, on November 15, 1992—Jean-Luc had sat in Ruhengeri stadium, watching his father praise the Interahamwe while his mother appeared in their uniform. That moment was not symbolic theatre; it was a graduation ceremony. By then, Jean-Luc was no novice. He had grown up inside what can only be described as a kindergarten of wrongdoing and hardcore criminality—progressing smoothly through a genocidaires’ academy where hatred was put on a normal footing, rewarded, and celebrated. Nor was Jean-Luc alone. His sister and the family’s last born— Marie-Merci Habyarimana, barely fifteen, reportedly expressed outrage not at murder itself but at its incompleteness—demanding that her uncle Protais Zigiranyirazo’s Tutsi mistresses be executed. This detail matters. Zigiranyirazo had children—Marie-Merci’s cousins. What did she think of them? Were they exceptions? Collateral? Temporary relatives awaiting ideological clarification? Hatred that refined does not emerge spontaneously. It is taught. It is rehearsed for breakfast and at the dinner table. It is authenticated by laughter when death is announced and sanctified when champagne corks mark executions. Children raised in such an environment do not learn love and later deviate into hate; they are trained in hate and later mistake it for virtue. This is why the manners or behavior of Jean-Luc and Marie-Merci matters historically. Their behavior exposes the lie that genocide was the work of uncontainable mobs. It shows instead how extermination is domesticated, inherited, and transmitted as moral common sense. When children fluently speak the language of elimination and extermination, society must stop asking what happened that day and start asking what education made that day inevitable. The lie and cult of a “Good Man” Defenders of a criminal retreat to a familiar refuge: the good man betrayed by events. We are told Habyarimana was modest, rural, pious and peace-loving. A man, on the face of it, separate from the system that bore his name. But power leaves fingerprints. A leader who loves his people as Mukangemanyi portrays Habyarimana, does not preside over a state that institutionalizes ethnic exclusion, normalizes identity cards as instruments of sorting, and governs through fear while calling it order. The cult of the “good man” like Habyarimana, functions like a moral detergent: it promises to wash bloodstains using anecdotes. Structural racism is washed with a childhood story. Militias are neutralized by claims of personal humility. Genocide preparation is annulled by selective memories of imagined good manners. This is just ethics reduced to interior decoration—where the wallpaper of private virtue is expected to obscure the fissures of public crime. The Rwanda of Habyarimana was ethnically engineered, ideologically primed, and administratively prepared for extreme forms of mass violence. Genocide against the Tutsi Habyarimana as an ideological anchor Juvenal Habyarimana was not a bystander to Hutu-power radicalization. He was its keystone. Despite being a sitting President, he was a major shareholder of RTLM—the radio station that transformed hatred against Tutsi into civic duty. RTLM did not just insult and incite hatred, it instructed. It named imagined enemies, and normalized extermination of a people. The Interahamwe militia were not scoundrel youth. They were trained, armed, admired by Habyarimana’s family, and hence politically protected. They marched openly, confident not because they were powerful, but because they knew where power resided. On 15 November 1992, Agathe Kanziga Habyarimana appeared publicly wearing Interahamwe attire—a symbolic act impossible to be misinterpreted. According to Mukangemanyi, we are summoned to believe that hate radio like RTLM, financed at Rwanda's summit of power—in some way operated independently of that power—like a lion detached from its teeth and sharp claws. The president, we are told, merely presided over the country's administration while hate propaganda sharpened itself, militias trained themselves, and ideology organized itself. This is governance by spotless omission: everything happens, yet no one is responsible. The silliness of the “Angel” narrative If one wishes to test the character of a leader, one should examine not only his speeches but the moral ecosystem he cultivates closest to him. What unfolded at the Kanombe residence in the hours following the plane crash is not the story of a grieving family overwhelmed by loss. It is the story of a command center, functioning amid corpses with scary clarity. We know a presidential residence where: Mourning was discouraged as weakness; lists of “enemies” were dictated over telephones; calls were placed to foreign patrons and friends while bodies lay nearby; fake fear of “poisoned water” replaced basic human compassion and clerical figures arrived not to console, but to sanctify. And, the Archbishop was there. Agathe Kanziga did not behave as a widow shattered by tragedy. She behaved as a political actor ensuring continuity of power and vengeance. Names were spoken. Orders were implied and consequences followed. That very night, or very early in the morning—those named would be dead. Perhaps nothing illustrates the moral collapse more starkly than the presence—and conduct—of Catholic nuns within this circle. Just imagine when nuns with their white veils celebrate and death becomes Eucharistic. Religion, stripped of ethics, becomes a weapon. Witness testimony recounts prayers not for peace, but for the extermination of enemies; not for restraint, but for more weapons. From kitchens, chapel and corridors came proclamations advocating the elimination of all Tutsi—uttered casually, as if discussing Easter partying. This was not faith. It was liturgical genocide. Imagine again, when death announcements were received, there was not silence, nor tears, nor horror—but cheers, alcohol, and celebration. Names of assassinated opponents were greeted with joy. Champagne replaced mourning. Beer sanctified murder. If this is not a school in criminality, what is? The behavior of Jean-Luc and his sister was not spontaneous rage. It was a learned ideology. Hatred does not blossom overnight. It is cultivated, refined, normalized and rewarded. When a family reacts to political assassination with lists, celebrations, and weaponized prayer, we are not witnessing grief—we are witnessing the domestic interior of genocidal power. And yet, in December 2025, we are asked—calmly, confidently—to believe that this man was an angel. That he loved his people. That he favored those who would soon be hunted, mutilated, and erased. One struggles to imagine a German journalist hosting a guest who declares that Hitler loved Jews and promoted their prosperity—without outrage, without consequence, without professional disgrace. And yet, when it comes to the Genocide Against the Tutsi, the bar of outrage collapses. The double standard is not accidental. It is racialized. It is geopolitical. And it is dangerous. This piece is not a courtroom but a moral space. And in that space, some claims like what was said by Mukangemanyi, cannot stand unchallenged. Habyarimana was not an angel but evil. He was the emblematic and structural embodiment of cardinal vices. He managed a system that transformed bigotry into policy and policy into extermination. To praise him today is not simply wrong. It is an insult to the dead, a betrayal of the living, and an invitation to repetition. A word to Mukangemanyi and Gatanazi To praise Juvénal Habyarimana as a morally upright man is not a harmless opinion. It is a moral injury inflicted in public. It is gut-wrenching, not because it shocks—genocide denial has learned to whisper—but because it asks listeners to swallow poison politely. When a genocidaire is praised for love, care, and virtue, genocide itself is quietly rebranded as a governance style that merely went too far, in essence respectable and acceptable. Let me be clear: admiring Habyarimana is not neutral speech. It is policy laundering. It transforms a system that prepared extermination into a misunderstood administration. It invites the public to obscure calm demeanor with ethical substance, and paternal rhetoric with moral innocence. This is how a horrendous crime like genocide is rehabilitated—not by denying the outcome, but by sanctifying the chief-architect. For survivors to hear this is not merely offensive; it is visceral. It feels like being told that the logic which marked people for death was, at heart, benevolent. That exclusion was care. That militarized hatred was discipline. That a state which trained militias, financed hate media, and normalized ethnic targeting was simply misinterpreted by history. Mukangemanyi and Gatanazi, this is the abyss you step into when you praise such a man. You are not “adding nuance.” You are removing consequences. You are not expanding debate; you are collapsing ethics. When you call a genocidaire righteous, you do not elevate him—you degrade the meaning of virtue itself. This is why such praise feels indistinguishable from praising genocide as good policy. Because genocide did not fall from the sky; it flowed from governance choices, ideological investments, and moral permissions. To applaud the man is to excuse the machine. History is not asking for your admiration. It is demanding of your honesty. And honesty begins where praise ends. That Adeline Mukangemanyi and Etienne Gatanazi are themselves genocide survivors adds a tragic absurdity bordering on the surreal. Survival here is repurposed as credential—not for vigilance but for absolution. It is as though escaping the fire now qualifies one to praise the arsonist. Trauma, instead of sharpening moral clarity, is mobilized as a shield against critique—proof that even memory, if neglected, can defect to falsehood. We have to be vigilant Real Talk Channel’s propaganda with Adeline Mukangemanyi tells us how and why genocide denial no longer always shouts. Yes, it sometimes—just smiles. It arrives as nostalgia, selective memory, sanitized biographies, and praise detached from structure. To praise Habyarimana today is not to debate history. It is to educate future ideologues in the expectation of posthumous absolution. Our strong and committed memory of our past is our day-to-day classroom against amnesia. History does not merely record; it instructs. When amnesia sets in, common sense is the first casualty, followed closely by moral reasoning. The praise of Habyarimana is not an isolated lapse—it is a curriculum in forgetting, a syllabus where power is forgiven, victims are backgrounded, and responsibility is declared impolite. In such classrooms, genocide becomes a misunderstanding, ideology a difference of opinion, and extermination an unfortunate excess rather than a logical outcome of policy and preparation. Comfort replaces clarity. Sentimentality displaces evidence. And the most dangerous lesson is taught: that time itself absolves crime. To remember honestly is therefore an ethical discipline. Memory must remain uncomfortable, because comfort is precisely what perpetrators—and their rehabilitators—try to find. When societies reward praise over truth, they train future criminals to expect rehabilitation through storytelling rather than accountability. This is why historical clarity is not vengeance; it is prevention. To refuse false angels is to protect the future. To insist on bitter truth without anesthesia is to teach that power does not redeem crime, that piety does not cleanse ideology, and that no amount of soft-spoken praise can resurrect virtue from the architecture of death.
