History is unforgiving. It remembers what institutions prefer to forget, what leaders hope to bury under pastoral language, and what silence attempts to erase. It remembers not only crimes, but cowardice; not only evil, but the refusal to name it. In Rwanda, the Catholic Church—an institution that claimed moral authority over the nation’s conscience—failed catastrophically in one of the gravest moral tests of the twentieth century. And yet, within that failure, there were flashes of courage so rare, so dangerous, that they deserve to be remembered as acts of moral heroism. One such moment occurred on 30 April 1990, when five priests from the Diocese of Nyundo—Augustin Ntagara, Callixte Kalisa, Jean-Baptiste Hategeka, Fabien Rwakareke, and Aloys Nzaramba—did what their bishops would not: they spoke the truth plainly, publicly, and without fear, in a hostile environment where truth itself had become subversive. Only one of these men, Fabien Rwakareke, survives today. Three were murdered during the Genocide Against the Tutsi. One died of natural causes. Their letter survives as an indictment—not of the Gospel, but of those who betrayed it. This is not merely a story of five priests. It is the story of how a Church that should have been the conscience of the nation chose instead to become its anesthetic. A letter that deceived a nation On 28 February 1990, the Episcopal Conference of Rwanda issued a pastoral letter entitled “Christ, Our Unity.” As is customary, the letter was read repetitively in churches across the country. It was addressed to “the faithful,” but its real audience was political power—and, looming in the background, a papal visit scheduled for September 1990. The bishops exhorted Rwandans to live in national unity. The language was smooth. The tone was conciliatory. The problem was not what the letter said, but what it refused to confront. The five priests began their reaction with meticulous ecclesial humility: “We read it to the People of God in a spirit of complete submission.” And then came the disagreement: “However, we did not do so without a certain discomfort.” That uneasiness was not personal. It was moral, theological and prophetic. The priests immediately grounded their intervention in Vatican Council II, invoking the Church’s own doctrine on freedom of expression within the People of God. They were not insurgents. They were doing exactly what the Council encouraged: presenting responsible conscience in the face of injustice. Then they took the bull by the horns. They accused their bishops—respectfully but unquestionably—of hypocrisy. They pointed out what everyone knew but few dared to say: that the pastoral letter functioned as a public relations exercise, timed conveniently ahead of the Pope’s visit. “There is a link between the visit of the Holy Father and the pastoral concern of the Bishops of Rwanda who exhort the faithful to live in national unity.” They reminded their bosses that the Pope, as Vicar of Christ, is not impressed by performances. “It should therefore be his great joy to find this unity lived sincerely by our people, and even more so by leaders at all levels of this Church of Christ in Rwanda.” What they were saying—without a neutral term—was this: You cannot preach unity while practicing discrimination. You cannot impress the Pope with rhetoric while your Church reproduces injustice. 30 years of ecclesial complicity The priests were even more direct: “However, the exhortation of your letter—after thirty years of tensions of an ethnic character, continually sustained openly or covertly—this exhortation, we say, seems to us to be nullified by the position you take with regard to certain prerequisites that precisely hinder that unity.” This was not an overstatement. Since independence, Rwanda had institutionalized ethnic and regional discrimination under the euphemism of “balance.” This policy infiltrated the state, education, employment—and the Church itself. The bishops’ letter, rather than dismantling this system, effectively manipulated the faithful: speaking of unity while refusing to name the structures that made unity impossible. The five priests asked a question that should have shaken the episcopate to its core: “Is your letter meant to repress the efforts of those who wish to open frank dialogue on so delicate a subject as ethnicity, which is lived out openly or covertly in our religious houses, our presbyteries, and our episcopal residences?” This question alone defeats the myth that the Church was a neutral bystander. Ethnic discrimination was alive inside the Church itself. In seminaries. In appointments. In promotions. In admissions forms that asked for ethnicity as if it were a sacrament. The Church was not merely failing to challenge injustice. It was replicating it. What differentiates this letter from most priestly documents of the time is its clarity. The priests refused understatements. They named the system for what it was. They called the policy of ethnic and regional “balance” racism. Not figuratively. Not cautiously. Unambiguously. They compared it to Hitler’s Germany and apartheid South Africa—and placed Rwanda squarely in that company. They explained the mechanism with devastating simplicity: “Someone applies for a job. Before even examining his or her abilities, one examines the ethnic group to which the person belongs or their origin.” They exposed the moral and practical bankruptcy of the system: “To practice this deliberately and premeditatedly is to risk promoting the incompetent and restraining the most capable.” Their verdict was firm. This malevolent policy was not only injustice to individuals. It was sabotage of the nation. “This is not only an injustice against the capable person who is wronged, but also against the nation, which is gradually deprived of those who would serve it with greater competence.” And then came the line that should have become Church doctrine in Rwanda: “It is this kind of practice that the Church of Jesus Christ should not accept.” words are clear. Not tolerate. Not regret. Not accept. The priests went further, invoking divine accountability: “Those responsible for ‘balance,’ whether the State or the Catholic Church (for it accepts and practices this principle...), should question themselves before God.” This was theology with cutting teeth. They were people with faith that refused to be decorative. Slogans over the gospel Under the burning subtitle “The Church, Authority, and Ideology,” the priests reminded their superiors of the most essential truth: The Church does not exist to echo the State. “The Church is ‘the light of the world and the salt of the earth.’” Light does not borrow its brightness from power. Salt does not cajole the meat it preserves. Yet the bishops, the priests argued, had done precisely the opposite: “It is regrettable that in their letter, the Bishops first take political slogans as their point of departure.” Instead of grounding their message in the Gospel, they imitated the language of a regime possessed with ethnic engineering. The priests invoked Acts 17:26: “God made from one every nation of men... to live on the whole surface of the earth.” This was not non concrete theology. It was a direct contradiction of the ideology Rwanda was living under—and that the Church had accepted. They argued that if the Church had drawn from the Gospel rather than state ideology, it could have advised the State, challenged it, elevated it. Instead, it aligned itself with power. The silence of the bishops becomes even more damning when one recalls that—at the time, Archbishop Vincent Nsengiyumva sat on the Central Committee of the MRND, the ruling party. The Church was not merely close to power. It was inside it. The priests’ verdict was overwhelming: “If the Church had not committed itself to supporting the country’s policy to the letter... it would have fully assumed its prophetic mission. But alas!” But alas. Few words in ecclesial history carry such weight. They insisted: “It is truly time for the Church of Jesus Christ established in Rwanda to proclaim loudly and tirelessly that the only just criterion... is personal ability alone.” This is classic Catholic social teaching—human dignity, justice, the common good—yet it had become radical in Rwanda precisely because the Church refused to live it. Their conclusion was uncompromising: “National unity must be founded on flawless justice.” Indeed, without justice, unity is empty propaganda. They demanded that the Church preach by example, abolish ethnic criteria in assignments, recruitment, and seminaries. They even pointed to the obscenity of admission forms asking for ethnicity—as if God called Hutu and Tutsi differently. In December 1990, just months after this visionary letter, the government-sponsored magazine Kangura No. 6 published the Ten Hutu Commandments—a manifesto of genocidal ideology. They criminalized social relations with Tutsi. They branded non-discriminating Hutu as “traitors.” They explicitly endorsed Tutsi discrimination in education. They called for proselytization of hatred. This was not fringe fanaticism. It was a national project. And the Church? Silence. No pastoral letter. No denunciation. No prophetic outrage. The same bishops who had found their voice to speak of cosmetic “unity” found none to denounce an ideology that openly prepared genocide. Silence, in such a context, was not neutrality but complicity. How heroes emerge The five priests of Nyundo understood something their leaders did not—or refused to accept: history remembers courage. They decided to write when silence was harmless. They named racism when euphemism was beneficial. They confronted their own institution when obedience would have protected them. Three of them paid with their lives in 1994 during the genocide. The current Rwandan government, less than five years later, abolished the system of ethnic discrimination they denounced. That reform came too late for them—but it vindicated them completely. History will remember the Church’s failure. But it will also remember five priests who chose dangerous truth over comfort, justice over career, and the Gospel over ideology. That is where heroes emerge. And that is where the Church, if it is to have any moral authority left, must dare to look—and repent. In Rwanda, before, during, and after the Genocide Against the Tutsi, silence was not accidental. Silence was not the absence of speech but the loudest possible statement. It was structured, cultivated, and sanctified. It became, in practice if not in doctrine, a form of pastoral guidance. And when silence is draped in cassocks, stamped with episcopal authority, and justified by appeals to “prudence,” it ceases to be neutral. It becomes instruction. The Catholic Church in Rwanda did not lack Scripture or social teaching. It did not lack information. What it didn’t have—at the decisive moment—was courage. Christian Scripture is explicit on unity and the sinfulness of hatred. The problem in Rwanda was never theological ignorance. It was theological selectivity. Saint Paul’s letter to the Galatians states with clarity that any racial ideology collapses under its own weight: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28) This is not a graceful metaphor. It is ecclesiology. It defines what the Church is—or ceases to be. The Gospel of John makes love the criterion of discipleship: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” (John 13:35) Not if you balance ethnic quotas—supposedly to preserve so-called regional equilibrium. Not if you maintain social peace through injustice. And yet, for decades, ethnic identity quietly trumped baptismal identity in Church institutions. Seminaries asked for ethnicity. Assignments were weighed through ethnic arithmetic. Leadership positions mirrored state ideology. Unity was preached from pulpits while discrimination was practiced in sacristies. When the five priests from Nyundo wrote to their bishops in 1990, they were not inventing a radical theology. They were restating Catholic doctrine in a Church that had silently suspended it. The letter of the Nyundo priests was copied to the Apostolic Nuncio in Kigali. This detail matters profoundly. It means the Holy See was formally informed that: Ethnic discrimination existed within the Church itself; the policy of “balance” was racist; church leadership supported a state ideology; and, unity rhetoric was hollow without justice. This was not gossip. It was not hearsay. It was a documented, reasoned, ecclesially respectful alarm bell. And yet, there was no reaction. No public response. No private correction. No apostolic intervention. No doctrinal clarification. Just silence. In Catholic moral theology, I was told by a Catholic priest, silence in the face of grave injustice—when one has authority and knowledge—is not innocence. It is omission, and omission is sin. “Whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.” (James 4:17) The Catechism itself teaches that the faithful are accountable not only for the evil they commit, but for the evil they fail to prevent when they can. The Holy See’s silence did not calm tensions. It did the opposite. It emboldened those who practiced discrimination. It comforted bishops that their course was acceptable. It signaled to priests that obedience mattered more than conscience. It educated Hutu-Power extremists that the Church would not interfere. When Rome went quiet, injustice in Rwanda learned to shout. The genocidal magazine Kangura did not emerge in a vacuum. It flourished on a fertile immoral ground—one made rich by years of institutional ambiguity, pastoral vagueness—and ecclesial accommodation of ethnic ideology. When Kangura published the Ten Hutu Commandments, it did something both overconfident and enlightening: it imitated the biblical Decalogue. It was a planned theological parasitism and a theological provocation of the highest order. By mirroring the biblical Decalogue, it sought to make hatred sacred and present discrimination as a moral obligation. The original Decalogue begins with liberation: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.” (Exodus 20:2) They prohibit murder, false witness, covetousness. They protect life, dignity, and truth. Kangura’s commandments did the reverse. They forbade coexistence. They consecrated exclusion. They declared discrimination a moral duty and labeled non-participants as traitors. It was not just political propaganda. It was sacrilege—the weaponization of sacred form for genocidal content. And how did the Church respond to this counterfeit decalogue? With silence. This was precisely the moment when the Church should have exercised its teaching authority with urgency. The Catechism assigns to bishops the duty of guarding the integrity of moral teaching. When a counterfeit morality circulates using sacred form, silence is more than catastrophic. Instead of clarifying that these “commandments” were blasphemous distortions, the Church’s silence allowed them to circulate unchallenged. By its silence, the Episcopal Conference allowed many to conclude that what Kangura preached was acceptable, or at least not sinful enough to warrant condemnation. In moral pedagogy, silence teaches. And here, it taught hatred. The faithful were left without guidance. Extremists interpreted silence as tacit approval. False moral systems flourish where true teaching is withheld. A letter that was never written Let us imagine—because history demands that we ask—what might have happened if, in late 1993 or early 1994, the Episcopal Conference of Rwanda had done its duty. Imagine a pastoral letter, unequivocal and unambiguous, denouncing ethnic hatred, naming Kangura and RTLM explicitly—declaring racism a grave sin, and affirming that participation in genocidal propaganda would place one outside communion with the Church. Imagine that letter being read in every Catholic church, three times a day, for three weeks. Imagine bishops standing behind pulpits saying: “Whoever raises a machete against his or her neighbor raises it against Christ.” “No ethnic identity absolves murder.” “Any Christian who kills commits mortal sin.” Would it have stopped the genocide entirely? No. Would it have saved lives? Definitely. The number of perpetrators would have shrunk. The number of hesitant partners in crime would have grown. The moral confusion would have cracked. Churches would have been less easily transformed into slaughterhouses if they had been loudly proclaimed as sanctuaries of life. Moral authority, exercised early and clearly, changes behavior. Silence licenses crime. Perhaps the most damning fact of all is this: there was no pastoral letter during the genocide condemning the mass murder. Not any. At the very moment when machetes replaced rosaries, when altars became execution sites, when priests and nuns watched—or participated—there was no collective episcopal voice declaring: This is evil. This must stop. One would expect Scripture to scream: “You shall not murder.” (Exodus 20:13) “Whatever you did to one of the least of these, you did to me.” (Matthew 25:40) But Scripture was drowned out by cries. By April 1994, many churches were no longer places where pastoral letters could be read. They were places of death. Places where liturgy was replaced by logistics of killing. At Nyange Parish in Nyundo Diocese, Father Athanase Seromba did not need a pastoral letter. He bulldozed his church to make the killing of over 1,500 Tutsi easier. A church reduced to rubble—an obscene but perfect metaphor for what had already happened to the Church’s moral authority. The building fell only after the conscience had already collapsed. This was not merely a criminal act. It was liturgical inversion: the transformation of sacred space into an instrument of death. Such an act does not occur in isolation. It occurs when doctrinal boundaries have already collapsed, when murder is no longer understood as sacrilege, and when authority has failed to catechize conscience. A pedagogy of failure There is a cruel irony in all this. The Church prides itself on being a teacher. And indeed, it taught—just not what it claims. In Rwanda, it taught that unity without justice is acceptable, and that—racism can be managed rather than condemned. Christians learned that political proximity is safer than prophetic distance. It taught that silence preserves influence. History will remember the best and the worst. It will remember bishops who calculated, Rome that hesitated, priests who complied, and institutions that adapted. But it will also remember five men who dared to say—before the killing began—that racism is sin, that balance is discrimination, and that unity without justice is a lie. The disaster is not that Scripture was vague. It was ignored. And silence—once chosen—became doctrine. Our unity is not optional The Genocide Against the Tutsi did not occur in a theological vacuum. The Catholic Church had—long before 1994—a coherent, authoritative, and binding body of doctrine condemning racism, ethnic hatred, discrimination, and the dehumanization of the other. The Church had Scripture and conciliar texts. It had papal encyclicals. It had moral theology. It had sacramental theology. It had a developed understanding of conscience, sin, authority, and prophetic witness. At the center of Catholic anthropology stands an unambiguous claim: every human person possesses equal and inviolable dignity because all are created in the image of God (imago Dei). “God created man in his own image... male and female he created them.” (Genesis 1:27) This dignity precedes ethnicity, nationality, culture, and social classification. It is ontological, not political. Any ecclesial practice that privileges ethnic identity over baptismal identity is therefore not merely unjust—it is heretical in effect, even if not formally defined as such. The New Testament elevates this unity. Ethnic reconciliation is not a pastoral option but a constitutive reality of the Church: “For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility.” (Ephesians 2:14) The “dividing wall” is not just symbolic. It embraces systems, customs, and institutions that preserve separation. When the Church tolerates ethnic classification in seminaries, diocesan appointments, or ecclesial governance, it rebuilds the wall Christ destroyed. Catholic social teaching has consistently condemned racism as intrinsically sinful. Pope Pius XI declared in 1938: “Spiritually, we are all Semites.” Pope John XXIII, in Pacem in Terris, insisted on equality of rights grounded in human dignity, not group identity. Vatican II, in Gaudium et Spes, spoke with remarkable clarity: “Every form of discrimination... based on race, color, social condition, language, or religion must be overcome and eradicated as contrary to God’s intent.” The verbs matter: overcome, eradicated. Not balanced or managed. Not contextualized. When the Rwandan Church accepted and practiced the policy of ethnic and regional “balance,” it crossed a theological line. By subordinating personal ability and dignity to ethnic arithmetic, it violated the principle of justice defined by St. Thomas Aquinas as rendering to each what is due. What is due to a human person is recognition of their dignity—not suspicion based on origin. And yet, when these teachings were most urgently needed, they were not proclaimed with clarity, force, or courage. The Church did not fail because it did not know better; it failed because it did not do what it already knew was required. This critique is not an attack on Catholic doctrine. It is an appeal to it. It is ecclesial, in the deepest sense: a call to truth spoken from within the Church’s own theological grammar. This must be approached not as history alone, but as moral examination. What failed in Rwanda—can also happen elsewhere. Wherever the Church chooses comfort over conscience, power over prophecy, silence over truth, the same theological collapse is already underway. Nyange must be studied not only as history but as theology gone wrong—what happens when priesthood is severed from moral truth. The destruction of the church at Nyange under the direction of Seromba stands as a theological anti-sign. A church—symbol of refuge, sacrament, and divine presence—was deliberately demolished to facilitate mass murder. The five priests of Nyundo remind the Church of what authentic ministry looks like: fidelity to truth over safety, conscience over career, Gospel over ideology. Their witness stands as an implicit judgment on those who remained silent. The credibility of the Church does not depend on what it teaches on paper, but on what it dares to proclaim in dangerous times. The Church does not save itself by accommodating evil. It saves itself—if at all—by telling the truth, in season and out of season, even when the cost is high. Conclusion The five priests’ letter provided a crucial lesson: structures of sin can exist within the Church itself. The presence of sacraments does not immunize institutions from moral corruption. A repeated defense for ecclesial silence is the desire to preserve peace, unity, or institutional stability. This justification flops under Catholic doctrine of authority. We are told the Church authority is derived from Christ, who declared: “You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” (John 8:32) for that matter, the bishops of Rwanda were supposed to be successors of the Apostles, not chaplains of political ideology. Their silence in the face of racial discrimination and later genocidal campaign, represents not prudence but abandonment of apostolic responsibility. The five priests understood this distinction clearly when they reminded their bishops that the Church is “the light of the world and the salt of the earth.” Light that adjusts itself to darkness ceases to be light. Salt that loses its taste is discarded (Matthew 5:13). Obedience does not absolve conscience. Gaudium et Spes clarifies that human conscience is the “most secret core and sanctuary of a person.” When authority contradicts justice, conscience must speak. The Episcopal Conference of Rwanda knew. The Apostolic Nuncio knew. The Holy See was informed. The doctrines were clear. The danger was escalating. And yet, there was no authoritative condemnation of the genocidal campaign as a grave sin. That silence was not neutrality but cooperation through omission. Catholic theology affirms that grace operates through concrete acts, words, and sacraments in history. A pastoral letter is not mere paper. It is an instrument of moral formation. Had the Episcopal Conference issued a clear, forceful pastoral letter in late 1993 or early 1994 condemning ethnic hatred, naming genocidal propaganda, and declaring violence incompatible with Christian faith, the moral landscape would have shifted. Not all would have listened—but many would have. Grace works through proclamation. When proclamation is absent, grace is resisted not by God, but by human timidity. The absence of a pastoral letter during the genocide itself represents a collapse of pastoral imagination. Even as churches became killing grounds, there was no collective episcopal voice declaring that genocide defiles the Eucharist, that bloodshed profanes the altar—that Christ is crucified again in every victim. This raises a terrifying question: What does it mean to preach Christ while remaining silent about crucifixion happening at the altar rail? As I was putting the final touches to this article, I spoke with Fr. Rwakareke, on the phone, to express my gratitude to him and his departed colleagues—for their courage to expose and condemn the wicked system when it was risky but necessary. The five priests deserve recognition.
