Why We Can't Look Away from Rwanda's Darkest Hour

written by a member of the WCB

There's something deeply unsettling about our collective fascination with genocide. Not the academic study of it, not the necessary historical documentation, but the morbid curiosity that draws millions to documentaries, books, and articles about humanity's darkest moments. The Rwandan genocide of 1994 stands as perhaps the most documented mass killing in modern history, yet thirty years later, we're still trying to understand not just what happened, but why we remain so captivated by it.

I've spent months diving into this question, and what I've discovered challenges everything we think we know about political corruption, social justice, and the responsibility of institutions to protect the innocent. For young conservatives especially, Rwanda offers a stark lesson about what happens when government fails its most basic duty and when ideological extremism consumes rational discourse.

The numbers are staggering: 800,000 to 1 million people killed in just 100 days. Neighbors turned against neighbors. Churches became slaughterhouses. Radio waves carried calls for murder. But these statistics, horrific as they are, don't explain why Rwanda continues to dominate our cultural consciousness in ways that other genocides don't.

Part of the answer lies in timing. Rwanda happened in the age of modern media, when CNN could broadcast images of machete-wielding killers and rivers choked with bodies into living rooms across America. Unlike the Holocaust, which we learned about through grainy black-and-white footage discovered after the fact, Rwanda unfolded in real-time, in color, with satellite feeds and international correspondents providing play-by-play coverage of humanity's descent into madness.

But there's something deeper at work here, something that speaks to our current political moment. Rwanda represents the ultimate failure of institutions – not just Rwandan institutions, but international ones. The United Nations, with its peacekeeping mandate and lofty ideals, stood by and watched. The United States, fresh off the Somalia debacle, actively avoided using the word "genocide" because it would have triggered legal obligations to intervene. France, Belgium, and other former colonial powers played their own cynical games, supporting different factions based on geopolitical interests rather than human rights.

This institutional failure resonates powerfully with young conservatives who have grown skeptical of international organizations and foreign interventions. Rwanda shows what happens when bureaucrats prioritize political calculations over moral imperatives. It demonstrates how corruption at the highest levels – from local officials who distributed weapons to international diplomats who parsed legal definitions while people died – can enable unthinkable evil.

The roots of the genocide trace back decades, to colonial policies that artificially hardened ethnic distinctions between Hutus and Tutsis. Belgian administrators, seeking to divide and rule, issued identity cards marking ethnic affiliation and generally favored Tutsis for education and government positions. This created resentment that festered for generations, exploited by politicians who found ethnic division a useful tool for maintaining power.

Sound familiar? The weaponization of identity, the cultivation of grievance, the scapegoating of minority groups – these tactics didn't die with the machetes in Rwanda. They've been refined, digitized, and deployed across the globe by politicians who understand that division is often more politically profitable than unity.

What makes Rwanda particularly haunting is how quickly ordinary people became killers. Teachers murdered students. Doctors killed patients. Priests slaughtered parishioners. The genocide wasn't carried out by a small group of extremists but by hundreds of thousands of regular citizens who, in a matter of days, transformed into instruments of death.

This transformation didn't happen overnight. It was the result of years of propaganda, economic manipulation, and political corruption that created the conditions for mass violence. Radio stations like RTLM spent months dehumanizing Tutsis, calling them "cockroaches" and "snakes." Government officials distributed weapons under the guise of "civil defense." Local administrators drew up lists of targets and organized killing squads.

The systematic nature of the preparation reveals something crucial about how societies collapse. It's not sudden; it's gradual. Rights are eroded incrementally. Institutions are captured slowly. Propaganda becomes normalized. By the time the killing started, the moral and legal frameworks that might have prevented it had already been destroyed.

For young conservatives grappling with questions about the role of government, Rwanda offers sobering lessons. It shows what happens when state power is captured by extremists, when institutions lose their independence, and when the rule of law breaks down. It demonstrates that strong institutions and constitutional protections aren't abstract concepts but concrete barriers against tyranny.

The international response – or lack thereof – also provides crucial insights into the limits of global governance. Despite decades of "never again" rhetoric following the Holocaust, the international community proved unwilling or unable to stop genocide when it mattered most. The UN peacekeeping force was reduced from 2,500 to 270 troops just as the killing intensified. The Security Council debated semantics while bodies piled up.

This failure wasn't just bureaucratic incompetence; it was moral cowardice dressed up as political realism. Officials knew what was happening but chose to prioritize their own interests over Rwandan lives. It's a stark reminder that international institutions are only as strong as the political will of their member states, and that moral leadership often requires acting without consensus or legal cover.

The aftermath of Rwanda has been equally complex. Paul Kagame's government has achieved remarkable economic growth and political stability, but at the cost of democratic freedoms and human rights. Critics are silenced, opposition parties are banned, and the press operates under severe restrictions. It's a reminder that order without freedom is its own form of injustice, even when it prevents chaos.

This tension between security and liberty resonates strongly in contemporary American politics. How much freedom are we willing to sacrifice for safety? How do we balance the need for strong institutions with the risk of authoritarian overreach? Rwanda shows both the dangers of weak government that cannot protect its citizens and the risks of strong government that silences dissent.

The continued fascination with Rwanda also reflects our anxiety about our own society's fragility. We study genocide not just to understand the past but to recognize warning signs in the present. The polarization, the dehumanizing rhetoric, the erosion of shared institutions – these patterns feel uncomfortably familiar to anyone paying attention to contemporary politics.

Yet Rwanda also offers hope. The country has made remarkable progress in healing ethnic divisions, building effective institutions, and achieving economic development. Rwandans have shown that reconciliation is possible, even after unthinkable trauma. They've demonstrated that societies can choose to build rather than destroy, to unite rather than divide.

The challenge for young conservatives – and all Americans – is learning from Rwanda without becoming paralyzed by its lessons. Yes, institutions can fail catastrophically. Yes, ordinary people can become complicit in evil. Yes, international organizations often prioritize politics over principles. But these realities should inspire us to strengthen our own institutions, to resist the temptation of divisive rhetoric, and to maintain the moral clarity necessary to act when action is required.

Rwanda's darkest hour reminds us that freedom and justice are not inevitable. They require constant vigilance, institutional integrity, and the courage to stand up for what's right even when it's politically costly. The fascination with genocide isn't morbid curiosity; it's moral necessity. We study these horrors not because we enjoy them, but because we must understand them to prevent them.

The voices of the victims demand nothing less than our complete attention, our honest reflection, and our unwavering commitment to ensuring that never again means never again – not just in Rwanda, but anywhere human dignity is threatened by the corruption of power and the poison of hatred.

In the end, Rwanda teaches us that the price of freedom is not just eternal vigilance, but the willingness to act on that vigilance when the moment demands it. The question isn't whether we'll face such tests again – we will. The question is whether we'll be ready.