Shake Hands With the Devil (32 page)

Coincidentally, Willy Claes was also in Kigali. I spoke with him on Sunday, February 20, as part of a round-table discussion among diplomats,
NGO
s, expatriates and the
SRSG
. I told him we had to get tougher and more active, both militarily and politically, to ensure that we could deliver a success within the time frame specified by the accords. I said
that the leaders of Rwanda's nascent political parties had proven themselves incapable of rising above their own self-interest. There wasn't a statesman among them. In order to break the impasse, we had to raise the diplomatic stakes and get international partners such as Belgium to start applying real pressure, not only to Habyarimana but to all the political players, including the
RPF
. Claes listened attentively and complimented
UNAMIR
on what it had achieved to date. He left us with the impression that he was going to fight for our mission in Brussels and New York.

That same day, the Belgian politician had the opportunity to witness a couple of object lessons in Rwandan politics. Sundays were always the most difficult day of the week for my force, because that was when the political parties held their rallies. Little white Toyota pickup trucks chock full of drunk and belligerent Interahamwe and Impuzamugambi militia would zoom around Kigali, stirring up trouble. The streets were usually full of people milling around, looking for something to do, and it didn't take much to whip them up. This Sunday was worse than most. The
MDR
party was holding a huge rally at the Nyamirambo stadium; Faustin was still trying to sort out the split between him and the Power wing of his party, led by Froduald Karamira, the vice-president of the
MDR
. According to our informant, the Interahamwe was encouraging people to show up to the meeting armed with
DDT
“as medicine for the
Inyenzi.”
By the time the rally began that afternoon, the stadium was surrounded by Interahamwe mingling with the raucous crowd, making it almost impossible for the
MDR
leadership to make its way into the building. When Madame Agathe arrived with her Belgian escorts, the crowd began to pelt them with stones, drawing blood. The Belgians fired into the air to break up the crowd.

That evening, at a supper given in honour of the departing Belgian delegation, Willy Claes had a front-row seat on the hair-trigger nature of Rwandan politics. The entire diplomatic community, the
SRSG
and myself from
UNAMIR
, and the leading politicians from the official parties, including the
RPF
, were invited. Extremists sat side by side with moderates. Still, the evening started well, with a lot of lighthearted chatter assisted by liberal quantities of food and alcohol. There was some political discussion, but it was all vague and optimistic. We were
going to make another attempt at installing the
BBTG
later in the week, but the conversations flowing around me carefully avoided any real discussion of the impasse. I was struck again by the ability of the Rwandans to close ranks when the glare of the international community fell upon them, as if they were one big dysfunctional family conspiring to keep up appearances.

Then something quite unexpected happened. I was sitting next to Félicien Gatabazi, the head of the influential (and still united)
PSD
party, and a well-known Hutu moderate from the south who was very pro-
RPF
, who had a few too many glasses of wine and got into an intense discussion with members of the
MRND
about their extremist views. The more drinks Gatabazi downed, the louder and more confrontational he became, until he was almost shouting. He started to insult individual members of the
MRND
, accusing them of manipulating the political process and causing the deadlock, and the whole room fell silent to listen. Gatabazi had already publicly accused the Presidential Guard of training militias at the Kanombe barracks and had received a number of death threats; that night he was fearless. I tried to diffuse the situation by interrupting with a change of topic, but the damage had already been done. Staring into the eyes of the
MRND
extremists, I saw sheer hatred, which rose like a wall to surround Gatabazi and me. There is no doubt in my mind that Gatabazi wrote his own death sentence that night. Yet on the way home from the dinner, it was Faustin Twagiramungu's car that was ambushed. Faustin escaped but one of his bodyguards was killed.

It was as if some dark force had been unleashed. The next day,
CDR
demonstrators burst into Madame Agathe's office and took eight hostages. There was an uneasy standoff, but the Gendarmerie showed up to help my troops and, after a few hours of patient negotiation, managed to get the demonstrators to release the hostages.

That evening, Brent was attempting to enjoy some quiet time at home while de Kant and I were at an official dinner at the U.S. ambassador's residence. Brent had just got back from a two-week leave and was starting to unpack when the quietness of the night was shattered by the unmistakable crack of automatic weapon fire coming from behind
the house. Believing our house was under attack, Brent shut off the lights and crept to the cupboard where he thought he would find Willem's pistol, but Willem had taken it with him that evening. Brent armed himself with a Canadian-issue machete (which had never been out of its sheath and wasn't even sharpened) and crawled to the phone to call headquarters. He hung up and moments later the phone rang. It was Félicien Gatabazi, who lived in our neighbourhood. He had been ambushed and wounded and was gasping, obviously in great pain. He had managed to get back to his house and wanted Brent to send help. Brent immediately called headquarters and reported the shooting, making sure that the message would be relayed to me at the dinner. De Kant, Troute and I raced back to the house just as a section of Belgian troops was pulling up. Once we knew that Brent was okay, we did a thorough sweep of the area. On the road behind the house, the Belgian patrol found a limousine riddled with bullet holes. The bodies of two gendarmes, the politician's escorts, lay nearby in a pool of blood. Gatabazi had died shortly after he had made the phone call to Brent.

This death may well have been the spark that set the whole country ablaze. The next day, February 22, we were once again supposed to swear in the transitional government. Fearing the worst, I ordered all off-duty troops to return to barracks, and cancelled all leave. Before first light, the force was on red alert and had deployed.

The next morning, moderates and extremists both took to the streets of Kigali. The extremist media immediately spun headlines celebrating the killing of Gatabazi as a victory against Hutu traitors; the Interahamwe was much in evidence. Political leaders of all persuasions literally hid from view, avoiding my attempts to contact them. The mob ruled the streets and only
UNAMIR
and the riot control Jali companies of the Gendarmerie were there to confront it. I restricted all unnecessary movement but increased our presence and patrolling in an attempt to calm the city. In the midst of this situation, Luc Marchal had to get Willy Claes to the airport. Once again, the swearing-in of the
BBTG
was aborted. Although the president did make his way to the
CND
, the prime minister designate and the
RPF
refused to attend in protest of Gatabazi's assassination.

Despite a determined effort on the part of the
UN
Civilian Police Division to finally solve one of these cases of political violence, not a single witness, other than Brent and members of Gatabazi's family, came forward. Kigali was alive with rumours that ran the gamut from the reasonable to the exotic. There was some talk that the assassination had been the work of a hit squad from Togo, but most people believed that extremists inside the
CDR
were responsible. (In fact, the case was never solved.)

In Gatabazi's hometown of Butare, in the south, there were huge demonstrations. Later that afternoon, we heard that a mob of
PSD
supporters had grabbed Martin Bucyana, the national president of the
CDR
, near Butare and had lynched him. When this news spread to Kigali, the Interahamwe militias retaliated by blocking all of the major intersections, and routes out of the city.

UNAMIR
was overwhelmed by the vast numbers of hysterical and violent civilians who poured out into the streets. It was all we could do to move around. I wanted to avoid having armed
UNAMIR
soldiers use force against unarmed or machete-armed civilians, sure that if we fired on anyone, no matter the provocation, it would simply escalate the violence. Instead, I approached the government and the Gendarmerie to try to get them to do their jobs.

Prime Minister Agathe went on national radio to appeal for calm. It seemed like nothing would prod Ndindiliyimana into action. As well, the chief of staff of the army cleverly disappeared. When I eventually found him, he said he was compelled to abide by the
KWSA
agreement, which prohibited his troops from performing a task that was the responsibility of the Gendarmerie. Round and round we went as the violence increased. Over the next couple of days, 35 people died and a further 150 were injured—the majority were Tutsis and moderate Hutus. If there had been any doubt before, there was certainly none now: the poisonous pot of ethnic hatred had been well-stirred and was about to boil over.

At her request, I visited Madame Agathe in her office. She was close to tears. She told me that she understood that we couldn't do much more than what we were already doing, but she begged me not to take away the guards that we had stationed at the homes of the moderates. I
assured her that until the situation was under control, I would continue to provide twenty-four-hour protection for all of the politicians who were in danger. She emphasized that my troops had to get a handle on the security situation inside the
KWSA
, because people simply didn't feel safe. Many abandoned their homes as soon as it started to get dark and made their way to church compounds to camp out overnight or until they felt safe enough to go home. Churches had always been a place of sanctuary in Rwanda and were increasingly becoming refuges for people who felt threatened.

She paced as she spoke, like a weary lion penned up in too small a cage. She told me that her hardline
MRND
cabinet ministers refused to attend the meetings she scheduled and even ignored her phone calls. She raged on about Habyarimana and how he was meddling with the political situation. She wasn't looking for advice or answers from me, just comfort and my assurance that no matter how difficult the situation became, I would not abandon her and the moderates.

As I rose to leave, tears spilled down her cheeks, and I felt a lump rising in my own throat as I pledged that whatever happened, I would never abandon Rwanda. It was hard to see her like that; she had been rock solid through all the troubled months in which I had known her. But Madame Agathe's courage and strength of purpose never wavered, and her absolute faith in her country and its people never failed to inspire me. I left her office with a renewed sense of purpose.

Later that day, accompanied by Colonel Marchal, I finally met with Bizimana and Ndindiliyimana. Faustin Munyazesa, the minister of the interior, a well-known
MRND
hard-liner, also joined us—I wasn't sure whether by chance or design. I asked them straight out why they weren't doing more to calm the situation. I told Ndindiliyimana that his gendarmes were not doing enough to help my troops get a grip on the riots. In defence, he confessed that he didn't really know what to do: his men were burnt out, their vehicles were breaking down, and they were almost out of fuel. Besides, he added with a significant glance at the minister of the interior, he wasn't getting any political direction on the use of lethal force. His men had no other way to disperse the crowds: no riot gear, no tear gas or water cannons. He also needed
reinforcements to weather the crisis. Bizimana piped in at this point, suggesting that the
RGF
at Camp Kanombe could take over guarding
VIP
s and vital points and that he could move a battalion of military police into Kigali to beef up the depleted ranks of the Gendarmerie. With this increased force, they could impose an eight o'clock curfew in the evenings and start to shut down some of the more violent activity. This was essentially the same request I'd categorically turned down at the beginning of the month; I didn't believe that the safety and security of the citizens of Kigali was Bizimana's major concern. If I granted the request, it was quite possible that he would use those troops to reinforce Kigali, gain control of the city and potentially overwhelm the
RPF
battalion inside the
CND
complex, and the country would be back at war.

I countered by recommending that they go to the media and call upon the extremist parties to control their militias and stop the riots, then watched as the three of them fidgeted uncomfortably. Our informant had indicated that the Interahamwe and Impuzamugambi militias were directly linked to the
MRND
and the
CDR
respectively. I knew as I sat there, that in the ministers of defence and the interior I was confronting extremists. Ndindiliyimana was still an enigma. I thought I could feel his ambivalence about his associates and their suggestions. I turned to him and proposed mixed patrols of gendarmes and
UNAMIR
troops. When he objected, saying that he didn't have enough vehicles, I suggested that his men ride with my troops. I told him that we had already had some success working together breaking up the demonstration at Madame Agathe's office earlier in the week. I left the three of them with the promise that I would work out a curfew patrol plan and that we would commence joint patrols as soon as I could sort out the troops and vehicles. For the time being, there was no need for the
RGF
to bring more soldiers into Kigali.