It was around noon. Though I’d dismissed the idea of a rescue mission, I kept running scenarios in my head. The RGF units, particularly the Presidential Guard, had taken up defensive positions, set up barricades throughout the inner core of the capital, and were restricting movement as far away as the airport. The Presidential Guard had been reinforced by elements of the Reconnaissance Battalion and the Para-Commando Battalion. They were well-armed, experienced and well-trained. Camp Kigali was a walled and sprawling area, home to the Reconnaissance Battalion, the artillery unit, a maintenance and transport unit, the senior military academy, the military hospital and convalescent centre, and the RGF national headquarters. Hate radio had led everyone inside its gates to believe that our Belgians had killed their president.
To have any chance of success at storming a well-fortified camp, I’d need several hundred men, supported by light armour and mortars. My Quick Reaction Force was still woefully inadequate. Most of the Ghanaian contingent was in the demilitarized zone far to the north without vehicles or heavy weapons, let alone ammunition. They, too, were vulnerable. The Ghanaians we had moved into the city were dispersed on protection jobs all around Kigali. They and the Tunisians at the CND who were guarding the RPF were lightly armed, possessed no transport and already had essential duties. The Belgians were also spread all over town. Any attempt at taking the camp or even part of it would have been an irresponsible mission. Even if we had been able to assemble an intervention force, fight our way through several roadblocks and get into and out of the camp with our men, we would have had to withdraw through the city, past more roadblocks, and gain the airfield, as we had no place of retreat where we could realistically withstand the inevitable RGF counterattacks and bombardments from their 105- and 120-millimetre guns. I thought of Mogadishu, where a few months earlier the Americans—the most militarily capable force in the world—had botched the abduction attempt of a couple of aides to a Somali warlord and had suffered eighteen dead and more than seventy injured. The Malaysian and Pakistani peacekeepers who tried to rescue the American troops took ninety casualties. And these forces were large, well-trained and well-equipped.
I had to keep the pressure on the RGF leaders to go in and retrieve the Belgians. The work session on the communiqué was going nowhere. It had been at least an hour and a half since I’d left the vehicle with Robert at the barrier. I had to get out of there. I told the group to be sure to include our commitment to Arusha in the communiqué, made my apologies and left.
I sprinted up the path to the parking lot. Captain Kodjo and the Ghanaian soldiers, still under guard, were relieved to see me. I told them that they had to get back to our lines right away. I spoke to an officer and asked him for transport to take my men back to Force HQ, and he agreed without hesitation, even providing a small escort. The major was still waiting in the car. He drove me and Maggen to the Ministry of Defence. The route he chose did not pass by Camp Kigali. I didn’t have a radio and I had to get to a phone. When we arrived, I told Maggen to go find Robert and our vehicle and bring them both back to meet me.
The ministry was almost deserted. A few guards gave me curious looks but let me pass. Inside one of the buildings, I asked a lieutenant if there was a phone and an office I could use. After some hesitation, he led me into the building that housed Bagosora’s office and directed me to the room next to his. Where were the leaders? Where was the staff? The ministry along with army headquarters should have been the hub of action. There were no couriers bringing in up-to-date information, no staff officers or civilian bureaucrats at their desks, no telephones ringing. Except for the new guards and the manned defences, the place was nearly asleep. Was there an alternate command post, and if so, who was in charge? The minister of defence was in Cameroon, conveniently out of the picture. I sent for the duty officer and asked him where everyone was. The last thing I expected was the answer he gave me: they had all gone for lunch.
I called the Force HQ and got through to Henry. He had horrifying news. The UNAMIR-protected VIPs—Lando Ndasingwa, Joseph Kavaruganda, and many other moderates—had been abducted by the Presidential Guard and militias and had been killed, along with their families. Missing or captured in and around Kigali were at least thirty-five of our military personnel, many of whom had been on duty with the kidnapped VIPs. There was one politician being held at Force HQ, who had been saved by Luc and whose name Henry wouldn’t reveal over the phone. The important people who Moustache was harbouring at the UNDP housing compound were Prime Minister Agathe, her husband and children.
Henry had heard there were Belgians in trouble at Camp Kigali—eleven men, he thought, maybe as many as thirteen. I told him that I had seen two Belgian soldiers on the ground in Camp Kigali. He had no more news from Luc because Kigali Sector headquarters was being overwhelmed with requests for help. Tiko and his military observers had abandoned Kimihura and moved in convoy to the Amahoro because a noose of barricades had been slowly closing around them. Prior to their withdrawal, they had witnessed Presidential Guard and Interahamwe members going from house to house with lists, breaking in and executing families. His unarmed observers had no way to stop this gruesomely efficient series of murders. Tiko wasn’t going to risk any of his men, and I would not have ordered him to do so.
Dozens of civilian staff couldn’t be accounted for because they had no phone or radio, and we couldn’t get to their homes. The standoff at the airport and the situation at the crash site hadn’t changed. Henry was trying to rescue Rwandans and expatriates who were in danger, bringing them to UNAMIR compounds such as the Amahoro Stadium, the Meridien, the King Faisal Hospital, the Hôtel des Mille Collines, the Belgian camp at the Dom Bosco school, and several smaller Belgian and UNAMIR compounds around town. These locations had become UN-protected sites for persons at risk, and the volume of people seeking our protection was growing exponentially. I asked Henry about Booh-Booh and the political front, and he responded that he hadn’t heard any more from the SRSG since the morning.
Henry was totally frustrated with the Bangladeshi troops. Their APCs were either mysteriously breaking down (we later found out that the crews were sabotaging the vehicles by placing rags in the exhaust pipes) or they couldn’t be reached (a confirmed tactic by some of the crews was to move a short distance from the headquarters, shut down the radio and return later, claiming they had been held at a roadblock.) Those who actually arrived at the place to which they had been sent exhibited a lack of zeal in pursuing their missions.
A mob of angry locals, fired up by extremists, were blocking the entrances to the Amahoro Stadium complex to which thousands of Tutsis and moderate Hutus were attempting to flee. Henry kept urging the Bangladeshis to clear the area, but their commander was not responding to his orders and was seeking direction from Dhaka. The couple of APCs that had returned to the stadium were sitting idle while Kigali Sector was pleading for them to respond to calls for help from other UNAMIR personnel and Rwandans at risk. I ordered Henry to inform the Bangladeshi commander that he was contributing to the potential deaths of Rwandans and UNAMIR personnel and that he would be held accountable. That night I found out that he had received direct orders from his chief of staff in Dhaka to stop taking risks, stay buttoned down, close the gates and stop carrying Rwandans in the APCs. He did exactly as he was ordered, ignoring the UNAMIR chain of command and the tragedies caused by his decisions.
I told Henry to keep trying to account for our personnel, to secure our locations and get rescue patrols out to as many people as we could in Kigali. Luc would be the sole decider on whether a particular mission was worth the risk, as he was the one who owned the Kigali area troops and had the best network in the KWSA. I would stay close to Bagosora and Ndindiliyimana. Henry would stay close to the RPF, and we would keep each other fully informed.
Robert and Maggen arrived with the vehicle soon after I’d hung up. There was no time to grieve for the Rwandans who had already been lost. Robert had been monitoring the Force radio net and ha
d two new pieces of information: UNAMIR had been able to rescue Prime Minister Faustin, who was now at the Force HQ. His was the name Henry hadn’t mentioned over the phone. The second, ominous piece of news was a message to me from Paul Kagame: “I have just learned many homes of our supporters are surrounded by RGF soldiers. The intentions certainly clear. Informing you that our forces have to react to protect ours. I’m very serious and want to info you before [sic].” I immediately called the Force HQ and, after several attempts, got through to Henry again. I told him to contact Ballis at the CND and relay in no uncertain terms that the RPF must stay put in the CND and in the north until I had been given a full opportunity to try to contain the situation with Bagosora.
It was after 1300 by the time I got off the phone. There was still no sign of Bagosora or Ndindiliyimana, so I decided to go with Robert to the UNDP housing compound, where Madame Agathe and her family may have fled. There might still be a chance of helping them out. We continued to hear sporadic gunfire coming from the direction of Camp Kigali. Leaving Maggen behind to monitor the vehicle radio, Robert and I set off down the Boulevard de la Révolution. We stopped at the fourth or fifth compound on the left and banged on the blue steel doors. We identified ourselves and were let in.
To my astonishment, Captain Diagne Mbaye, a Senegalese MILOB, was standing there with a UNAMIR vehicle. As the gate closed behind us, a rush of fifteen to twenty civilians appeared, all speaking at once. Captain Mbaye got them to calm down and then described for me the morning’s horrible events. He had made his own way here from the Hôtel des Mille Collines as word had filtered in about Madame Agathe from civilians seeking shelter there. By the time he got to the UNDP, the prime minister and her husband had been captured by men from the Presidential Guard and the army. They had surrendered in order to save their children, who were still hiding. Madame Agathe and her husband were murdered on the spot; there was blood on the wall and signs of grenade explosions at the entrance of one house as well as in the living room. For some reason, the killers didn’t search the compound, and the four children remained safe. I was brought to a dark room where they were hiding in a corner, behind clothes and furniture.
Since the killing of their parents, the compound had been relatively calm. Mbaye had taken over from Moustache, who had gone out to rescue other UN personnel. Still, the Senegalese captain was worried that the Presidential Guard would return and find the children. I promised him that UNAMIR personnel would return later in the afternoon with APCs to get UN staff and the prime minister’s children to safety. Moving them in an open UNAMIR vehicle would be too risky at roadblocks manned by the Presidential Guard. He said he would stay until the children were safe. (No APCs made it to the compound that day, but Mbaye and Moustache saved the children by sneaking them away in their own vehicles.)
I was heartbroken at Madame Agathe’s death. She loved her nation and her people and wanted a democratic future for them. And for that she was dead. I could not even stop to feel her loss—too many others were at risk, including my troops at Camp Kigali and elsewhere. Robert and I walked back to the Ministry of Defence, hoping the leaders were back from lunch.
No one had shown up yet. Maggen passed on another message from Kagame: UNAMIR should immediately move to protect all of the disappeared or arrested politicians and the sooner the better. I called Force HQ again. We had troops in dangerous situations and, although limited by the ROE change, I could have overridden the prohibition on intervention and used force where crimes against humanity were being committed. I did not exercise that option for I could not have sustained combat operations nor guaranteed the safety of civilians or my troops if UNAMIR were to have become the third belligerent. I did not receive a request from Luc to mount a rescue of the Belgians in Camp Kigali because he understood the reality of our situation as well as I did. If I had received such a request, I would have categorically refused because of the high risk involved. In the end, the strategy of non-intervention did limit the chances of my troops being targeted, but it also meant that force was not effectively used to protect persons at risk.
Bagosora got back at about 1400, with Ndindiliyimana close behind. I stopped them in the hall, and yes, it turned out that Bagosora had taken a lunch break—but, he said, only after he had unsuccessfully attempted to get into Camp Kigali to save my troops. Ndindiliyimana chimed in: Every senior officer who had tried to calm the camp down had been threatened or assaulted by the mutineers. Bagosora told me that he was putting a force together to stop the chaos in the camp. Frustrated and angry, I told him that I would go into the camp myself. He stopped dead at the door of his office, turned around and with his eyes fixed on mine told me that I was not to approach that camp. I was to leave the situation in his hands. I told him he had no authority over me, and I made it clear that I held him personally responsible for my soldiers’ safe return.
I went back to the phone and called Brent to alert him to what was going on. He put Henry on the line. There was a third message from Kagame, a straightforward ultimatum. The killings throughout the city had to cease immediately or he would order his troops to intervene. The message had six brief lines:
RPF is prepared to secure Kigali;
Force Commander should not rely on his Belgian Staff;
UNAMIR should pull its forces out of the DMZ to reinforce Kigali;
RPF prepared to assist UNAMIR; and
If CND is attacked RPF will move on Kigali; and
If situation is not secured by last light 7 April, definite RPF attack.
This last point was Kagame’s promised warning to us to get out of the way. Henry told me that Kagame and his senior staff had just moved out of Mulindi and were suspected of setting up a tactical command post closer to the demilitarized zone so that they would be in a location where they could launch their offensive. This was no bluff.
Last light in Rwanda fell at about six o’clock, which meant I had less than four hours to bring the situation under control, or the nation would sink back into civil war. I told Henry I would call the CND and try to arrange for the RPF and Bagosora to speak to one another to negotiate an end to the rogue units and civilian killings. It was the only way I could think of to prevent the RPF from advancing south. No sooner had I put down the phone than Robert came in with another message from Kagame. He was offering to immediately reinforce the RGF with two of his battalions to assist them in getting the rogue units under control, especially the Presidential Guard. He needed an answer right away.
Relaying an offer of help from Kagame finally got a rise out of Ndindiliyimana and pushed a definite wrong button in Bagosora. He stood behind his desk, a portrait of the late president looking down on him from the wall as if Habyarimana were still watching his every move. His face contorted as he tried to maintain his facade of reasonableness. He told me to pass on his thanks to the RPF for the offer but he couldn’t accept. It was his problem to solve. I looked to Ndindiliyimana, the fence-sitter, for a sign of hope that he might consider using the RPF troops with subordinate elements of the RGF to conduct a counter-coup within the RGF against the hard-liners. There was none. He agreed with Bagosora. It was becoming clear that the moderates had no units in Kigali that were favourable to them. There might be some in southern Rwanda, but it was doubtful they could link up with the RPF and overwhelm the elite extremist RGF units. (Later I found out that the southern units themselves were thoroughly infiltrated with extremists.) I forwarded their refusal to Force HQ and asked again for the RPF to stay in the CND and behind the demilitarized zone.
If Bagosora was genuinely committed to Arusha, surely he would want to tell the RPF directly and make the necessary guarantees to prevent a resumption of hostilities. If he was opposed to Arusha and peace, he would have no interest in speaking to the RPF. Or he would continue to follow his usual path: appear to be co-operative as part of a deception to mask his true intentions. So I confronted Bagosora again on the issue of moving the rogue units back to their barracks and getting rid of t
he roadblocks. He was shuffling papers and signing them at his enormous desk, looking every inch the bored bureaucrat. Sunlight was pouring through the window onto the freshly painted walls, no phones were ringing, there were few visitors. He waved me over to the sofa where Ndindiliyimana was sitting, apparently relaxed, but I didn’t want to sit. He offered me tea or coffee, as if this were an ordinary visit on a slow day at the office.
Prime Minister Agathe was confirmed dead, I said, killed by the Presidential Guard. Bagosora responded that he was sorry, that this was just another example of the difficulties he was facing in trying to regain control of the rogue troops still reacting to the death of their beloved leader. I asked why he hadn’t resolved the standoffs at the airport and the crash site or been able to secure the release of my Belgians. I told him he had to guarantee freedom of movement to UNAMIR. Bagosora pleaded for time; both he and Ndindiliyimana were having logistical and transport problems. He had called and given orders to sort out the airport problem. As for the crash site, he said the Presidential Guard was operating on its own. The Guard appeared to be behind all the altercations and killings around town, I said. Bagosora claimed he was negotiating with their commanding officer to get them back into their garrison. There was no panic, no sense of urgency animating this man. Bagosora was either the coldest fish in Africa or he was the ghost of Machiavelli executing a subversive plan.