Some individuals are born storytellers, but then there are those who tell stories so absurd that they can only be described as the apostles of distortion. Hold on, if hypocrisy were an Olympic sport, Christine Coleman and Emmanuel Neretse would undoubtedly win gold.

In a world saturated with revisionist history and the glamorization of mass murderers, these two have emerged as champions of denial, distortion, and dehumanization.

Reverend Christine Coleman in Denver, Colorado in USA— and Emmanuel Neretse in Brussels, Belgium are among the prophets of a new, laughable gospel.

The former, a self-proclaimed bearer of divine wisdom, wields her supposed spiritual calling to spread propaganda as dangerous as it is ludicrous. On top of being a woman of cloth, she is a politician opposed to the government of Rwanda.

The latter, a vanquished military man and genocidal ideologue, cloaks his venom in pseudo-intellectualism, all while painting a picture of Rwanda that seems drawn from the fever dreams of Hutu Power extremists. Together, they have forged a partnership that aims not to enlighten but to deceive, poison, and perpetuate the lies that fueled the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi.

Coleman and Neretse share a common mission: rewriting Rwanda’s history to align with the narratives of genocidaires. Yet their methods differ. Coleman relies on outlandish claims and religious grandstanding, while Neretse employs a subtler yet equally insidious approach, masquerading as a historian of the so-called lost "Republics” of Rwanda.

Their work is a toxic blend of genocidal nostalgia and denialism, and their combined efforts represent a disturbing escalation in the global campaign to rewrite one of history’s darkest chapters.

Coleman’s gospel of hate

Christine Coleman’s most infamous foray into international politics began in 2018 when she penned a letter to two U.S. Congressmen on the House Human Rights Commission. In this epistle of hysteria, Coleman painted Rwanda as a dystopian nightmare.

She claimed Rwandans were being told how to think, dress, eat, reproduce, and even farm. Of course, Coleman offered no evidence to back these claims. Instead, she relied on an old trick: mix exaggerations with dog-whistle rhetoric, and you have a recipe for fearmongering.

This letter was not an isolated incident. Coleman has built a career on weaponizing her religious platform to amplify the voices of those who still mourn the loss of Hutu Power. Her 2020 self-published book, ‘SOS Rwanda’s 30-Year Apocalypse’, is the magnum opus of her campaign.

The title itself signals her alignment with genocidal language, echoing Colonel Théoneste Bagosora’s infamous 1993 threat to unleash an apocalypse during the Arusha Peace Talks. Bagosora kept his promise in 1994, orchestrating the slaughter of over a million Tutsi. Coleman’s decision to echo his words is not merely provocative; it is deliberate.

Throughout her book, Coleman vilifies the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) and Tutsi as the architects of Rwanda’s supposed apocalypse. In Coleman’s twisted narrative, the real victims of her apocalypse are not the Tutsi who were butchered in churches, schools, and streets but the Hutu genocidaires who lost political power.

She goes further, accusing the Rwandan government of authoritarianism for enforcing laws against hate speech and genocide denial. Such rhetoric aligns perfectly with Hutu Power’s propaganda playbook: invert the roles of victim and perpetrator, and portray genocidaires as freedom fighters.

Coleman also leans heavily on her tenuous connections to power. A profile photo of her with US President Donald Trump, shared widely on her X (formerly Twitter) account, is her version of a credibility badge.

Never mind that this same photo has been used by countless grifters attempting to bolster their credentials. For Coleman, even the thinnest veneer of legitimacy suffices to lend weight to her otherwise baseless claims.

The hell’s special envoy

The facade of Reverend Christine Coleman, with her Roman collar neatly encircling her neck, is that of a typical messenger of salvation—a servant of God entrusted with guiding souls toward righteousness. Nonetheless beneath this outward appearance lies something far more ominous: a purveyor of deception and damnation.

Coleman’s clerical collar, traditionally a symbol of purity, obedience, and devotion to the service of God, has become a tool of manipulation—a disguise for her allegiance not to the divine, but to Beelzebub himself.

In the Christian tradition, the clerical collar for priests holds deep spiritual significance. It symbolizes a priest's consecration to God, a commitment to walk the path of righteousness without straying. The white band represents purity, a reminder of the wearer’s obligation to follow the teachings of Jesus and dedicate themselves fully to the Church.

It is meant to be a personal and public testament to a sacred mission—a life of self-sacrifice, humility, and unwavering fidelity to the divine.

For Christine Coleman, however, the clerical collar serves an entirely different purpose. Instead of embodying purity and divine obedience, it operates as a decoy, concealing her true allegiance to a malevolent agenda.

Beneath the sacred garment, Coleman orchestrates a campaign of genocidal politics and hateful rhetoric, cloaking her pernicious intentions in the language of faith. Her messages, be they in her book, her speeches, or her tirades on the "X" platform, reveal a pattern of malevolence, distortion, and conflict-ridden politics.

Coleman’s political messaging through her so-called opposition party, the Movement for the Republic and Democracy (MRD)—which she created in 2023, is a case study in demagoguery. She invokes the appearance of piety to defend and justify genocidaires—the architects and executors of the Genocide Against the Tutsi.

In doing so, she betrays not only the memory of the victims but also the core tenets of the faith she claims to represent. Her clerical title, a symbol meant to inspire trust and holiness, becomes a mask for the Beelzebub she truly serves.

Instead of spreading messages of peace, unity, and healing, she pedals division, hatred, and denial, turning her pulpit into a platform for destruction.

Her God-given mission, if ever there was one, has been abandoned in favor of an unholy crusade to rewrite history, rehabilitate the image of genocidaires, and inflame tensions. She has strayed so far from the path of righteousness that it seems she never intended to walk it in the first place.

Her title ‘Reverend’ is just a costume. She does not serve the divine but manipulates its symbols to serve her own agenda. Her allegiance is not to God’s teachings but to the genocidal narratives that seek to absolve the guilty and vilify the innocent.

Her messages of salvation are poisoned chalices, offering not grace but condemnation to those who follow her lead.

Her rhetoric is a far cry from the humility and compassion expected of a true servant of God. Instead of bringing people closer to the light, she lures them into darkness. Instead of guiding them to salvation, she leads them toward damnation.

In Coleman’s hands, the liturgical vestments—supposed to be a universal emblem of purity and purpose, became a tool of desecration. It serves not to glorify God but to propagate hatred under the guise of faith. Her actions stand as a glaring reminder that symbols, no matter how sacred, can be weaponized by those who have turned away from their intended meaning.

She has not merely strayed from the path of righteousness—she has chosen to forge a path of destruction, all while masquerading as a servant of salvation.

It is not God who guides Rev. Christine Coleman’s actions. It is Beelzebub, whispering poison into her ears, twisting her words into weapons, and using her platform to spread damnation.

She is not a shepherd leading a flock to safety; she is a wolf in clerical garb, leading them into the maw of destruction. It is the unholy path she has willingly chosen to tread.

When "republicans” mourn their genocidal utopia

If Emmanuel Neretse had his way, history books would proclaim the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi as the tragic loss of a utopian republic—a democratic paradise brought to ruin by, you guessed it, the "bloody Tutsi.”

Forget the reality of ethnic segregation, state-sponsored massacres, and decades of oppressive regimes. According to Neretse, Rwanda was a guiding light of peace under the Hutu Power republics, and their collapse was akin to a celestial body falling from the heavens.

His book, ‘Ils ont tué la République rwandaise: Histoire d'un retour à la féodalité tutsi’ (They Killed the Rwandan Republic: The History of a Return to Tutsi Feudalism), doesn’t just rewrite history—it builds an alternate universe where Rwandan genocidaires are noble "republicans” and their victims are the architects of destruction.

The book poses questions about Rwanda’s political trajectory: Why did the revolutionary project of 1959, which ended what Neretse calls "centuries of bloody Tutsi monarchical domination” and established the Republic, fail in 1994? Why couldn’t Rwandans preserve the so-called achievements of the Republics that were, according to him, aimed at ensuring national peace? What future remains for Rwanda’s youth under what he describes as a "dictatorial and quasi-feudal regime" since 1994?

For those unacquainted with the coded language of genocidaires, Neretse’s arguments might seem like legitimate political criticism. But to anyone familiar with the discourse of Hutu Power ideologues, his rhetoric is unmistakably genocidal.

His narrative sets up a false dichotomy between two opposing forces: the "monarchy” of the Tutsi—depicted as a centuries-long reign of "bloody” oppression—and the "Republic” led by Hutus, which he idealizes as an era of national peace and progress.

Stripped of its deceptive façade, his lamentation is not about a failed republic but about the failure of the genocidaires’ project to exterminate the Tutsi. According to Neretse, the so-called republicans’ inability to carry out the genocide to its conclusion and their subsequent military defeat at the hands of the Rwandan Patriotic Army (RPA) marked the tragic "death of the Republic."

This warped reasoning implies that peace in Rwanda could only exist in the absence of Tutsis—a horrifyingly criminal mindset that Neretse romanticizes as the lost republican ideal.

*‘Republican’ Ideal: A Peace Built on Genocide*

Neretse’s characterization of the "Republic” is rooted in the ideology of the MDR-PARMEHUTU (Republican Democratic Movement—Party for the Emancipation of the Hutu Majority), which rose to power in 1959 after violent pogroms that displaced thousands of Tutsi and destroyed the nation.

For the MDR-PARMEHUTU, the idea of the Republic was tied to the ethnic exclusion of Tutsi, a framework institutionalized under the first and second Republics. Neretse’s book hearkens back to this era with nostalgia, ignoring the structural violence and genocidal underpinnings that defined these so-called Republics.

In his writing, Neretse frames the Genocide Against the Tutsi in 1994 as a tragic but necessary effort to restore what he considers the republican order. The irony of his rhetoric lies in his claim that the Republic was "aimed to ensure national peace."

In reality, the republics he praises were founded on ethnic segregation, persecution and the systemic marginalization of Tutsi. Peace, for Neretse, is synonymous with the total erasure of those he deems threats to his vision of a Hutu-dominated Rwanda.

Neretse’s lamentation over the so-called failure of the Republic echoes the sentiments expressed by genocidal ideologues in the aftermath of 1994. One such group, the Rassemblement pour le Retour des Réfugiés et la Démocratie au Rwanda (RDR), led by Théoneste Bagosora, outlined their genocidal worldview in a June 1996 document titled ‘United Nations Security Council Misled about the Presumed "Tutsi Genocide" in Rwanda.’

The document divides Rwandans into two camps:

Inyenzi: "A vernacular term used to designate the pro-RPF trend. By extension, that term is used today to designate even foreigners who are supporting the RPF."

Interahamwe: "A vernacular term used to designate the republican trend. By extension, that term also applies to any person who no longer wishes to collaborate with the RPF, even if he is a foreigner."

This framing reveals the genocidaires’ blatant division of society: those aligned with their genocidal agenda (the so-called republicans) and those who opposed it (dismissively labeled as Inyenzi).

For Neretse, the true republicans are the perpetrators of genocide, and the so-called killers of the Republic are those who resisted their extermination campaign. By this twisted logic, the only pathway to national peace was through genocide—a position that Neretse adopts unapologetically in his book.

MDR-PARMEHUTU and MRD: Different acronyms, same ideology

Neretse’s longing for the lost Republic is not just a historical reflection; it is a call to action for modern-day genocide ideologues, deniers and their political descendants. This is where Reverend Christine Coleman as President of her MRD—come into play.

The MRD’s name bears a striking resemblance to the MDR-PARMEHUTU, with only a rearrangement of words separating the two acronyms. But beneath this superficial difference lies a continuity of ideology: a commitment to ethnic exclusion, historical revisionism, and the glorification of genocidaires.

The original MDR-PARMEHUTU came to exist in 1959 on a platform of ethnic division, claiming to represent the majority Hutu population against the so-called feudal domination of the Tutsi monarchy.

Its pseudo-revolutionary rhetoric masked a genocidal agenda, which culminated in the pogroms of the 1960s and the systemic marginalization of Tutsi under the first and second Republics.

Similarly, Coleman’s MRD cloaks its genocidal ideology in the language of democracy and republicanism. It presents itself as a political opposition movement but operates as a platform for denying the Genocide Against the Tutsi, vilifying the current Rwandan government, and perpetuating the myths of Hutu victimhood and Tutsi domination.

The parallels between the two movements extend beyond their names. Both the MDR-PARMEHUTU and the MRD portray themselves as champions of democracy while advancing exclusionary ideologies. Both frame the Tutsi as existential threats to the Hutu majority and justify violence as a means of securing peace. And both use the language of republicanism to disguise their true aim: the preservation of a genocidal order.

Their work is not merely an affront to Rwanda but a global warning. If hate can be rebranded and exported so easily, then no nation is safe from its corrosive influence. The MRD, with its "Made in the USA" stamp, is a plain notice that the battle against genocidal ideology is far from over. And as Coleman and Neretse continue to preach their poisonous gospel, the world must remain vigilant, ensuring that their message of hate does not take root in fertile ground.

*The ‘republican’ dream and the true death of the ‘republic’*

If anything died in Rwanda in 1994, it was not a genuine republic but the genocidal regime that masqueraded as one. The so-called republican ideals that Neretse and Coleman mourn were never about democracy, equality, or national peace.

They were about consolidating power through racialized nation and violence. The republic they lament was built on a foundation of hatred, and its collapse marked the end of an era of state-sponsored genocide.

Neretse’s book and Coleman’s political movement are attempts to revive this lost order. Their rhetoric, while wrapped in the language of history and democracy, is a thinly veiled continuation of the genocidal ideology that led to the deaths of over a million Tutsi in 1994.

They represent the intellectual and political heirs of the MDR-PARMEHUTU, using modern platforms to spread the same hateful messages that fueled the genocide. Reverend Christine Coleman and her political reincarnation of the genocidal MDR-PARMEHUTU, picks up where Neretse’s lamentations leave off.

Together, they pine for a bygone era that never existed—a glorious "republic" where peace was defined by the absence of Tutsis. This introduction to their ideological Disneyland deserves a sarcastic smirk, for their claims are as audacious as they are absurd.

Ah, the tragedy of lost dreams! Neretse mourns the republic like a failed love affair, except his "love” was a genocidal regime draped in the hollow rhetoric of peace. Christine Coleman’s MRD follows the same tune, a poor remix of the genocidal MDR-PARMEHUTU anthem.

The irony is rich: they call themselves republicans, but their vision of a republic requires bloodshed and ethnic cleansing. They speak of democracy, but only if it excludes an entire group of Rwandans.

What Neretse and Coleman offer is not a roadmap to a better Rwanda but a nostalgic retreat into hate-filled fantasies. Their republic is dead, and thank goodness it is. Rwanda has moved on, building a nation that values unity, human dignity, resilience, and progress.

So let us mourn with them—but only for comedic effect. Shed a tear for their lost paradise, the kind that exists only in the fevered dreams of genocidaires. And then, with a clear conscience, move forward, leaving their twisted nostalgia behind, where it belongs—in the trash heap of history.