The intersection between human rights advocacy and political commentary can often be fraught with contradictions, biases, and unintended consequences. One such instance lies in the works and words of Kenneth Roth, the long-time executive director of Human Rights Watch (HRW), whose writings and advocacy on Rwanda have sparked considerable storm. His April 11, 2009 article; The Power of Horror in Rwanda, published in the Los Angeles Times and on HRW’s website, reflect a horrifying and often overlooked tendency to validate narratives that sympathize with genocide denial and the very ideologies that perpetrated the horrors of 1994. Roth's article, begins with a provocative assertion: that the Rwandan government uses the genocide as a cover for repression. The statement, published during the genocide commemoration week, is not just provocative—it is an uncivilized mischaracterization. Roth, tacitly diminishes the enormity of the genocide and opens the door for revisionist narratives to flourish. The Genocide Against the Tutsi was not an ordinary historical event but a premeditated and systematic attempt to exterminate an entire ethnic group. For Roth to suggest that Rwanda's commemoration of this genocide and its efforts to criminalize genocidal ideology are forms of repression is to treacherously downplay the genocide's gravity. His framing insinuates that the government is manipulating the genocide for political gain, rather than recognizing the ongoing trauma and the need for vigilance against ideologies that could lead to a repeat of such horrors. Advocating for space for Genocidal ideology One of the most concerning aspects of Roth's article is his lament over the lack of what he calls meaningful opposition in Rwanda. He seems to imply that the absence of political groups like the Republican Rally for Democracy in Rwanda (RDR) and its offshoot FDU-Inkingi, known for their roots to the genocidal regime of 1994, constitutes a lack of democracy. What Roth frames as a call for political diversity is, in reality, a call to legitimize voices that actively promote genocidal ideologies. Roth’s notion of “meaningful opposition” is problematic and dangerous. The figures he seems to endorse as legitimate opposition—like Victoire Ingabire, Gaspard Musabyimana, Charles Ndereyehe, Ishema Party of Thomas Nahimana or Jambo Asbl—are not dissidents in the traditional sense. They are individuals who have repeatedly questioned the established narrative of the genocide, trivialized its impact, or outright denied it. By equating the suppression of these ideologues with repression, Roth consciously validates their genocidal rhetoric. This is not a call for democracy; it is a call to give a platform to hate and division. To advocate for political space for genocidal ideologies is to ignore the fundamental lessons of Rwanda’s history. The unchecked spread of hate speech and divisive propaganda in the early 1990s directly led to the mass murder of Tutsis. Allowing genocidal rhetoric to compete in today’s political arena is not an exercise in free speech; it is a reckless endangerment of Rwanda’s hard-won peace and stability. Roth describes the Gacaca courts, community-based justice mechanisms that were established to handle the enormous caseload of genocide-related crimes, as one tool of repression. He argues that Gacaca had “morphed into a forum for settling personal vendettas or silencing dissident voices.” This view is very simplistic and profoundly disingenuous. The Gacaca courts were designed to provide a form of restorative justice that traditional legal systems could not offer due to the overwhelming number of cases. While there were indeed challenges and imperfections, the overall intention and impact of the Gacaca system were to foster reconciliation, truth-telling, and healing within communities. Roth’s narrative about Gacaca aligns closely with the rhetoric used by those who oppose any accountability for the genocide. It downplays the necessity of such a system in post-genocide Rwanda and frames it as a political tool rather than a mechanism for justice. This narrative conveniently mirrors the grievances of genocidal forces who lament the loss of power and impunity. Roth’s critique thus provides subtle support to these forces by suggesting that mechanisms aimed at dealing with genocide perpetrators and fostering reconciliation are themselves oppressive. Roth’s article further raises alarms by suggesting that criminalizing genocide ideology leaves little political space for dissent. This framing is deeply irresponsible. Suggesting that combating genocide ideology is a form of restriction on political freedom, Roth implies that genocidal beliefs should be allowed to compete in the political arena. This is a deeply problematic standpoint that ignores the destructive power of such ideologies and their role in fostering mass violence. Genocide ideology is not a form of legitimate political dissent; it is an incitement to hatred, violence, and ultimately, genocide. The Genocide Against the Tutsi was made possible by the spread of such toxic ideologies, which were allowed to proliferate unchecked. Roth’s argument essentially calls for allowing the same ideologies to re-enter the political mainstream. Roth’s argument here parallels the logic of genocide ideologues, who often claim that any attempt to suppress their hateful rhetoric is an infringement on their rights. This logic, if left unchecked, can create an environment where hate speech and incitement to violence are normalized under the guise of free expression. Roth’s framing is an implicit endorsement of the idea that genocidal ideologies deserve a platform, an idea that has catastrophic implications for peace and stability in Rwanda and beyond. The prophecy of another Genocide The most troubling aspect of Roth’s article lies in his implicit endorsement of a narrative that suggests Rwanda could face another genocide if its government continues on its current path. He warns that people might resort to their ethnic identity to fight repression and argues that the best way to prevent another genocide is to insist that Kagame stop manipulating the last one. This is a thinly veiled threat that aligns disturbingly with the rhetoric of known genocide ideologues. This statement is both dangerous and thoughtless. It suggests that the responsibility for any future genocide would lie with the current Rwandan government and not with those who might perpetrate such an atrocity. This is a classic tactic used by genocide ideologues: to blame potential victims or their protectors for the violence that might befall them. Roth’s assertion essentially serves as a warning that if the government does not change its approach, another genocide could occur, and it would be its own fault. This type of rhetoric is not only fatalistic but also provides a perverse justification for future violence. This narrative bears a striking resemblance to the writings of Jean Marie Ndagijimana, a notorious genocide ideologue and propagandist. In the book, ‘How Paul Kagame Deliberately Sacrificed the Tutsis,’ first published in French in April 2009 Ndagijimana issues what he frames as a warning, ostensibly on behalf of what he terms “the frustrations of a powerless people.” He cautions the international community to be vigilant, claiming there is a risk of driving “the Rwandan people into a new apocalypse that will make the genocide of 1994 seem like a road accident.” Roth’s article was published the same month, and the parallels in their arguments suggest a disturbing alignment of thought. To anyone familiar with the discourse of the genocidal clique that orchestrated the 1994 genocide, the phrase “Rwandan people” as used by Ndagijimana is a veiled reference exclusively to the Hutu population. This form of language manipulation is typical among those who seek to rewrite the tragic history of Rwanda by downplaying the genocide's realities and shifting blame away from the perpetrators. Ndagijimana’s usage of the term “apocalypse” echoes the language of Théoneste Bagosora, one of the principal architects of the genocide, who famously referred to his genocidal plan as an “apocalypse.” By framing his warning in such terms, Ndagijimana not only appropriates the language of genocide but also seems to evoke a vision of an even greater catastrophe. To contextualize this rhetoric, it's essential to understand Ndagijimana’s political background. He is often described by the likes of Kenneth Roth as part of the so-called meaningful opposition in Rwanda. This grouping includes figures like Victoire Ingabire, who has long been associated with the Republican Rally for Democracy in Rwanda (RDR) and later, the FDU-Inkingi, both of which have ties to genocidal ideology and denialism. The so-called opposition they represent is not one rooted in legitimate political disagreement or democratic advocacy but rather in an agenda that seeks to sanitize the history of the genocide, blaming the current Rwandan government for what they allege to be retaliatory injustices while ignoring or denying the established facts of the genocide. When Ndagijimana suggests that another genocide will “make the genocide of 1994 seem like a road accident,” he is, in effect, minimalizing the brutality of the 1994 genocide where over a million Tutsis were systematically murdered in a span of just 100 days. Imagining a catastrophe so extreme that it would dwarf this is a monstrous trivialization of the suffering endured by the victims. It reveals a deeply disturbing mindset: one that is willing to frame an unimaginable level of death and destruction as a political necessity or, worse, as a form of democratic resistance. The notion of “democracy” becomes twisted into something unrecognizable, where the slaughter of innocent people is reimagined as a justified or even necessary outcome of political frustration. What exactly was going through the mind of Jean Marie Ndagijimana when he penned these words? It is not hard to infer. The genocidal narrative he propagates is one in which the Hutu majority—seen as oppressed and unfairly maligned—is pushed to the brink by what they describe as the injustices of the post-genocide government led by President Paul Kagame. To these ideologues, the loss of their political dominance is a grievance so great that it justifies, or even necessitates, a scale of violence that could eclipse the genocide. Ndagijimana’s rhetoric suggests a preference for a catastrophic upheaval rather than reconciliation or peaceful political evolution and a united Rwanda. Finding such a perspective to be a reasonable political reaction speaks volumes about the deeply entrenched genocidal ideology that still festers among certain factions in the Rwandan diaspora and opposition. It is an ideology that not only denies the reality of the genocide but also prepares the ground for future violence by presenting it as an inevitable or even righteous response to perceived oppression. Roth and Ndagijimana’s rhetoric is a disquieting reminder of the lengths to which genocide ideologues will go to distort history and stoke fear and hatred. By framing the potential for another genocide as a mere “political reaction,” he, like others in his camp, dangerously flirts with a narrative that threatens to reopen Rwanda's deepest wounds rather than heal them. The world must remain vigilant against such discourse.
