Ah, King Baudouin, the devout Catholic monarch of Belgium, a man whose faith was as strong as his silence in the face of bloodshed. It is said that faith can move mountains, but what of faith that stands still while millions are crushed beneath the weight of colonial exploitation? In a world where the divine is often invoked to absolve the sins of the powerful, Baudouin’s saintliness seems to be in question, or perhaps it’s just that his sins were buried too deeply in the soil of Africa. After all, when a monarch stands by, silently, while nations are torn apart, can his devotion truly shine through the fog of indifference? And now, as the Vatican considers beatifying him, we’re left to wonder: are we looking at a man of piety, or is he simply another emblem of the convenient amnesia that allows history’s injustices to fade from memory, especially when the victims are conveniently out of sight—and out of mind? The legacy of a Belgian king in Africa Let’s begin with the events that matter far more than the number of Hail Marys King Baudouin whispered before sleep. On July 25, 1959—the sudden and suspicious death of King Mutara III Rudahigwa of Rwanda raised immediate questions, yet the hand of Belgian authorities, under the watchful eyes of Baudouin’s regime, was never truly scrutinized. A Belgian doctor stood as the last person to see the Rwandan king alive, and his death is shrouded in mystery. Could this have been an accident or, perhaps, an engineered tragedy to clear the path for a more compliant successor? The details remain murky, but the shadow of Belgian colonial interests looms large. Then, January 17,1961—Patrice Lumumba, the first prime minister of the newly independent Congo, met a violent and premeditated end. His assassination was planned and executed by Belgian officials and other Western powers—an inconvenient truth that is swept under the rug of history. Baudouin, King of Belgium, was not a mere passive observer. His closest confidant, Minister Harold d'Aspremont Lynden, was deeply entangled in the events leading up to Lumumba’s death, and Baudouin’s silence on the matter speaks volumes. At no point did he express regret, nor did he extend an apology. The tragic legacy of Lumumba’s death stains the King’s name permanently. Congolese people, as well as historians, have long since concluded that Baudouin’s role in the assassination cannot be ignored. In Burundi, October 13, 1961 brought yet another tragedy: the assassination of Prince Louis Rwagasore. This murder, like the others, bore the fingerprints of Belgian imperial influence. The Belgian authorities, and King Baudouin’s regime, shielded the assassins and refused to acknowledge the hand they played in the bloody political game. Once again, Baudouin remained silent, never once condemning the murder or seeking forgiveness. His complicit silence is not a mere lapse—it is an endorsement of the brutal legacy of his monarchy in Africa. Now, turn your attention to Rwanda, where the seeds of genocide were sown long before the horrors of 1994. In the 1960s, the Belgian trusteeship in Rwanda supported the rise of a republican regime under President Grégoire Kayibanda. This regime, bolstered by Belgium, pursued a genocidal agenda against the Tutsi population, resulting in massacres during the Kayibanda era (1960-1973). Baudouin, ever the close ally of Kayibanda, not only tolerated these atrocities but offered his tacit approval. The friendship between the two men was as strong as it was morally bankrupt. Baudouin’s failure to condemn the killings is a stain on his legacy. Kayibanda’s visits to Belgium—most notably in 1966 and 1967—were not moments of reconciliation or condemnation but of cordial affirmation of a genocidal regime. Belgian archives and the testimonies of those who lived through these dark years reveal a monarch who failed to distance himself from these acts of terror, much less seek forgiveness for his implicit approval. A call for accountability Despite King Baudouin’s devout Catholicism and his public campaign against abortion, his political actions in the Belgian Congo, Rwanda, and Burundi have left an indelible mark of shame on his legacy. It is not enough to claim devoutness when one has turned a blind eye to the murder of democratically elected leaders, the complicity in the destruction of nations, and the silence in the face of genocidal regimes. His failure to acknowledge the political assassinations, his unwavering support for genocidal regimes in Rwanda—abominable. And, his reluctance to distance himself from the blood-soaked history of Belgium’s colonial empire render any attempt at beatification an insult to the very idea of sainthood. Baudouin’s lack of remorse, his refusal to apologize for these crimes, and his unending silence make it abundantly clear that his legacy is one not of piety, but of indifference to the suffering of the African people. Perhaps one of the most audacious examples of this tension is the Church’s consideration of King Baudouin for sainthood—a monarch who, in a move that could only be described as theological sleight of hand, abdicated his throne for a single day to avoid personally signing an abortion law. He then swiftly reclaimed it the following day, ruling with a “clear conscience” over Belgium, even as his country, in his own words, carried out what he considered a mortal sin. If such moral gymnastics are the standard for sanctification, one could be forgiven for wondering: can anyone truly call themselves a saint, or even a faithful servant of God, after engaging in such a deceitful maneuver? The Church’s apparent willingness to overlook the glaring contradictions in Baudouin’s actions raises uncomfortable questions about its priorities and its moral compass. But Baudouin’s moral quandaries are just the tip of the iceberg. His reign—especially over Belgium's colonies in Africa—was marked by a legacy of exploitation, violence, and silent complicity in the suffering of millions. It seems that, in the eyes of some, devotion can be so powerful that it defies the weight of history, evidence, and morality itself. Especially, that the beatification of King Baudouin of Belgium, a man hailed as a Catholic monarch, is in progress. This deeply ironic and contentious decision raises some fascinating questions about what we are willing to overlook in the name of sanctity, and how history often appears to be rewritten when it comes to figures of power. Bloody legacy King Baudouin’s devotion to his faith is not the problem; after all, he was not only pious but a fervent protector of his realm and its “interests.” But it is his political actions, or rather his deliberate inaction, in the face of some of the most brutal colonial crimes in Africa that should give pause. Baudouin’s legacy is inextricably linked to the brutal colonial history of Belgium. His granduncle, King Leopold II, whose reign over the Congo Free State is remembered for its brutality and mass atrocities, laid the foundations for a colonial system that Baudouin would inherit and perpetuate. By the time Baudouin ascended to the throne, Belgium had switched from the horrific excesses of Leopold to a subtler form of exploitation: neo-colonialism. While the colonies were officially granted independence, the mechanisms of control—economic, political, and cultural—remained firmly in Belgian hands. His role in the deaths of leaders, and his warm relations with genocidal regimes in Rwanda, paint a much darker portrait of this supposedly saintly figure. It appears that devotion is not always about prayer and piety; sometimes, it’s about remaining silent while others suffer, sometimes it’s about extending an olive branch to those who wield violence. After all, why bother with the moral complexities of decolonization, genocide, and assassinations when you can smile, exchange pleasantries, and maintain your royal dignity? But, as the saying goes, those who do not learn from history are doomed to turn it into a convenient story for the powerful. If King Baudouin’s piety should be enough to lead to his beatification, we must ask: What does that say about the Church’s stance on justice, morality, and truth? And more importantly, what does it reveal about how the world views African suffering? Racism and genocide indictment Nowhere is King Baudouin’s failure more evident than in Rwanda—a regime led by Grégoire Kayibanda. This regime institutionalized ethnic divisions and carried out massacres against the Tutsi population, laying the groundwork for the genocide of 1994. Kayibanda, an ally of King Baudouin, openly espoused genocidal rhetoric. His government orchestrated massacres in 1963 and beyond, with the King maintaining friendly ties to this regime. Baudouin could not claim he didn’t know what was happening in Rwanda. Key moments in this tragic history include: September 27, 1959: The publication of the Ten Hutu Commandments, a manifesto of anti-Tutsi hate, ignored by Belgian authorities. In early 1963: President Kayibanda, a friend of King Baudouin, openly used the term genocide in his speeches, foreshadowing future atrocities. His major speeches, including those from 1963 and beyond, are documented in Le Président Kayibanda vous Parle (1972). Late 1963: Kayibanda’s regime orchestrated mass killings of Tutsi, condemned by Pope Paul VI in a telegram to the Rwandan episcopate on February 6, 1964. Newspapers such as Le Monde (February 4, 1964), Le Témoignage Chrétien (February 6, 1964), and Le Figaro (February 11, 1964) also denounced it. Yet, King Baudouin remained silent and maintained his friendship with Kayibanda. The friendship with Rwanda’s ultra-racist and genocidal leaders continued under President Juvenal Habyarimana, who was considered devout Christian by Baudouin because they had to attend a mass in the Royal Chapel before a meeting. This did not translate into real life. King Baudouin’s failure to condemn these atrocities, or to distance himself from leaders like Kayibanda, underscores his moral complicity in the suffering of Rwanda’s Tutsi population. And now the Kivus in DRC. Roma locuta est: When silence speaks louder than doctrine The Catholic Church is no stranger to proclamations of universal truths. After all, the Scriptures boldly declare the unity of humanity under God. In Paul’s epistle to the Galatians (3:28), we are reminded: “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” And yet, for an institution that prides itself on upholding divine revelation, its silence in the face of genocide and crimes against humanity remains a stain on its moral fabric. This declaration by the pope to begin a beatification and eventually canonization of a king who became an enabler of genocide in Rwanda and violent crimes in the Great Lakes Region of Africa is an opportunity to start a serious conversation—the unity of humanity. One cannot help but wonder: is the Catholic Church reading a different Bible? Or is it simply too preoccupied with theological bureaucracy to address the pressing matters of life and death? Perhaps the Vatican has decided that silence is a virtue when it comes to mass atrocities like the Genocide Against the Tutsi in Rwanda or the genocidal killings in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). After all, Roma locuta est; causa finita est—Rome has spoken, the case is closed. But for those of us mere mortals trying to make sense of it all, the case is far from closed. The Second Vatican Council’s declaration, Nostra Aetate, stands as one of the most significant theological affirmations of human unity. It proclaims: “Humanity forms but one community. This is so because all stem from the one stock which God created to people the entire earth (see Acts 17:26), and also because all share a common destiny, namely God.” This is a clear acknowledgment of the shared origin and destiny of all people, a principle deeply rooted in Scripture. Shared humanity transcends boundaries of creationism and evolutionism. There is convergence. The declaration further states that divine providence and God’s saving designs extend to all humankind. It addresses humanity's shared existential questions—about suffering, sin, death, and the ultimate mystery of life. Nostra Aetate sought to foster unity and understanding among all religions and explicitly called for the rejection of hatred and discrimination. Yet, despite its lofty ideals, one must ask: why did it take centuries for the Church to acknowledge what was already declared in Genesis 1:27—that all humans are created in the image of God? Why did the Church’s history include doctrines and actions that contradicted this very principle, such as the colonial decrees that deemed some people less human than others? When silence becomes sacrilegious The hypocrisy becomes glaring when one examines how the Church has responded—or failed to respond—to genocidal acts. For instance, in Rwanda, during the Genocide Against the Tutsi, certain members of the clergy not only failed to protect victims but actively participated in their extermination. A Catholic Bishop, Focas Nikwigize, went so far as to declare that Tutsis were evil by nature. Such a declaration inherently question the Creator’s integrity and directly contradict the principles outlined in Nostra Aetate. And yet, the Vatican’s response was silence. Same as Rwanda’s Episcopal Conference. There was no universal condemnation from the Pope, no sweeping reform in Canon Law to proscribe genocide as the ultimate sin against humanity. This silence was not just indifference; it was complicity. Today, in the DRC, genocidal killings continue, with evidence posted on social media for the world to see. But the Church remains largely silent. There is no moral outrage, no pastoral letters to guide the faithful, no condemnation strong enough to match the scale of the atrocities. Instead, the Church occupies itself with ceremonial beatifications, such as that of King Baudouin, whose colonial legacy casts a shadow over his sanctity. Scripture proclaims unity, but actions betray it The Bible is unequivocal in its call for unity and justice. Genesis 1:27 reminds us that all humanity is made in God’s image. Acts 17:26 affirms the shared origin of all nations. Micah 6:8 calls us to “act justly and to love mercy.” James 2:8-9 condemns favoritism, stating that loving one’s neighbor is the royal law of Scripture. And yet, the Church’s actions often contradict these teachings. Its failure to explicitly condemn genocide in Canon Law reveals a troubling gap between doctrine and practice. What greater sin is there, than the systematic extermination of those made in God’s image? Ephesians 4:4-6 reminds us: “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.” If the Church truly believes this, it must act accordingly. Silence in the face of genocide is not just complicity—it is heresy. It is time for the Church to update its Canon Law to explicitly condemn genocide as the gravest of sins. It is time for bishops and priests to speak out unequivocally against crime—even if it means challenging political powers. And it is time for the Vatican to match its proclamations of universal brotherhood with concrete actions to defend the dignity of all humanity. Until then, we are left with the bitter irony of a Church that professes to be the moral compass of the world but often seems lost in its own labyrinth of contradictions. Indeed, Roma locuta est, but perhaps it is time for the faithful to say, Causa non finita est. A bitter reflection: Racism, indifference, and the legacy of empire Let us acknowledge, here we are—where the blood of millions can be ignored, brushed aside, or forgotten because the victims of these crimes were not white. This is the silent message conveyed by those who look past King Baudouin’s political transgressions, offering him sainthood while turning a blind eye to the horrific consequences of his actions. The casual dismissal of the murders in Congo, Rwanda, and Burundi reflects not just a failure to recognize a monarch’s culpability, but a deeper, more insidious racism. If the victims had been European, if the crimes had been committed in the heart of Belgium, perhaps there would be outrage, investigation, and justice. But when the victims are African, the scale of justice tips in favor of indifference. The Vatican’s potential canonization of a monarch who aided in the destruction of African nations is not merely an oversight—it is a glaring reflection of how deeply rooted racism remains in our judgment of history. Baudouin’s “devotion” was not an innocent act of faith; it was a shield to obscure the empire’s sins. His quiet endorsement of tyranny, and his failure to speak out against genocide—are the true stains on his legacy, and they should not be overlooked simply because the victims were Black. It seems fitting, then, that King Baudouin, a man whose legacy is wrapped in the blood-soaked history of Belgian colonialism, might be sanctified by a church that has long been complicit in the racial inequalities of the world. A saint among white supremacists, perhaps, but certainly not a man to be held up as a model of faith. If Pope Francis seeks to elevate Baudouin to sainthood, let it be a reminder that, in the eyes of the powerful, Black lives are still too easily erased from history. In the complex tapestry of history, the Catholic Church has often found itself at the crossroads of sanctity and moral compromise. If Baudouin’s canonization is a reflection of true Christian virtue, one wonders what other compromises the Church is willing to make. Perhaps it is time for the Vatican to redefine its standards for sainthood—not by turning a blind eye to history, but by confronting it honestly and with the moral courage that true faith demands. For without accountability, how can the Church ever hope to reconcile its divine mission with its earthly legacy?
