Rwanda Injustice

Rose Hannaford

Back in 10th grade, we did a unit on the Rwandan genocide. It was one of the few times I cried unabashedly in class. I wrote it after school in a rush of fiery, tear-soaked passion. This is basically what I hoped could have been done during the crisis. It took me an hour and a half of constant typing.

“All right, I’ve had enough!” The voice rose above the tumult of the President’s speech, and he paused, confused. “This bullshit has gone on LONG ENOUGH!”

The crowd of White House managers parted for a disgruntled and furious-looking old man. His brow and wrinkles told the crowd of his age; the scar that ran down his right cheek and onto his neck, and the medals pinned halfheartedly to his jacket told them of his veterancy.

His shoulders were square as he marched up the opening, faster than any of them would have guessed, and he shoved the President off to the side as he commandeered the microphone. The old soldier - General, the crowd realized, with the insignia on those medals - waved off the security that rushed to the President’s aid. “Clear off! I’m not here to hurt Mr. Clinton. I’m here to save him a damn lot of trouble in the long run.”

The security slowed, and instead of rushing to the soldier, they rushed instead to the fallen President. As they helped him up, the soldier began speaking into the microphone.

“I’ve listened to all the blathering,” he snapped, “all the bureaucratic nonsense about money problems, all the risk it might take to send anyone to Rwanda to help. I’ve listened to the UN dither on how to name the situation that’s going on down there, whether it’s genocide or whether it’s just a situation. I’m damned tired of it all, and I hope that you are all too. While we mill about, wondering what to do, what, if anything, we should do, I’ve decided that if the President himself doesn’t know how to act, and I do, then it’s my cue.” He glared at them all. “There are things that are needed to be done in Rwanda, and I will get them done!”

The crowd was dead silent. All eyes pressed upon his face, flicking occasionally down to the medal pinned to his vest. No move nor sound was made to contradict him nor to affirm him. They were waiting for his next move.

So, apparently, was he. “Well?” he barked. “What are you all waiting for?”

“Orders, General Pertinan,” someone said as they stepped forward. The crowd’s eyes - and the cameras - zoomed in on this man’s face. It was a UN ambassador, black-haired with a Mediterranean complexion, familiar with the general as evidenced by the ease of which he spoke.

“Orders,” the general breathed, and a new light came into his eyes. He was no longer blindly angry. He was stern, cunning, crafty, ready to build an attack plan. “Very well. I’ll give you your orders.”

“You!” his hand thrashed out at someone in the crowd - “You are from the committees discussing the tanks, correct? Whether or not to send them in, who’s to pay for what? Tell the committee to send the tanks in, and I will pay for them personally. I will pay for transport, men, arms, whatever needs be paid for. I have the money. Cost is no object, though if you people get greedy, I’ll be after your guts. Go! We must have the signatures all signed by tomorrow morning! Hours cost lives.”

As the woman scurried off, he shoved another finger at someone in the crowd. “There are three brave men still in Rwanda, trying to help the situation, but only one of them is an American. Remedy that. Communicate with aid worker Carl Wilkins. We have heard that he is trying to smuggle innocent Rwandans out of the country. Contact him and tell him that he has all the help he needs, and give it to him. Helicopters, airplanes, a speedboat for across any lakes - hell, I don’t know Rwandan geography - whatever he needs, supply it.”

“How will we justify this in the UN, sir?” the person he indicated called out.

“Justify it?” he bellowed. “Guns are shooting and people are dying. If that’s not good enough justification, I’ll have words with them myself.

“You!” he shouted. “There’s an African troop working to smuggle Rwandans out through a hotel - name was Mbau, was it? Help him out. Send him 100 to 200 troops to start with - discreetly. Don’t let the people who’re doing the shooting find out where his base is. Once those troops are settled in, open up a - discreet - communications line so we can send whatever he needs.

“I don’t want to throw out the possibility of negotiations, still, though that’s been clearly disastrous so far,” he said grudgingly. “I want someone to open up conversation with the new Prime Minister. I’ve heard he might even have a heart these days - according to our reliable Carl Wilkins, he allowed the aid worker to save a bunch of orphans who were surrounded by the machete-carrying killers. Start with him. Get our best negotiators out there, and move from there. If anyone criticizes, tell them we are opening diplomatic relations. We wouldn’t even be lying”

As someone ran off to fulfill those orders, he turned his head slightly. “Now for our best officer. Ever since the situation has started, there’s been a phenomenally persistent peacekeeper from the UN who has been begging for help. Send Romeo Daullaire some troops - start with five thousand, give him whatever he asks for. He won’t get greedy. Put him in charge of the entire situation, even. He’s damn competent, listen well to him.

“Now, as for the ones doing the shooting, well, we need to do something about them. No force, not yet, except for defense. You! Military commander - oh, another General. Listen well, then. Open battle will not help us here - we will not be directly responsible for killings yet. We are already indirectly responsible,” he added with a glare at the President, off the stage. “but there’s nothing we can do about that now. The UN won’t let us use force, so we won’t. We won’t give these attackers a minute of peace, either. You have good scouts? Reconnaissance men? Scout out the enemy camps and harass them. Take or spoil their food, any mounts, put down traps - no lethal ones, just irritating - do your best with their weapons, make noises to keep them from sleeping, whatever you can to stop or slow them while negotiations are going on and innocents are evacuated.”

It was a mark of the respect the old veteran commandeered among the military men that the general he spoke to looked not at all abashed by being instructed by someone of equal rank. He nodded and marched out of the room.

There was a pause as the old general considered what he had forgotten. “Medical supplies!” he bellowed. “Out of the appalling numbers of dead we have been receiving, there must be more than three times that number wounded! Begin search parties, look in places the attackers have hit. The scout teams can also tell us where they’re about to hit, if they can figure it out, so do what you can for those places. Help anyone left alive, set up medical tents, best equipment! Red Cross has some doctors, don’t they?” When someone in the crowd nodded, he barked, “send them! Your best doctors!”

“The international community won’t stand for this,” the President said in the back. He had no microphone, but everyone heard him nonetheless. Up until now, the only voice in the room had been the old general’s. “We have not agreed to do anything as of yet.”

“Exactly!” the old man roared. “Why do you think I am here? I don’t care what the international community will stand for! There is only one international subject I am interested in, and that is Rwanda. Will you label me a traitor? Well, I label you one as well! I am a traitor to the United States, fine. But you, mister president, are a traitor to Rwanda. All of those who have failed to act are traitors to Rwanda! Those who have argued idly back and forth about whether the killings that are going on are genocide, which we know it is, those who have ordered reporters specifically not to use that word, are traitors! The Belgian leaders who were too cowardly to pull out their troops without America doing the same are traitors! The leaders of the UN are traitors - except for the Nigerian ambassador,” he added, “that one’s a good one. We are all traitors here! Hundreds of thousands have died already, and we sit in our countries twiddling our thumbs! What is it you are waiting for? For the dead to jump up and yell, ‘Gotcha! It was all a just a joke!’? For the killers to put down their weapons and say they’re sorry? For someone else to do something for the Rwandans? You are not acting like proud countries, you are acting like a classroom full of nervous teenagers! What is this foolish UN for? To look good on a badge? The UN was made to stop these things from happening! You are obligated to help, by basic humanity if you listen, by law if you must. Oh, how evil fair-weather friends are. We offer fake friendship, but leave in the midst of trouble when it appears we are in danger… then, when it’s all over, offer fake apologies to the multitudes of tortured, mutilated humans, those we proclaimed equal, that all men are created equal… Where’s your equality when thousands are slaughtered, eh? Where’s your goddamned equality? Oh, and if terrorists were to attack America, would the Africans come to our aid? Equal aid, one and all? Or would they come and rescue only the black people, acting as we have? Or would they do nothing, because our inability to act has bled the continent dry of empathy for our blind, bloated, pathetic existence?!”

There was a ringing, stunned silence at the end of the general’s speech. No one dared to answer. All were looking at the floor ashamed.

“America the beautiful,” the general said, full of bitterness. “Oh, America. There is nothing beautiful about what we have been doing now. What good does spacious skies and amber waves of grain do for the indifferent consciences in our hearts? What would the purple mountain majesties think of us now, eh, if they could speak? If God shed his grace on thee… I have not seen it in this crisis. I am ashamed of America. I am appalled of America. I have spent sixty-five years living in it, twenty years fighting for it, and now in barely a month has it shown just what appreciation it has for those years.” He shook his head, tears now brimming in his eyes. “There is nothing we can do to atone for this. I weep for those who cry in agony and I join those who shake their fist at us for our inactivity. We have all caused it. We all deserve it.”

The general stared at the crowd as everyone bowed their heads, then stepped off the podium and walked away slowly.