Open Letter to Rwandan Youth and Youth of Rwandan Origin Living in France
Dear young Rwandan women,
Dear young Rwandan men,
Dear children of the diaspora,
On the occasion of the visit to France of the Rwandan Minister of National Unity, Jean-Damascène Bizimana, it seems essential to address you—not to dictate a political position, but to invite you to do what lies at the very heart of responsible citizenship: to ask critical, free, and informed questions.
Many of you were born after the tragic events of the 1990s. Your memory of Rwanda is often shaped by official narratives, commemorations, institutional speeches, and sometimes also by silence or fear. Yet true unity is built neither on dogma nor on the repetition of imposed truths, but on the collective ability to confront history in all its complexity.
1. On the heroic narrative of the RPF and the end of the genocide
You may be told that the Rwandan Patriotic Front alone ended the genocide against the Tutsi and saved Rwanda from chaos.
But an essential question deserves to be asked: can a tragedy of such magnitude be understood through a single narrative, without examining multiple responsibilities, including those of the military victors?
Numerous studies, testimonies, and archives indicate that the strategic priority of the RPF during 1994 was primarily the military conquest of power, rather than the protection of threatened civilians.
How can one ignore, for example, Paul Kagame’s public statements in May 1994, in which he explicitly opposed any foreign military intervention that might have stopped the massacres, in the name of sovereignty and the ongoing military dynamic?
Why are these documented statements absent from the official narrative taught to the youth?
Why is any questioning of the RPF’s military choices in 1994 perceived as an illegitimate challenge to the memory of the victims, rather than as a legitimate attempt at historical understanding?
Above all, why is any question regarding crimes committed by the RPF during and after the war systematically disqualified, marginalized, or criminalized, even though reports by international organizations, foreign courts, and independent researchers have established the existence of massacres of civilians and serious violations of international humanitarian law?
Finally, why does the attack on the presidential plane on April 6, 1994—the event that triggered the genocide—remain a forbidden subject, even though judicial investigations conducted outside Rwanda and serious academic research have raised major questions regarding its perpetrators and responsibilities?
Can one honestly claim to build a peaceful national memory while locking away entire sections of history, sanctifying the victors, and criminalizing any search for truth that challenges those in power?
2. On the demonization of the past, the myth of infallible power, and the price of silence
You will likely be told that everything that preceded the RPF should be rejected entirely, as if Rwanda’s history had been nothing but a succession of failures and darkness, and that the current power represents a perfect break, without faults or abuses.
But what regime, after more than thirty years in power, can seriously claim infallibility?
Why is any attempt to nuance the past treated as a moral fault, or even as betrayal?
Why are the testimonies of those who say they lived with dignity before the arrival of the RPF systematically dismissed, as if they had never existed?
And above all, how can this discourse of moral excellence be reconciled with the repression of critical voices?
How can one explain the death in detention of Kizito Mihigo, artist and survivor of the genocide against the Tutsi, whose commitment to inclusive memory and peace led to imprisonment, persecution, and a death officially described as suicide but widely contested by numerous organizations and independent observers?
How can one explain that young Rwandans are arrested, intimidated, or forced into silence simply for denouncing poverty, unemployment, lack of prospects, and the absence of fundamental freedoms?
Since when has asking for food, work, or the right to speak freely become a suspicious—or even criminal—act?
Finally, how can one ignore the massive and continuous exile of Rwandan citizens since the RPF came to power?
If the current regime truly embodied justice, inclusion, and prosperity for all, why do so many Rwandan women and men—young people, artists, intellectuals, students, former officials, and ordinary citizens—continue to flee the country, sometimes at the risk of their lives?
Can one sustainably govern while proclaiming oneself the sole holder of moral good, while criminalizing memory, speech, and social distress?
Or must we recognize that no political project can be built on the denial of the past, fear of the present, and the enforced silence of its youth?
3. On accusations of participation in the genocide
You may be reminded that many former political or military leaders were involved in the genocide.
But an essential question arises: how can one distinguish, in official discourse, between legitimate and well-founded accusations and those that amount to political settling of scores?
How can it be explained that certain military officers, political leaders, and senior officials of the former regime were never prosecuted—sometimes even promoted or rehabilitated—once they joined the RPF or pledged allegiance to the current power?
Did their responsibility disappear simply by changing sides? Or does this selectivity reveal a justice applied with double standards, serving a political project rather than the truth?
Why have so many historical opponents been accused without benefiting from internationally recognized fair trials or basic guarantees of defense?
Why do some judicial files rely on single, sometimes contradictory testimonies, obtained under pressure, without real opportunity for contradiction or effective appeal?
Even more troubling, how is it possible that a mere accusation—sometimes coming from any individual—can, in public and institutional space, carry the same weight as a final judicial conviction?
Since when has the presumption of innocence ceased to exist, replaced by automatic guilt that is politically useful and historically convenient?
Asking these questions does not mean denying the crimes of the genocide against the Tutsi, nor minimizing their gravity.
It means refusing the instrumentalization of justice, the rewriting of history according to political alliances, and the use of victims’ memory to legitimize arbitrariness.
4. On accusations of denialism
Whenever a current opponent questions the responsibilities of those in power or calls for a pluralistic reading of history, they are frequently accused of denialism.
But can denialism seriously be confused with the search for historical truth, academic debate, or political criticism?
More seriously still, how can it be accepted that even survivors of the genocide against the Tutsi have been publicly accused of denialism—including by the Rwandan Minister of National Unity, Jean-Damascène Bizimana—simply because they dared to criticize the RPF, question certain official narratives, or call for inclusive memory?
Can one honestly speak of freedom of expression when every dissenting voice is immediately criminalized, without debate, nuance, or contradictory examination?
And how should one interpret the fact that this same minister refused a contradictory debate in Belgium in 2018 on the very definition of denialism, preferring condemnation over dialogue?
How can one understand his refusal to testify in a trial aimed precisely at distinguishing what truly constitutes denialism from what amounts to political criticism, defamation, or slander?
If the truth is so clear and established, why fear judicial, public, and contradictory debate?
Can a national memory be healthy when it equates questioning with crime, turns history into dogma, and transforms justice into an instrument of political disqualification?
Or should a memory worthy of its name rest instead on the confrontation of facts, plurality of voices, and the courage to look even at what is uncomfortable?
5. On laws against “genocidal ideology”
You will be told that these laws protect national unity and prevent the return of hatred.
But why is no one able to clearly define what they cover or the precise limits of their application, leaving room for broad, vague, and arbitrary interpretation?
Why are these laws mainly used against political opponents, journalists, artists, or critical intellectuals, rather than against proven hate speech?
Why do they so often serve to silence, disqualify, or criminalize dissent, rather than to genuinely protect society?
Why do these laws appear to be applied asymmetrically, systematically protecting only one component of the population, while calls to hatred, stigmatization, or dehumanization targeting the other ethnic group proliferate on social media—sometimes publicly, often without prosecution, investigation, or conviction?
How can one speak of national unity when the law is used as a selective shield, rather than as an equal instrument of protection for all?
Can the fight against genocidal ideology be credible if it tolerates, trivializes, or ignores certain hatreds, as long as they serve the dominant narrative?
Finally, why have international human rights organizations, including Amnesty International, expressed serious concerns about the use of these laws, denouncing their political instrumentalization and incompatibility with freedom of expression?
Can a law meant to prevent hatred fulfill its mission when it becomes a tool of fear, silence, and division rather than a common foundation of justice and equality?
6. On proclaimed national reconciliation
You may hear about impressive national reconciliation rates, quantified, repeated, and brandished as proof of undeniable success.
But can reconciliation truly be measured in percentages, without recognition of all victims, without full truth, and without rehabilitation of those unjustly accused?
How can one speak of reconciliation when victims of mass crimes committed by the RPF—whatever legal qualification is given to these crimes—have never obtained justice or even official recognition in a narrative presented as national and inclusive?
Can one seriously speak of unity when certain sufferings are erased, denied, or made unspeakable by those in power?
What does it mean to reconcile when families who dared to speak about murdered relatives are insulted, intimidated, persecuted, or publicly accused of denialism?
How can we forget that well-known figures such as Corneille, whose family was killed by RPF soldiers on April 15, 1994, saw their words minimized, disqualified, or instrumentalized when they did not perfectly fit the official narrative?
Can a reconciliation that listens to only part of the victims, that hierarchizes the dead and sanctifies the victors, still bear that name?
Is one-sided reconciliation true reconciliation—or merely a demand for silence imposed on the defeated and the grieving?
Behind the word “reconciliation,” is there not in reality a demand for allegiance to those who won the war, an injunction to accept an official truth as a condition for national belonging?
Can a society rebuild sustainably on imposed peace, without fair justice, mutual recognition, and the right to speak for all victims?
7. On the war in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo
You may be told that Rwanda has no role in the conflict in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo.
Yet how can one explain that numerous reports by international experts, regional organizations, and partner states reach opposite conclusions, documenting military, logistical, and political involvement by Rwanda in this conflict?
Why are these reports, produced by independent and recognized bodies, systematically dismissed as conspiracies, fabrications, or lies, without ever leading to a public, fact-based contradictory debate?
How can one explain the contradictory statements of President Paul Kagame, publicly claiming not to know that Rwandan troops were on Congolese soil—an assertion that raises profound questions about sincerity?
How could a head of state ignore the presence of his army on the territory of a neighboring country?
And above all, how can it be understood that Rwanda went on to sign peace agreements with the DRC concerning a conflict in which it officially claims no involvement?
How can one sign peace in a war one claims not to participate in?
Is such a political and diplomatic paradox not unprecedented in contemporary international relations?
Who benefits, then, from the refusal of transparency, the inversion of responsibilities, and the criminalization of those who dare to ask these legitimate questions?
Can one seriously speak of durable peace and regional stability when truth itself becomes a battlefield?
Dear young women and men,
Asking these questions is neither an act of hatred nor a betrayal of the memory of victims, nor even a partisan political stance.
On the contrary, it is an act of responsibility, dignity, and intellectual courage.
Refusing half-truths, pointing out obvious contradictions, demanding answers grounded in facts and law—this does not divide; it rejects lies (ikinyoma) and hatred by proxy (munyangire).
Loving one’s country does not mean remaining silent, but wanting it to rest on truth, justice, and equality of all human lives.
The future of Rwanda—and that of its diaspora—will depend on your ability not to passively inherit a frozen narrative, but to question history in all its complexity, without fear and without taboo.
A truly reconciled Rwanda can only exist when no suffering is denied, no memory is forbidden, and no political loyalty is required in exchange for the right to belong to the nation.
You are the generation that will carry this responsibility tomorrow.
Not as accusers, but as guardians of truth, justice, and the dignity of the entire Rwandan people.
By Jambo ASBL
Done in Brussels, Belgium
February 20, 2026