The Tingi-Tingi Hutu Refugee Massacre

Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM

For the God on the mountain, Is still God in the valley, When things go wrong, He’ll make them right (By Lynda Randle & Bill and Gloria Gaither

The Creation of Tingi-Tingi Refugee Camp

As we commemorated our first Christmas on Wednesday, December 25, 1996, enveloped by the dense Ituri jungle, we cherished the rare tranquility that had eluded us for so long. Emerging from the early group of Tingi-Tingi arrivals, I bore three distinct burdens on my back: a plastic sheet serving as makeshift shelter, a sack brimming with essential medications, and a Bible – an emblem of solace. My journey was uniquely challenging, exacerbated by my use of crutches due to a Tutsi-inflicted ankle injury during the horrific Kibeho refugee camp massacre of April 22, 1995. Braving the terrain on crutches, a testament to my youthful determination, I could cover over 40 kilometers each day. The makeshift plastic tent, referred to as “sheeting” among refugees, stood resolute by December 27, 1994. Uncertainty clung to my thoughts as I contemplated the fate of my family – my mother, father, and siblings – post the Kibumba onslaught. Amidst my daily vigil at the Tingi-Tingi camp’s entry point, hopes of reuniting with a familiar face dwindled, leaving a disheartening void.

Survival within Tingi-Tingi proved a relentless ordeal, worsening by the day due to the crippling scarcity of sustenance. Upon our arrival, the once-surrounding aerodrome was encircled by expansive cassava and palm plantations that seemed to stretch indefinitely. Despite the apparent abundance, a cruel twist of fate drove us to invade the indigenous plantations in search of cassava and palm oil for sustenance. The swelling numbers, reaching around 500,000 refugees within weeks, rapidly depleted these once-teeming fields of cassava, mountain rice, and palm oil. As desperation grew, a grim conflict erupted between the indigenous populations and us refugees, both sides fiercely battling for survival. Tragically, many refugees succumbed to indigenous arrows laced with venomous snake toxins, while the indigenous communities too suffered casualties as they vigorously defended their resources.

A Catholic priest hailing from Kisangani embarked on a mission of compassion and awareness by utilizing a modest light aircraft, similar to the one depicted, to deliver humanitarian aid. While the plane’s carrying capacity was limited, its significance extended far beyond its size. With unwavering dedication, the priest employed this small aircraft as a powerful tool to shed light on the ongoing genocide targeting the Hutu refugees in the Democratic Republic of Congo. In the face of immense challenges, the priest’s resolute spirit and empathetic nature had a profound impact, offering solace and hope to the countless Rwandan Hutu refugees ensnared in the jungles of Tingi Tingi.

The captured image encapsulates the Walikale airstrip, serving as a poignant symbol of our escape from Kagame’s unrelenting onslaughts. With aspirations of finding sanctuary here, a glimmer of optimism emerged, hinging on the prospect that the well-connected road in Walikale could bridge the gap between us and humanitarian organizations – a vital source of support for the most vulnerable among us: the children, expectant mothers, and the elderly. These groups bore the brunt of fatigue from our strenuous journey and the tribulations that tested us. However, our arrival shattered these aspirations, unveiling the harsh truth of Walikale – a desolate place devoid of the essential aid we so desperately required. Notably, the aircraft visible in the image are en route to transport precious minerals like gold, diamonds, cobalt, uranium, lithium, and coltan, abundant in the Walikale region. Some of these aircraft are left abandoned when local insurgents strike, vying for a portion of the spoils.

Amid this heart-wrenching struggle, the humanitarian organizations remained conspicuously absent, influenced by Western directives that essentially condemned us to perish in the depths of the Ituri forest – a somber truth underscored by the UN Mapping Report on DRC in 2003. My own survival strategy took a unique turn; I began bartering my medicines with indigenous communities, exchanging remedies for rice, edible roots, and palm oil. My unconventional prescriptions, benefiting from the lack of prior exposure to conventional medicine, earned me recognition as a budding healer, solidifying my role as a sought-after young doctor within the confines of Tingi-Tingi.

God’s guiding hand in my life continued to reveal itself in the most unforeseen ways. The medicines I had carried were originally acquired from two men who had salvaged them amidst the wreckage of Mugunga refugee camp. In their roles as security guards, they had witnessed turmoil unfold firsthand. As the upheaval intensified, they wisely appropriated these medications, foreseeing their potential value amidst the uncertainty ahead. However, it wasn’t until our journey brought us closer to River Lowa that the limitations of their understanding became apparent, as the languages inscribed on the medicine packets remained unintelligible to them. Recognizing my modest proficiency in languages such as German, English, and, of course, French, they turned to me, hopeful for assistance. Clearly articulating their requirements, they sought medicines to counteract prevalent afflictions like malaria, wounds, and diarrhea – conditions likely to plague fellow refugees. Leveraging my education in biology, I resourcefully secured a select number of suitable medications. Graciously, they insisted that I keep the surplus. This serendipitous transaction would later prove pivotal, as these medicines went on to make a profound impact on my life and that of countless refugees within the confines of Tingi-Tingi.

As weeks unfolded, a resilient Catholic priest remained steadfast in his commitment to our cause. The very man who had touched down with a modest light aircraft in Walikale persevered in tracking our arduous journey. Upon our arrival in Tingi Tingi, his enduring support persisted, albeit limited. He extended aid to vulnerable segments of our population – children, pregnant and breastfeeding women, and ailing refugees – providing meager rations of biscuits and essential medications. His small aircraft had its limitations, yet I am resolute in my belief that his gestures of compassion salvaged the lives of some precious children. Regrettably, despite these acts of mercy, our surroundings bore witness to ongoing loss, the toll of deaths felt acutely as hunger and diarrhea ravaged our ranks. Tragically, the urgency of our situation allowed no room for discernment between nourishing cassava and its poisonous counterparts, leading to fatalities. In a matter of weeks, we mourned the loss of over 15,000 souls, with children, women, and the elderly comprising the majority. The air around Tingi Tingi refugee camp carried an unmistakable scent of death. Observing our encroachment on their communities, the indigenous inhabitants chose to relocate, seeking refuge at a distance from the encampment.

The Catholic Humanitarian Intervention

Later, the unwavering efforts of the Catholic priest to extricate us from the throes of catastrophe bore fruit. We earnestly invoke blessings upon him, fervently hoping that the heavens recognize his selfless deeds and grant him an exalted place amongst their ranks. Gradually, our bleak horizon began to brighten with the sight of planes descending, laden with the sustenance we so desperately required. Among the first to reach our beleaguered camp was the Italian Caritas Internationalis, extending a lifeline of humanitarian aid that marked a turning point. Soon, a procession of planes followed suit, each arrival carrying a payload of hope.

Action Against Hunger, a notable French humanitarian organization, joined the endeavor, supplementing our relief efforts with their compassionate contributions. Subsequently, we discovered that the Catholic priest from Kisangani Parish had been fervently rallying support from Catholic communities in Italy and France, catalyzing their intervention on our behalf. In swift succession, refugees embarked on an organized distribution system, ensuring equitable allocation of the vital provisions. The establishment of prefectures and communes facilitated this process, although in some corners, the tragic shadow of RPF Tutsi soldiers had decimated entire communities, rendering some communes scarcely populated. With the advent of food distribution, vitality coursed back into our beleaguered refugee community, slowly resuscitating our hope-deprived spirits. By this point, January 1997 had arrived, yet the anticipated response from English-speaking nations’ humanitarian organizations such as WFP, USAID, UKAID, and UNHCR remained conspicuously absent. Instead, the proactive aid efforts hailed from French, Italian, and Spanish organizations, becoming the beacon of our salvation and embodying the power of international solidarity in action.

In this poignant photograph from January 1997, two young refugee children – a boy and a girl – appear as kindred spirits, engaging in play amidst the challenging circumstances of the Tingi Tingi refugee camp. Their demeanor exudes a carefree happiness, seemingly eager to embark on explorations within the Congolese jungle. Unbeknownst to them, the impending reality casts a shadow over their innocent joy. Soon, their carefree moments would be shattered as they find themselves in a desperate retreat, fleeing the relentless onslaught of Tutsi soldiers that has dogged their steps since October 1996. The tragic turn of events becomes starkly evident when considering that during the RPF’s attack on the Tingi Tingi refugee camp, countless children fell victim to the massacre, forever altering the lives and hopes of these young souls.

The Arrival of Sadako Ogata

Soon, news rippled through the refugee camp, igniting a mixture of anticipation and skepticism: Sadako Ogata, the UNHCR president, a Japanese woman, was reportedly en route to visit Tingi-Tingi. Despite the raging turmoil as the Tutsi regime surged across East DR Congo, relentlessly massacring Hutu refugees from Rwanda and Burundi, Ogata had maintained an unsettling silence. This silence, however, was not unexpected; refugees held the collective awareness that she was entangled in a broader geopolitical narrative, one that seemed to consign Hutus in the region to annihilation. Her organization, UNHCR, had seemingly aligned with the orchestration of propaganda aimed at coercing Rwandan Hutu refugees to return to Rwanda, thereby bolstering the newfound Tutsi regime’s legitimacy. This endeavor was emboldened by the Bill Clinton administration’s overt backing of the Tutsi regime, both politically and militarily, amplifying its claim to rule Rwanda despite a lack of true representation.

The heart of the matter lay in the fact that Rwanda had been left almost devoid of its populace – over 80% had sought refuge across neighboring countries, leaving the Tutsi-led regime without substantial indigenous support. In response, Sadako Ogata emerged as a pivotal figure, striving to enforce the return of Rwandan refugees through any available means. Her initial strategy centered on UNHCR-led propaganda campaigns across refugee camps, urging repatriation, an approach that rapidly faltered given the ominous fate that awaited those who returned. Desperate to break the resolve of millions of defiant Rwandan Hutus, Ogata resorted to slashing humanitarian aid provided by UNHCR, WFP, and USAID from 100% to a mere 25%. This cruel move had dire consequences, thrusting countless innocent Hutu refugees, particularly women and children, into the grip of starvation. Despite the intensified pressure, Rwandan Hutus stood their ground, steadfast in their refusal to yield to Ogata’s coercive tactics.

Arriving in Tingi Tingi during December 1996, thousands of Hutu children bore witness to a harrowing reality – countless of their young compatriots, numbering in the millions, had already succumbed in the refugee camps of Eastern DRC. The ruthless hands of Tutsi soldiers, under the command of Kayumba Nyamwasa and Paul Kagame, had orchestrated their demise. Amidst this tragedy, the surviving children stood as testaments to resilience, yearning for sustenance as they awaited the arrival of humanitarian aid, their sole source of nourishment. Captured in a poignant image from January 1997, these children embodied the somber contrast between survival and the unfathomable losses they had endured. [Photo: Google]

This image captures a poignant moment in Tingi Tingi, where a multitude of Hutu refugees is depicted, receiving a vital lifeline from a dedicated humanitarian aid worker. The provision of porridge marked a crucial step towards their recovery, having endured months of arduous journeys without sustenance, all while facing the grave threat posed by Tutsi soldiers in the Congo. The photograph, taken in January 1997, serves as a testament to the unwavering commitment of organizations such as Caritas Internationalis and other Catholic humanitarian bodies, alongside the French humanitarian organization ACTION CONTRE LA FAIM. Amidst immense adversity, these aid providers reached out to alleviate the refugees’ suffering. [Photo: Courtesy of Google]

Out of frustration, Ogata initiated a sinister scheme, collaborating with the RPF regime under General Kagame to exploit UNHCR facilities for smuggling weapons into Rwandan Hutu refugee camps across Eastern DR Congo. Since January 1996, humanitarian organizations in Zaire began surreptitiously stockpiling weapons and ammunition in their warehouses, facilitating RPF soldiers’ infiltration into the refugee camps. Among the notable discoveries was a cache of arms in the WFP warehouse in Kibumba, a revelation that further eroded trust. Tainted by a growing catalogue of grievances, including the malevolent actions of some Tutsi spies affiliated with the UNHCR, Sadako Ogata’s impending visit to Tingi-Tingi refugee camp held little promise of amelioration; for many, her visit was merely a grim reminder of her seemingly adversarial stance and we were not wrong.

Upon Sadako Ogata’s arrival at the Tingi Tingi refugee camp, her presence was marked by a glaring absence of meaningful aid or support for the beleaguered refugees. Landing on the airstrip, she delivered a succinct but revealing speech that left no doubt about her contempt for Hutu refugees, the anger in her words unmasked. Greeted by emaciated, starving children who held up signs asserting their right to life, her reception was a stark contrast to the grandiosity that typically accompanies official visits. Addressing a gathering of more than half a million refugees from Rwanda, Burundi, and Eastern DR Congo, Ogata’s words echoed with a chilling ultimatum – she proposed the sole option available to us was a return to Rwanda. Should we consent, she promised the deployment of countless planes to extract us from the Ituri jungle, ferrying us to the new Rwanda. Conversely, if we dared to resist, she ominously warned of her inability to deliver humanitarian aid, painting a grim picture of potential massacre within the Congolese jungle, where our fates could disintegrate into obscurity – a prophecy that unfolded a month after her departure from the Tingi Tingi refugee camp.

In this poignant photograph, a Rwandan refugee couple, visibly emaciated and worn down by the rigors of flight and the unrelenting Tutsi attacks on Hutu refugees in Tingi Tingi, are making their way towards a plane operated by the Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF). This aircraft was part of an evacuation effort aimed at transporting a select group of privileged refugees. These individuals had ties to affluent relatives and Christian acquaintances who had chartered the MAF planes, facilitating the escape of their loved ones from the confines of the Hutu refugee camp in Zaire to the safety of Nairobi, Kenya. Taken in February 1997, this photo serves as a stark reminder of the disparities in opportunities and access during times of crisis. [PHOTO: Courtesy of Google]

The poignant scene depicted the arrival of a Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF) plane, a lifeline for refugees whose fortunate connections spanned across Western countries and other African nations, including Kenya. Chartered by relatives and affluent Christian friends, these aircraft bore the promise of evacuation, rescuing those fortunate enough to have secure ties. Against the backdrop of the menacing backdrop of Tingi Tingi refugee camp, where the Tutsi soldiers allied with Kabila Senior relentlessly massacred Hutu refugees in February 1997, this display of privilege stood in stark contrast to the grim plight faced by many. Amidst the gathering of onlookers, I found myself among them, desperately hoping to secure a spot on that plane. However, my lack of connections proved to be an insurmountable obstacle, and my efforts to board ended in bitter disappointment. With no connections to rely upon, I faced the inevitable reality that I would have to wait for the grim day when the Tutsis’ aggression would claim my life.

Add Your Heading The Mission Aviation Fellowship

Following Sadako Ogata’s departure and the gradual settling of the upheaval, life within the confines of the Tingi Tingi camp exhibited a temporary return to normalcy. In my capacity as a makeshift pharmacist, I remained steadfast in serving the needs of both refugees and the local Congolese populace, facilitating access to crucial medications. With the influx of Congolese businesspeople bringing their wares into the camp, a nascent atmosphere of trade took root, marking a subtle shift in dynamics. Those fortunate enough to have escaped with dollars seized the opportunity to relish a sense of enjoyment, their resources granting them a semblance of respite. This trade activity was further energized as Congolese individuals began transporting goods via their own vehicles, catalyzing a transformation that gradually saw the Tingi Tingi refugee camp evolve into a rudimentary settlement.

The indomitable spirit of the refugees manifested in the establishment of makeshift schools, a collective effort to ensure that the younger generation did not forfeit their education amidst the adversity. As refugees tenaciously pursued the path of reconstruction, those with privileged connections across Western nations and Africa discerned openings for escape from the looming threats. During this time, chartered planes commenced a regular pilgrimage to the Tingi-Tingi airstrip, resembling avian emissaries entrusted with a sacred mission – to deliver lists bearing the names of the chosen ones, the favored and anointed, their rescue orchestrated through the resources of well-connected kin.

Emerging from Nairobi’s Wilson Airport, these aircrafts appeared as emissaries from a distant realm, evoking a sense of celestial haven, a tangible connection to the divine. Upon their graceful descent, pilots disembarked, tasked with the solemn duty of verifying identities, painstakingly comparing the photographs in hand with the emaciated figures standing before them. The ordeal of prolonged starvation had rendered us ghostlike, our physical appearance transformed to shadows of our former selves, making photographic identification an arduous endeavor. Recognizing this challenge, personal narratives and connections assumed vital significance, as survivors recounted their stories and affiliations, striving to bridge the gap between past photographs and their present realities. A succinct yet pivotal interview followed, a crucible through which passage to salvation was determined, bestowing entry onto the awaiting vessel.

For the refugees within the confines of the Tingi Tingi camp, the arrival of these planes bore an air of finality, as if heralding the last emissaries before the eruption of impending chaos. Among these aircraft, the resonance of the Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF) planes was particularly poignant, carrying with them the essence of Christianity itself. Their flight into our lives evoked parallels to the timeless tale of Noah’s ark, a resonant symbol of hope preceding the storm. Just as in that ancient narrative, only the chosen were granted passage onto these aircraft, a profound selection that mirrored the gravity of our situation.

The Mission Aviation Fellowship (MAF) planes making their journeys to Tingi Tingi were orchestrated by affluent Christian pastors based in Nairobi, positioning the MAF as a formidable driving force. Among these pastors were individuals who not only pursued their education at esteemed Christian universities in Kenya but also fostered significant friendships with affluent American Christians, some of whom maintained associations with the MAF. United by a shared commitment to their faith and a deep wellspring of compassion, these individuals endeavored to assist Rwandan Hutu pastors in their mission to rescue their loved ones ensnared within the labyrinthine expanse of the Congolese jungle.

The frequency of these flights prompted me to hatch a daring plan: to board one of these aircrafts, inviting my demise at their hands rather than languishing in Tingi Tingi, awaiting an inevitable fate. The very name of the organization, Mission Aviation Fellowship, became etched in my mind as I contemplated my fate. Upon learning of its Christian affiliation, I acknowledged that whether I remained entrenched within the Congolese wilderness or ventured onto that plane, my destiny appeared sealed. Observing how refugees were summoned and embarked onto the aircraft – much like entrants to Noah’s ark before the flood – I plotted my entrance.

In the midst of swirling rumors concerning the encirclement by Tutsi soldiers and rebels, a moment of profound significance materialized. One Thursday in February, an MAF plane hovered above us, a harbinger of vital importance. It beckoned to us, a signal for refugees to clear the airstrip, its wings casting a shadow of uncertainty. The refugees shared a collective sentiment, a whisper in their hearts that this flight might be the last bastion of hope before the inferno was unleashed. Amidst this charged atmosphere, I positioned myself, resolute in my audacious undertaking, poised for the unfolding event.

In this heartrending image, a Hutu refugee man stands burdened by grief, having recently lost his wife. With tender care, he envelops her lifeless form in a blanket, seeking the collective support of fellow refugees to carry out the somber task of laying her body to rest within the jungle of the Tingi Tingi refugee camp. This photograph captures a profound moment that embodies the unimaginable toll of the dire circumstances. Thousands of refugees fell victim to the relentless grip of starvation, malnutrition, and the absence of vital humanitarian aid. The visual narrative of this picture, taken in January 1997, resonates as a stark testament to the suffering endured within Tingi Tingi, telling a story of profound loss and shared struggle. [Photo courtesy: Google]

Captured in this photograph is Sadako Ogata, the President of UNHCR, during her visit to the Rwandan Hutu refugees in Zaire on February 8, 1997. Thousands of emaciated children greeted her, a poignant reflection of their dire circumstances. In their own words, they expressed their pressing needs for sustenance, their fundamental human rights, and adequate shelter. Among the refugees, an elderly Rwandan Hutu, also malnourished, is seen extending a greeting to Sadako Ogata. While her visit carries significance, her actions were overshadowed by the stark realities on the ground. Regrettably, she had been perceived as supporting the new Tutsi regime in Kigali, and her perceived inaction contributed to the tragic loss of thousands of Rwandan refugees, casting a shadow over her tenure.

As the names of the chosen ones resounded, I understood that I was not among their ranks, a fact underscored by my relative obscurity. But in the face of this seeming exclusion from the final modern-day Noah’s Ark, I was resolved not to let anything deter me from my pursuit between salvation and my impending fate. With swiftness born of determination, I cast aside my crutches and surged towards the entrance of the plane. Yet, my determination was shared; a throng of fellow refugees surged ahead, propelling the pilots inside the aircraft. Holding onto the plane’s door, my grip was steadfast and unwavering, even as the combined weight of those who joined me heightened the precariousness of my position.

The inexorable outcome swiftly unfurled. Those already aboard the plane exerted a concerted effort, propelling us who clung to the door, ensuring our expulsion from the aircraft’s threshold as it taxied for takeoff. We descended precipitously onto the airstrip below, the sight akin to sacks of cement being released from a considerable height. Amid this abrupt descent, my opportunity to partake in a metaphorical ascent to a “heaven” alongside the Mission Aviation Fellowship irreversibly eluded my grasp. As I lay on my back upon the expanse of the Tingi-Tingi strip, my gaze fixed upon the ascending MAF plane vanishing into the realm of clouds, a contemplation seized me. Amidst the unfolding drama, I found myself ruminating on the intricate interplay of poverty and Christianity. The poignant realization struck me—those entrenched in poverty indeed persist in their pursuits to the end.

Upon the MAF plane’s vanishing into the veils of clouds, my two friends, Nteziyaremye, the son of Ahorinyuze, and Nkundwanabake, the son of Kibagariye, who had been observing my ill-fated attempt from a distance, found mirth in my mishap, laughter resonating within them. As my descent resembled that of a discarded sack, they approached me, their presence offering solace amidst the lingering truth of my thwarted endeavor. With compassion in their gaze, they urged me to rise from the ground, to cast off the remnants of the fall, as if symbolically gesturing toward the hope for another day, despite the prevailing uncertainty within Tingi Tingi refugee camp. Slowly grounding myself in the present, I ascended, the act of brushing off dust a metaphor for resilience. Limping towards my crutches, I embarked on a path back to my shelter, anticipating the approach of evening, a time to congregate with fellow refugees in the makeshift church we had erected at the camp’s entrance.

The Last Night in Tingi Tingi

Weeks had now elapsed, and the unsettling rumors of Tutsi rebels tightening their grip around our refuge, Tingi Tingi camp, had surged. As was my routine, seeking solace in the midst of the sweltering sun, I ventured to the nearby Tingi Tingi river for a bath while awaiting the embrace of evening, a time when the church provided a semblance of humanity amidst the trials endured. Amidst the cleansing ritual, a peculiar sensation stirred within me, an ethereal whisper guiding me away from the river’s edge to the shelter of our “sheeting” abode. Nestled within its confines, I opened my Bible, seeking solace in its verses, unaware of the inexplicable urging that lay ahead. The impulse to visit a Congolese friend residing near the Lubutu shopping center seized me, tugging insistently at my thoughts. Sharing my intent with friends—Nteziyaremye Damien, Nkundwanabake, and Abiyingoma—elicited playful jests, suggesting my longing for the Congolese vegetables adorned with maggot-like insects that had once unwittingly crossed my palate. Aware of the incident that had left me vomiting for a week, they taunted me in camaraderie. Undeterred, clutching my Bible, I bid them farewell, promising to reconvene the following day, and embarked on my journey to spend the night at my Congolese friend’s dwelling.

Celestin, my Congolese friend, lived about 4 kilometers from the Tingi Tingi refugee camps and around 1 kilometer from the Lubutu shopping center, strategically positioned before the Lubutu River bridge. This made his home an ideal vantage point to stay informed about activities in both the refugee camp and the shopping center. Our friendship grew from a shared bond and mutual aid. He played a pivotal role in establishing the Protestant church in Tingi Tingi, providing essential scriptures for our sermons, Bibles, and daily devotionals. His support extended to various needs of our refugee church. Beyond this, he skillfully bridged the gap between refugees and locals, fostering harmony between the communities. This friendship evolved into a profound mentorship during my teenage years, offering solace and guidance on my challenging refugee journey.

Upon reaching Celestin’s home, I received the customary warm welcome, complete with the delightful chill of freshly dug cold palm juice, roasted cassavas, and an assortment of game meats. To complement the meal, there was the quintessential Congolese specialty, “Sombe,” a dish crafted from cassava leaves paired with smoked fish or even edible insects. Drocelle, Celestin’s wife, embodied the essence of hospitality and generosity, epitomizing the spirit of African Ubuntu. Following this nourishing evening repast, we transitioned into a session of fellowship and worship, delving into the teachings of the Word of God. With heartfelt farewells, we wished each other a peaceful night’s rest, anticipating the warmth of a shared breakfast upon the morrow. Little did we realize that this dinner would stand as our final shared moment. Unbeknownst to us, that very night marked the onslaught of the Tutsi soldiers and rebels, as they descended upon the Tingi Tingi refugee camp.

“Kisangani and tingi tingi diary” stands as a poignant documentary film, shedding light on the harrowing journey of rwandan hutu refugees escaping the brutal onslaught of tutsi soldiers in zaire. This film, discovered by hubert sauper, chronicles their struggle for survival from the heart of the ituri jungle in zaire/dr congo. The documentary provides a vivid account of their enduring hardship, dramatic rescue, and ultimately, their tragic massacre. General kayumba nyamwasa and paul kagame, leading tutsi soldiers, orchestrated the devastating loss of over 200,000 rwandan hutu refugees between the regions of tingi tingi and kisangani. The western organizations and media outlets had been discouraged from documenting these atrocities, but a handful of courageous journalists, including hubert sauper, nikolaus geyrhalter, and zsuzsanna várkonyi, defied the danger, risking their lives to capture these grim truths. As survivors of the massacres orchestrated by general kayumba nyamwasa and other tutsi forces, we are forever indebted to those who preserved the memory of our suffering through their unyielding commitment to truth and justice.

This video documentary, directed by nikolaus geyrhalter, hubert sauper, and zsuzsanna várkonyi, presents a harrowing account of rwandan hutu refugees dispersed throughout the dense jungles of the congolese ituri region in zaire. I was among the more than 800,000 rwandan hutu refugees who became lost for an agonizing three years, cut off from the reach of humanitarian organizations in the area. Abandoned to their fate within the depths of the congo forest, the unhcr played a tragic role in allowing these refugees to perish without a trace. The documentary captures the arrival of the first train in this african region on march 27, 1997, carrying aid workers, a tv crew, and the zaire red cross. Upon arrival, they encountered scenes of devastation – destroyed camps, dying children, scarcity of medicine, water, and sustenance – culminating in a devastating famine. The lenses of “kisangani diary” traverse multiple refugee camps (ubundo, ubila, kasese), revealing the profound tragedy. Subsequently, unicef, grappling with remorse for leaving these children abandoned to their fate in the congo forest, collected 2,500 children who had been orphaned by the tutsis’ brutality.

As I settled into Celestin’s visitor room on the night of Friday, February 28, 1997, a sense of tranquility enveloped my heart. It wasn’t that my surroundings were free of turmoil, but rather the result of an evening spent in worship and earnest prayer for peace. Thus, I drifted off to sleep like a contented child. Yet, around 3 am on Saturday, March 1, 1997, my slumber was abruptly shattered by Celestin’s urgent voice at the visitor’s door. Explosions echoed in the distance, and the relentless cacophony of shelling emanated from the nearby Lubutu shopping center. Amidst the chaos, the anguished cries of the fleeing multitude mixed with the helpless pleas of mothers trying to calm their terrified children. In those early morning hours, the tranquility of the Tingi-Tingi refugee camp was shattered as Tutsi soldiers, under the command of General Kayumba Nyamwasa and Paul Kagame’s army (RPA), laid siege to the camp, mercilessly massacring those unable to escape their wrath – children, women, and the infirm who couldn’t outrun the onslaught of men.

The grim tableau unfolded before me as I bore witness to the enemy’s deployment of the BM-13 launcher, more commonly referred to as Katyusha – a Russian-crafted rocket artillery designed to unleash a relentless barrage of lethal projectiles. The Rwandan refugees, familiar with the sound of Katyusha, colloquially dubbed it “Kadahusha” in Kinyarwanda, signifying an arrow that never misses its mark. We understood that whenever the enemy deployed the Katyusha, a devastating toll on lives was imminent. The sight sent an icy shock through my veins, prompting me to swiftly gather whatever essentials I could, hastily securing my crutches. Amidst the chaos, farewells were a luxury we couldn’t afford for Celestin and his family.

With the boundary of their fence fading behind me, I navigated through an arrowroot farm and onto the road, where a multitude of refugees had converged. Though devoid of a clear understanding of the unfolding catastrophe, the weight of the Tutsi soldiers’ intent hung heavily in the air – an intent to obliterate us. Amidst the bedlam, the unrelenting fire of multiple machine guns and recoilless launchers converged upon us from the direction of our intended sanctuary: the Lubutu shopping center, poised just across the span of the River Lubutu bridge. As comprehension grappled with chaos, and the notion of seeking refuge within the dense forest took root, the onslaught intensified. A torrent of Katyusha rockets plummeted from above, indiscriminately snuffing out lives and drenching us in a macabre deluge of flesh and hot blood, whose metallic scent bore a haunting resemblance to the Ferrous sulfate drug used to treat patients with iron deficiency anemia. Time seemed to stand still, and within that grim tableau, the realization solidified – this, it appeared, was destined to be my final day. When my eyes next opened, we were already traversing the expanse of the Lubutu River Bridge.

The deployment of the Katyusha multiple rocket launcher by the Tutsi soldiers had its origins in the Rwandan conflict, tracing back to the first day they invaded Rwanda on October 1, 1990. This utilization was facilitated by the support of Yoweri Museveni’s army, which had procured the Katyusha Rocket Launcher from the Soviet Union. The Katyusha, known as Stalin’s Organs, was originally a “shock and awe” weapon employed by Soviet forces during World War II against Nazi Germany. Referred to by Soviet soldiers as “Katyusha” or Katie after a poignant folk ballad portraying the wartime separation of a woman from her lover, this rocket launcher acquired a symbolic resonance. For Rwandan refugees, the Katyusha rocket launcher became “Kadahusha” – an instrument that never missed its mark, inflicting devastation and instilling terror in the hearts of adversaries. Emitting a haunting, fearsome sound, these rockets prompted the Germans to dub them “Stalin’s organs,” an apt description of their impact and reverberation (Peck, 2022).

The Lubutu River Bridge Massacre

In the early hours of March 1, 1997, a somber dawn bore witness to the continuation of an unfolding nightmare. We, the fleeing refugees, were persistently pursued by Tutsi soldiers who relentlessly fired upon us from behind. The refuge of night had faded, giving way to the sinister progression of events. Amidst the chaos, the Tutsi soldiers launched a merciless onslaught, ruthlessly attacking the Tingi-Tingi refugee camp, driving us relentlessly towards the banks of the Lubutu River. In the midst of this turmoil, their intentions were far from benign; their sole aim was not to facilitate the return of Hutu refugees to Rwanda, but to utterly annihilate us within the heart of the Ituri forest. This chilling revelation was laid bare by General Kayumba Nyamwasa himself during an interview with an international media outlet. In his own words, General Nyamwasa exposed their original strategy – to lay siege to the camp, singling out specific individuals not for repatriation, but for a horrifying fate.

Among the selected individuals were the educated Hutus, who were segregated from the larger refugee group and taken to a place the Tutsis chillingly referred to as Golgota. Here, a horrifying fate awaited them – their skulls were brutally shattered open by a weapon known as the “Agafuni,” a grim and gruesome tool wielded as a means of executing enemies, using a hammer. However, as the Tutsis’ initial strategy faltered and the majority of Hutu refugees chose the path of fleeing into the forest rather than capitulating to being pushed back into Rwanda, the Tutsis were forced to recalibrate their tactics. The realization of the refugees’ elusive escape prompted a new, even more sinister plan – one that sought to eradicate the very presence of the refugees within the confines of Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of Congo. This shocking and malevolent agenda laid bare the dire fate that awaited the innocent and beleaguered refugees. General Kayumba Nyamwasa’s revelation articulated that their ultimate intention was to reduce the Hutu refugees in Congo to nothing more than fertilizer for the Ituri forest, a fate as horrifying as it was tragic.

Amidst the relentless deluge of Katyusha rockets, reminiscent of the apocalyptic days foretold in the Bible’s Armageddon, we pressed onward, undeterred by the indiscriminate carnage that surrounded us. Our collective determination drove us towards the perilous waters of the River Lubutu, as each one of us harbored the urgent desire to traverse it before it fell under the siege of our adversaries. With a chilling awareness, we understood that if the Tutsis were to position their guns along the banks of the Lubutu River – the sole passage out of Tingi Tingi and the sole entrance to the Lubutu shopping center – we faced the grim reality of either being ruthlessly gunned down on that path or meeting a watery demise at the hands of Tutsi soldiers. Together, in our multitudes, we forged ahead, unified by the shared objective of reaching the safety of the Lubutu shopping center under the cover of darkness, to minimize our vulnerability to the unrelenting barrage orchestrated by our ruthless foes.

The helicopter you see in this image was the property of Mobutu’s soldiers. They had transported it into the Tingi Tingi refugee camp and left it there, foreseeing its use by Kagame’s soldiers upon their arrival in Tingi Tingi. Numerous soldiers of Mobutu’s ranks maintained direct communication with Kabila’s rebels and Kagame’s forces, enticed by bribes that promised improved employment prospects in exchange for betraying Mobutu’s regime. [Photo courtesy: Tingi Tingi 1997]

Between January and the end of February 1997, a series of chartered planes from Nairobi and other locations were dispatched to the Tingi Tingi refugee camps with the purpose of rescuing the stranded Rwandan Hutu refugees. Friends and relatives of the refugees organized these efforts in a desperate attempt to bring them to safety. Among the planes that arrived in the last week of February, one encountered a puncture that rendered it incapable of taking flight. The image captures this very chartered plane, symbolic of the challenges and determination faced in the refugee rescue mission at Tingi Tingi in February 1997.

The orchestrated movement of the Rwandan Hutu refugees was a grim interplay of forces. From the rear, it was the Tutsi soldiers led by Kayumba Nyamwasa who propelled this tragic procession. Their assault on the Tingi Tingi refugee camp propelled the already beleaguered refugees towards the Lubutu shopping center. Meanwhile, Ugandan troops from Butembo took a different route, passing through the Opienge shopping center and converging on the Lubutu shopping center. The Ugandan soldiers, stationed at the shopping center, unleashed gunfire upon the fleeing refugees, effectively severing any escape route to the West. The overarching objectives of Kagame’s and Museveni’s forces became chillingly clear – to force the Hutu refugees into the depths of the treacherous River Lubutu. As the relentless shelling escalated, the refugees persevered, forging ahead towards the pivotal Lubutu river bridge. Caught between a rock and a hard place, they found themselves pursued by Tutsis from behind, while the menacing Ugandan troops lay ahead, armed with machine guns and recoilless weaponry poised to unleash devastation. With no retreat possible, and the vast Lubutu River dauntingly blocking their path, their options seemed desperately limited. The idea of jumping into the sprawling river was swiftly dismissed – it was a massive expanse with a solitary bridge, an impractical and perilous route to take.

Amidst this grim tableau, the Tutsi soldiers from Rwanda were strategically positioned, their task encompassing the vital axis of Hutu refugee camps strewn across northern Kivu. In a chilling parallel, Tutsis from Burundi and the Banyamulenge Tutsi rebels were charged with the haunting duty of tracking and eliminating Hutu refugees within the Bukavu region. This sinister choreography showcased their profound coordination. In the skies above, the Tutsis harnessed a technological advantage, leveraging surveillance satellites provided by Western nations. These satellites yielded critical intelligence, facilitating pinpoint strikes on our refugee camps. Their awareness seemed uncanny, penetrating even the dense depths of the Congolese jungles, a testament to the eerie effectiveness of their intelligence-gathering efforts. This tragic reality wasn’t unforeseen; we had long understood that the ambitions of the Americans and British for Congo were resolute, and the Hutus became collateral damage in the larger pursuit of Western strategic interests in the volatile Great Lakes region of Africa.

Amidst the unyielding horror, the Tutsis showed no sign of relenting; their massacre was to cease only when the last of us fell. Katyusha rockets rained down ceaselessly, like the plagues of old. The air itself was suffused with the specter of death, an inescapable reality. We stood on the precipice of a final night on Earth, gripped by an understanding that our time was imminently drawing to a close. A profound sense of finality pervaded the air, as some among us found solace in their last prayers, while others struggled to fathom the existence of any divine entity in a moment seemingly ruled by malevolent forces. With Satan’s grip tightening, the notion of retreating was nonexistent, for the pursuing Tutsis’ Katyusha rockets showed no mercy. And so, in a wordless agreement, we committed ourselves to a single course of action – a relentless march towards the Ugandan troops stationed at the Lubutu shopping center. Unified by an eerie resolve, we braced ourselves to offer our lives as sacrifices, harboring the dim hope that a chosen few might emerge from this abattoir of humanity.

In the midst of this tragic exodus, a vast multitude of around 300,000 refugees pressed onward towards Lubutu, an army of humanity marked by the anguished cries of children and their mothers, beseeching the heavens for divine intervention that never came, for even the angels seemed to have forsaken us. Unfazed by our isolation and abandoned by the gods of our ancestors and the Creator, we marched on with an unyielding determination. With each step, the resolute heartbeat of our collective spirit reverberated, a testament to our unwavering unity as we propelled ourselves towards Lubutu shopping center. The chorus of footsteps echoed the undeniable truth – we were a multitude united by the resolve to confront death head-on, to brave the treacherous waters of the Lubutu River, and to embrace the prospect of perishing, if only in the pursuit of escape from this nightmarish ordeal.

The haunting melody of the Tutsis’ Katyusha rockets persisted like a macabre symphony, each explosive chord launching a barrage of rockets into our midst, where death claimed thousands and the scent of blood hung heavy in the air, an ominous reminder of our impending fate. This was the odor of our demise, inescapable and overwhelming. Amidst this relentless slaughter, those who defied death pressed forward, an unbroken march that led us to the dreaded River Lubutu Bridge, where a fresh nightmare unveiled itself. Positioned ominously in the middle of the road, Ugandan troops had maneuvered their recoilless guns and machine guns, weapons primed to unleash carnage upon us. Cloaked in darkness, our numbers concealed from their view, we too were denied sight of their forces. Yet, the air resonated with the heart-wrenching cries of children and their mothers. While darkness obscured the soldiers, the vivid spectacle of bullets lighting up the night sky and rockets hurtling toward us was unmistakable, their sinister intent clear. The Lubutu River Bridge, now under the weight of hundreds of thousands of desperate souls, seemed to groan beneath the burden. In this pivotal moment, the truth became inescapable – we were trapped, bound by the inevitability of our shared plight, our lives suspended in the crucible of this nightmarish reality.

In this poignant image, a young hutu refugee is seated before an airplane abandoned at the tingi tingi airstrip, its tires blown out due to the approaching rebel threat, compelling the pilots to desert the craft. This airplane was one among the chartered fleet intended for the evacuation of refugees with kin outside congo, a response to the rpf massacres of hutu refugees in tingi tingi during february 1997. Tragically, this period marked the loss of over 200,000 hutu refugees within the congo, yet the international community’s silence remained deafening – a stance seemingly driven by self-interest. Condemning these atrocities could potentially have halted the advance of kagame’s and museveni’s troops, forces aligning with the interests of the us and uk to unseat mobutu from power, securing their access to the mineral-rich democratic republic of congo. Among these prized resources are coltan, crucial for smartphone production, and cobalt, a vital component for electric cars.

During the visit of UNHCR President Sadako Ogata to the Tingi Tingi refugee camp, a heartrending scene unfolded before her – over 50,000 children, seeking refuge from the harrowing RPF Hutu massacre, stood as testaments to the brutality they had endured. These children, tragically, were largely orphans, robbed of their parents by the unrelenting RPF offensive. Despite this overwhelming display of human suffering, Sadako Ogata’s response was to depart, leaving these innocent lives to fend for themselves within the unforgiving forest. Captured in a powerful image, these young souls clung to a banner bearing a chilling message: “More than 20 children die every day.

Perched precariously on the expanse of the Lubutu River Bridge, a multitude of refugees found themselves trapped in an eerie standstill, their collective mass forming a sea of humanity brought to a halt, the bridge straining under the weight and desperation. Those at the forefront, oblivious to the chaos ahead, were compelled by the relentless shots behind them to keep pushing, to keep moving forward despite the mounting danger and the jarring stampedes that ensued. Reason became a distant echo, eclipsed by the haunting symphony of Katyusha rockets, which froze thoughts in a state of terror. Meanwhile, those who had surged ahead encountered an insurmountable wall of peril as Ugandan troops unleashed relentless barrages of rockets, an apocalyptic onslaught that halted any progress.

With the bridge now a congregation of refugees, pressed together as more pushed forward, those at the rear relentlessly impelled by the unfolding mayhem in front, it became evident that the bridge itself was no longer a sanctuary but a trap. Groaning under the immense strain, the bridge surrendered, collapsing into the unforgiving waters of the Lubutu River, its descent carrying thousands to their watery graves – families united in death, parents and children consumed by the river’s embrace. Amidst the cacophony of disaster, as the old Lubutu bridge shuddered and gave way, I stood suspended, waiting for the cold touch of the water to swallow me whole, yet the anticipated engulfment never arrived. Instead, the air was pierced by the heart-wrenching cries of children, their desperate pleas for help as they succumbed to the river’s depths, an experience etched in my memory as a haunting testimony to the depths of human suffering.

Amidst a scene of utter chaos and a portrayal of hell on Earth, the relentless onslaught persisted. As lives were claimed by the unforgiving waters of the River Lubutu, the Tutsis showed no mercy, firing Katyusha rockets that relentlessly tore through the crowd. Yet, despite the horrors, the refugees remained steadfast, driven by an unbreakable determination. Tragically, the bodies of those who had succumbed formed a morbid bridge of human flesh, a grim testament to the magnitude of the catastrophe. Amidst this nightmare, my body was suspended, trapped by the multitude pushing forward, the imminent danger looming as the cries of children echoed, their voices swallowed by the river, teeming with crocodiles and water snakes.

Amidst this harrowing struggle, my crutches were lost, ensnared in the tangle of bodies, yet propelled by the collective determination of the refugees, we pressed onward. The very ground beneath me transformed into a haunting mosaic of human forms, a grim bridge forged from the fallen. Stripped of clothing, with only my Bible remaining steadfastly affixed to my belt, I embarked on this macabre crossing, ultimately reaching the heart of the Lubutu shopping center. There, the Ugandan soldiers, bereft of ammunition, had fled, leaving behind a haunting tableau of destruction. Amidst this aftermath, a complex blend of wonder and survival surged within me, intermingling with the burden of unanswered questions. Armed with a resolute determination and a faint glimmer of answers, I embarked on charting a path forward, a quest for the route to Kisangani amidst the lingering remnants of unimaginable horrors.

As I navigated this surreal landscape, the reality of my survival in the wake of the Lubutu Bridge Massacre was difficult to grasp. Gazing skyward, the Bible clutched in one hand, I stretched my other hand toward the heavens, offering a heartfelt, “Thank you for rescuing me once again.” Undeterred by the harrowing events of the previous night, I resumed my journey toward Kisangani, the next waypoint on our arduous “Long Walk to the West.” However, the carnage I had witnessed left me grappling with the uncertainty of how much time I might have left to walk this path of life.

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DR. WILLIAM

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Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM