rwanda ijambo speaking truth - 1998

8/14/2019 Rwanda Ijambo Speaking Truth - 1998

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IJAMBO: Speaking TruthAmidst Genocide

by

Alexis Sinduhije

Discussion Paper D-30July 1998

s

s s

The Joan Shorenstein Center

Harvard UniversityJohn F. Kennedy School of Government

PRESS POLITICS

PUBLIC POLICY


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Copyright 1998, President and Fellows of Harvard CollegeAll rights reserved

The Joan Shorenstein Centeron the Press, Politics and Public PolicyJohn F. Kennedy School of Government

Harvard University79 John F. Kennedy Street

Cambridge, MA 02138Telephone (617) 495-8269 Fax: (617) 495-8696

Web Site Address: http://ksgwww.harvard.edu/~presspol/home.htm


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Alexis Sinduhije 1

It has become common among journalistsand press critics to bemoan the decline of for-eign news reporting in the post-Cold War era.Repeated studies have shown low (and declining)levels of interest among American audiences forsuch news, andwith the disappearance of theCommunist threata corresponding declinein journalisms willingness to commit resourcesto cover such news.

Around the world, fewer major papersmaintain fewer foreign correspondents in fewerlocales. While CNN alone among US broadcastoutlets has bucked the trend, most Americansstill rely on the three major networks, all ofwhich increasingly rely on parachuting injournalists to troublesome corners of the worldfor brief stints when conflict or disaster emerges.

Nowhere has this been truer than in Africa.Dubbed often (and smugly) in recent years thebasket case among the worlds emergingeconomies, in fact ever since the New YorkHerald contrived to send Sir Henry Stanley upthe Congo in 1866 on a trumped-up quest for amissing David Livingstone, the images ofAfricaand the serious attention paid it by theAmerican presshave changed little.

There have been exceptions: in the early1900s, public outrage focused for a time onBelgian King Leopolds vast inhumanities in theimmense Congo; in the late 1930s, Haile Selassie

of Ethiopia was anointed a plucky hero facingMussolinis Fascist armies; in the early 1990s,the extraordinary life and political fortunes ofSouth Africas Nelson Mandela ushered in for atime a new attention (and new optimism)onethat, while it has not quite disappeared, hasnonetheless been undercut by the steady streamof suffering and mayhem that the Western presshas made the norm for the continents news.

Nowhere in recent years has that pain andmisery been more visible than in the tiny adja-cent Central African nations of Rwanda andBurundi, with the ethnic genocide which befell

their people in the early 1990s. What follows is aremarkable story, though not about the familiarworkings (and failings) of Western-style para-chute journalism thrust into a world it canbarely grasp, let alone interpret. Instead, it de-scribes first-hand the experiences of a localAfrican journalist who tried not only to upholdhis professions traditional standards of objectiv-ity, but to reconceive the role of journalists in ahorrific situation.

From 1993 to 1997, Burundian journalistAlexis Sinduhije saw intimately the murderousconsequences of his countrymens genocidal pas-sions, passions that took hundreds of thousandsof lives (including dozens of his own relatives).Succumbing to neither despair nor cynicism, hetried valiantly to cover the swirling tide ofhomicidal mania around him, while searchingfor ways that journalism could help stem thebloodshed, even while remaining honest to itsduties to report the news fully and objectively.

Eventually, with the help of a youngAmerican, who had come to Africa to help builda new kind of public media, Sinduhije and afew others created Studio Ijambo, a regionalradio service new in Central African experience.

Crucially, they focused on constantly recre-

ating for their listeners the human dimensionsof the consequences of civil war. The voicesbroadcast were those of innocent civilians, whospoke simply of their suffering, of their hopes forpeace, and the chance to return to their homes.As listenership grew, so did Studio Ijambos rep-utation for integrity and fairness. For their ef-forts, several of Alexiss fellow journalists weremurdered; Alexis himself fled into exile for atime. But Studio Ijambo never stopped broad-castingand over time, it acquired an interna-tional reputation, providing coverage for theBBC, Voice of America, and others.

In the fall of 1997, Alexis was invited toHarvard as a Shorenstein Fellow, to reflect onhis experience and its implications for the scoresof other conflict-ridden regions of the world,where local journalism is ultimately called uponat its best to do more than simply report thenews as if covering a city hall meeting in a na-tion at peace.

There are no simple answers at the end, butAlexis does leave us with a set of questionsabout journalisms role in a changing Africa, andthe potential aid Western governments, founda-tions, and news organizations could give in help-

ing the continent enter a new century with newhopes. Whether those hopes will be fulfilledordashed once againremains the most profound,and arresting, question we as Alexiss readersmust ultimately help answer.

Richard ParkerSenior Fellow, The Joan Shorenstein Center

on the Press, Politics and Public PolicyJohn F. Kennedy School of GovernmentHarvard University

INTRODUCTION


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Alexis Sinduhije 3

Dilemma and FrustrationI was born in Kamenge, a northern district

of Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi. Like most

of Bujumburas residents, my father came fromthe rural area of Karuzi, in the center of thecountry. His whole family, including brothersand sisters, lived there. I am a Tutsi and a jour-nalist, but most of my neighbors in Kamengewere Hutu. We Tutsis were a small minority,and so I grew up in an integrated environment.But that is gone and now our country is in ruins.This is the result of a cycle of violence that hasleft over 200,000 people dead since 1993.

For me as a journalist, the cycle began allin one moment on the night of October 21, 1993at two oclock in the morning. The army, domi-nated by a Tutsi majority, attacked the palace ofPresident Melchior Ndadye. Ndadye wasBurundis first Hutu president and had been de-mocratically elected, in sharp contrast with hisTutsi predecessors, who had seized powerthrough military coups. At around two oclockthat morning, mortar shelling and automaticweapons fire woke the entire city of Bujumbura.I got out of bed and began making phone calls.Nobody knew what was happening. I was work-ing as a reporter for the state radio station,Radio Burundi, and had just begun to work as

well as news editor for an independent weeklycalled La Semaine. I made a few more calls, butstill got no reply.

I said to my wife, Diana, that I thought itwas either a military coup or an attack by mem-bers of Palipehutu, the radical Hutu party thathad been banned from the recent elections.When I turned on the radio, there was no sound.I knew then that it was a military coup. Withgreat difficulty, I convinced my wife that I hadto go cover the story. After a lengthy discussionshe finally let me go. As I left my house, I sawthat our Hutu neighbors were also awake, and

tense with anger. Many looked at me full ofhate. I understood that the situation was goingto degenerate into violence, but I didnt knowhow bad it was going to be. The soldiers goingback and forth in their tanks were Tutsi like

me, and they had attacked a Hutu presidentwhose fate was unknown.

One of my childhood friends, a Hutu

named Gashira, saw me and asked, You Tutsis,why are you so arrogant? We elected our presi-dent and your soldiers killed him. The questiontroubled me. It is true that I had brothers in thearmy, but I wasnt responsible for their actions. Iwas surprised and afraid at how ready he was toinclude me among those who were responsible.

Over the next few days, everywhere emo-tion took hold of reason. In the eyes of theHutus, the Tutsis were guilty. I hadnt really an-swered Gashiras question. Although we were ofdifferent ethnicity, we both lived in the sameneighborhood, one of the poorest in the capital,so I couldnt see why he spoke of arrogance. Buthe had told me of the presidents death, so I felt,as a journalist, I had to go confirm it. I headedtoward the palace. It wasnt easy because thearmy had blocked all traffic and the PresidentialPalace was more than 6 kilometers fromKamenge. I decided to walk.

After more than an hour, I reached a hotelcalled the Source of the Nile where foreignersstayed and which was adjacent to thePresidential Palace. Troops were everywhere.Thanks to a soldier I knew, I got access into the

palace courtyard, where I found a group of sol-diers pillaging the house. They had already emp-tied the presidential refrigerator, and weredrinking and celebrating. They asked me if Iwanted some champagne. I replied that I neverdrank before sundown and it wasnt yet midday.One of them told me that I was missing aunique opportunity to taste champagne. We allburst into laughter. Champagne is the drink ofthe rich in Burundi, and then only the ex-tremely rich. They had a point. They had raidedthe presidents residence to drink it.

The palace roof was riddled with holes,

windows were shattered, and the southern wallssurrounding the palace were destroyed. Thatwas from a shell fired from a tank, the soldiersexplained to me, laughing. I asked if there wereany dead among the presidents bodyguards, andthey burst out laughing again. They replied thatthe bodyguard was comprised of soldiers, andthat they wouldnt fire upon their colleagues,but that they had wanted to capture the presi-dent. They confirmed that they had done so and

IJAMBO: Speaking Truth Amidst Genocideby Alexis Sinduhije

Alexis Sinduhije was a Fellow at the Shorenstein

Center in the fall of 1997. He is a journalist in Burundi

who works at Studio Ijambo, an independent radio

production studio.


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4 IJAMBO: Speaking Truth Amidst Genocide

that the president had died at 10 A.M. in a mili-tary camp in Musaga, 6 kilometers south ofBujumbura.

I knew that the presidents death wouldhave grave consequences. I remembered whatGashira had said to me, but now I pretended tosupport the soldiers act. In reality, deep downinside, I hated them because I thought of the

thousands of Tutsis who would end up payingfor it. I was convinced that the Hutu officials inthe countryside would pit the Hutu peasantsagainst the Tutsis. Then soon after, I learnedfrom military sources that the situation was, infact, turning catastrophic. Hutus were mas-sacring Tutsis in several provinces of the coun-try. They were exacting revenge not only forthis but for 1972, when Tutsis had murdered200,000 Hutus to repress a Hutu uprisingagainst Tutsi dominance.

I began to worry about my fathers familyin central Karuzi. All of the roads out ofBujumbura were now dangerous, and it was al-most impossible to travel to the sites of themassacres. Two weeks later I was able to get outwith a group of foreign journalists to Kibimba,80 kilometers away, where a Hutu schoolmasterhad ordered peasants to burn 80 of his Tutsipupils. Many others had been killed as theytried to flee. Survivors accused the local Hutuintelligentsia, including the administrator, agri-cultural experts, and clinic workers of havingincited the peasants to shoot. One of the sur-vivors gave us this testimony:

That morning, when the radio station stopped

broadcasting, the head of Rutegama district and

the agricultural experts organized a meeting and

told our neighbors that Tutsi militia had killed the

elected president. We were sure that after such an

act, it would be our turn to be killed, and that

those who would do it would be our neighbors, the

snakes. Without being able to say it, they were

talking about us, the Tutsis. They said, Get ma-

chetes, spears, hoes and get to work.

Mpawenimana, who was with the people who had

killed my children, he and I shared a beer yester-

day evening.

The reaction of the peasants demonstratedeven more to me the level of ignorance amongthe people. It took me three days to write astory that, on any other subject, would havetaken three hours. I described all that I had seenin as precise detail as possible, quoted carefullyeach of the people Id interviewed. As the pagescame out of my typewriter and fell on the floor

around me, they seemed to form a tapestry ofmadness, of a people who had given up not onlytheir sense of reason, but also of life itself.

State Radio and the Inter-Ethnic CrisisSeveral weeks later, at the beginning of

December, I went to Gihanga, a small area 20kilometers northwest of Bujumbura. Because

the majority of the people who lived there wereTutsis like me, I felt safe and thought I wouldbe able to cover the massacres between Hutusand Tutsis that had just broken out there. Onthe road where the confrontations had takenplace, I watched helplessly as a group of four orfive Tutsi boys, with machetes, cut the throatsof two small Hutu girls six or seven years old. Itwas as if the boys were cutting down a treetrunk. The blood of the two girls gushed like awaterfall, their cries begging for mercy fromkillers without mercy. It cannot be described.Their lives were extinguished before me.

I have never forgotten the image and I con-sider myself a criminal as well because I didnothing to save them. And what shocked meeven more was that these young Tutsi killersapproached me, laughing, just to tell me, Wehad to kill them, because their parents killedour parents, our brothers, our sisters. But youmust not broadcast it on the radio, and youshouldnt write about it either.

I didnt say anything. I was on the verge oftears. I was sorry that I was there, present at thedeaths of children whose only sin was to be

Hutus on the road with these Tutsi killers, and Iwas sorry that I had had no way to save them. Isaw even worse all along the journey that day,dozens of childrens bodies, and I realized that itwas because the children were unable to fleeand no one would protect them. Even the policewere with these soldiers, drinking and yelling,laughing. They were almost all drunk, and I wasstruck by how happy they were.

I knew some of these police from college.One of them said to me, These Hutus are crimi-nals; they have killed thousands of Tutsis sincethe death of President Ndadaye, and we must do

the same. I thought they were incredibly stupid.Professionals of justice who promoted vengeance.I felt lost and tense. On one hand, the Hutus hadmassacred a great many members of my ex-tended family. In the two days after the death ofthe President, they had killed 102 of my relativesin the central part of the countryincluding myaunts, my uncles, nephews, and cousins.

One evening towards the end of OctoberIm not really sure of the date anymoreI had


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Alexis Sinduhije 5

left Kamenge, my home, leaving everything be-hind me. My childhood friends, who were allHutus, came to warn me of an impending attackon Tutsi families. They said that the attackwould mainly be on families with children in themilitary. My family was thus a target, becausethe first sin was to be a Tutsi in this area at thistime, and the even graver sin was that all my

brothers were soldiers, enemies of the Hutus. Myfriends told me that they could protect the livesof my family for this one night, but that Id bet-ter move out the next day to an area that wassafer for Tutsis. Theyve all gone crazy, saidmy childhood friends, with compassion. Theysay that they dont want any Tutsis around any-more. We dont want to see you killed.

All these thoughts were turning round inmy head as I walked along the road to Gihanga:the murdered children, the agonized cries of thetwo little girls, the joy of the killers, my ownfamily massacred in the center of the country,and the compassion of my childhood friends,with whom I maintain good relations to this day.Of course, some of them are now dead. I wasfirmly resolved to publish what I had seen atGihanga. I felt a moral and professional duty todocument and publish what I had seen first hand.

The next day my information became thefocus of discussion at an editorial meeting atthe State radio station. I played my recordingsfor my colleagues. All of my Hutu colleagueswanted the report to be broadcast just as it was,because they figured the massacres of Hutus

would not be covered by national radio, and ittold a real part of the story. My Tutsi colleagueswere all opposed to the broadcast. Their argu-ments centered on the fact that such informa-tion could provoke vengeance upon the Tutsiswho had escaped to refugee camps.

I proposed to all my colleagues that my re-porting be broadcast as a kind of rumor control. Irecalled that in 1988, based on a false rumor thatthe Tutsis were preparing to attack them, Hutushad taken their machetes and massacred theirTutsi neighbors in northern Burundi. Thousandsof people died5,000, according to the govern-

ments later report. I reminded my colleaguesthat recently Hutu leaders had purveyed a com-plete rumor, saying that after the assassinationof President Ndadaye, the Tutsis and the armywere planning to massacre the Hutus and there-fore that the Hutus had to be the first to attack. Isaid that the revenge of the Tutsis utilized thesame methods: Hunt down your neighbors be-

fore they hunt you down, kill them before theykill you.

My own plan, I explained, was very simple.It consisted of broadcasting the information andpresenting it as an endless tragedy of violence,then asking political leaders of all persuasionsto issue a clear message that would cut shortthe rumors and, finally, to press the militaryand the police with questions, so that theywould promise to give very clear orders to their

men to stop the violence.My colleagues, especially the Tutsis,

wouldnt support me. They continued to insistthat it would be inopportune to broadcastsuch information because the consequenceswould be even more serious. They were trulydisturbed by what I was saying.

The Hutus, while they wanted my reportbroadcast, wanted a modification. They wantedpolitical leaders to give their points of view,which would add more venom to the situation,rather than offer a message of conciliation.Although the radios editor-in-chief at the time,Celsius Nsengiyumva, was a Hutu who wastroubled by the evolution of violence, he wasfearful of his Tutsi colleagues, most of whomhad lost family members in the countryside. Hedidnt have the strength to carry out his respon-sibilities, so my reporting was censored.

As I digested my bitterness over the cen-sorship, one by one, my colleagues came to meto try to make me understand their positions.The Tutsis told me that I was nave. Remindingme of the many massacres committed by theHutus, almost all of my Tutsi colleagues admit-

ted that they supported this latest wave of Tutsiviolence. As one put it,

My parents always told me that the Hutus dream

only of exterminating the Tutsis. Its true. Dont

be navewhy havent they reported the mas-

sacres committed by their brothers? Its you who

must expose the brothers. What kind of Tutsi are

you? Hasnt anyone ever taught you the impor-

tance of keeping secrets? And youre a Tutsi from

Kamenge to bootits hard to believe.

This is how one of them spoke to me; I

dont want to mention his name.Of course, his idea about secrecy was not

new to me; I, too, had always heard it from myparents. My father had always told us to keepquiet about what was going on in the family.He told us to speak with a low voice, becauseone never knew who might be listening. Heexplained that secrecy was important in ourculture, and said that it was even forbidden tosay in public what we had eaten.


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I began then to realize that the tradition ofkeeping secrets from each other about our peo-ples misdeeds, and the wholesale protection ofcollective interests, were the diseases of my so-ciety. I also began to realize that they were in-compatible with my work as a journalist. I toldmyself that my father was a victim of this ma-nipulation. He belonged to the colonial genera-

tion, he was uneducated, he had lived throughthe conflicts between Hutus and Tutsis from thevery beginning: the Hutu genocide of the Tutsisin Rwanda in 1959, which had left its mark onTutsi imaginations in Burundi. It must be addedthat the Tutsi genocide of Hutu intellectuals in1972 had left a similar mark on the imagina-tions of Hutus.

Not being educated, my father didnt knowthat the Rwandan Hutu intellectuals, encour-aged by the Belgians, had put out a false rumorthat the Tutsis had killed the king. Therefore, itwas necessary to rise against them in revenge.

As for myself, I belonged to another generation,and I refused to be manipulated or, rather, to bethe manipulator. The Hutu journalists at thestation told me that they supported my efforts,but they admitted that they couldnt broadcastany reports on atrocities committed by theHutus out of fear of Hutu extremists on one sideand of the military on the other. Professionally, Irealized, we were all being made powerless bythe structure of the conflict.

Their willingness to remain silent as jour-nalists haunted me. I was very curious aboutthis, and asked them why. Their answer wasthat they understood why the Hutus werekilling: it was the only way for them to get backat the Tutsis and to fight against their arrogance.I will never forget what one of them said to me,

You Tutsis are all arrogant, you crush us, you are

in the minority, and things are not going to go on

this way. If the Hutus kill 100 Tutsis each day,

how many Tutsis will be left?

I began to discover that each of my col-leagues at the station had been harboring secret

hatred toward another. I felt like vomiting whenI saw them exchange their hypocritical smiles.How could a poor Tutsi peasant crush, step on,dominate an evolved, educated Hutu who was ajournalist, on top of it? How could he so threatenthe interests of a government official that hewould deserve death? How could one justify thedeaths of those Hutu children whom I had seenslaughtered like sheep? Were they planning toexterminate the Tutsis? Why were those little

girls dead? All these questions ran through myhead, with no answers. I could not understandthis hatred or its origin. I especially could notunderstand why the hatred was so great at thehighest levels of society. I did not understand.

I was able to publish my report on Gihangawhich had been censored by the radio in mynewspaper, La Semaine. I described everything I

had seen at Gihanga. The massacres of the chil-dren, the behavior of the police. I illustrated theattitude of the politicians who propagated ru-mors to stir up more violence. In the same issuean editorial by Patrice Ntibandetse, my old jour-nalism professor and one of our universitysmore revered teachers, was even more critical ofBurundis intellectuals for their part in foment-ing such hatred.

The cream of Burundian society has just shown, in

the most bitter way, its total incapacity to run the

country. Our thousands of intellectuals, for whom

Burundi has given blood in order to train in hu-

manism, have not gone beyond the stage of the

vendetta, the way of our ancestors. Primitives we

have been and we still are at the dawn of the

twenty-first century. I kill you, you kill me, we

kill each other, and then?

Reactions to my own article were as sur-prising as they were bizarre. My wife told methat everywhere she went, Tutsis told her that Iwas a traitor. She told me that she had muchthe same impression, because she felt I hadntbeen able to control my anger in the article. Sheasked me to stop doing this kind of reporting be-cause it was going to create useless enemies forme. My brothers and some of my friends saidthe same thing.

Others told me that they liked the article.Many of them admitted to me in private thatthey were opposed to the killing, but they wereafraid to denounce it publicly. And as violencefollowed upon violence with greater intensity inparts of the city, La Semaine published wit-nesses accounts from every side, denouncingthe killing, but always under the cover of

anonymity, fearful of naming names. I realizedthen that the people of Burundi had been takenhostage by invisible forces, but also that manywere cowards, poor, passive, and terrified.

Just as the army massacred Hutus in thecity of Bujumbura, Hutu militia had been mas-sacring their Tutsi neighbors in the areas wherethey were in the minority, and the Tutsi soldiers,with the support of the army, were doing thesame thing in the areas where the Tutsis were in


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Alexis Sinduhije 7

the majority. The press vied with one another incalls for murder or to justify the resulting mas-sacres, depending on which ethnic group theywere defending. Suddenly the conflict had re-designed the society along lines of violence andpolitical survival. Dawn of Democracy, a Hutunewspaper, did not hesitate to justify the mas-sacre of over 50,000 Tutsis in October, 1993, just

after the death of the President, an act perpe-trated by Hutu peasants under the manipulationof Hutu party leaders. In an article that had ap-peared earlier that year in April of 1993, Dawnhad even foreshadowed the slaughter:

Oppressed for a long time, the Hutu people, like a

spring too tightly wound, have expressed their

withheld anger against the oppressor, and if it has

to be done again, it will be done again.

Articles and analysis published in Dawnpresented the Tutsis and the army as criminals

to be killed. Meanwhile, the Tutsi paperswerent gentle either. Their own pieces aimed atgalvanizing the Tutsis against the Hutu terror.According to newspapers such as TheCrossroads of Ideas, the Hutus dreamt only ofexterminating the Tutsis. In January of 1994,Crossroads wrote:

All Tutsis must be very clear-headed about con-

fronting the Hutus, using their methods, because

they are not the only ones who know how to use a

machete . . . if not, they will roast us all on the spit.

In some of its publications, Crossroads alsoexpounded its racist ideology towards theHutus, saying that Hutus had ugly faces andusing physiognomy as a means to identify anddehumanize them in the eyes of the Tutsi.

Meanwhile, the most powerful mediumBurundis state radio stationbecame the arenain which political parties and extremist factionswould compete with each other ideologicallythrough news that was no more than commu-niqus read by journalists. Hutu journalists atthe station were reduced to silence, and two of

them were assassinated, Makobanya in February,1994, and Alexis Banryatuyaga in September1994. The ones who were left were the ones whoaccepted having to remain silent. Others wentinto exile in neighboring countries and became apowerful force at a clandestine hate radio sta-tion based in Congo (the former Zaire) only 25kilometers from Bujumbura. The radio station,called Radio Voice of The People, broadcast onlyin order to rouse the Hutus against the Tutsis.

I began then to reflect on why most of myfellow journalists did not want to mobilize inorder to help change things or to reduce the ten-sions. My answer was that they had never beenclose to the majority themselves, and that thestructure of media in Burundi was a bureau-cratic superstructure meant to subdue and re-duce innovation. As employees of the state, the

journalists had never learned to serve the public.They covered only events that had been createdby the political authorities. There were powerfulpractical forces at work in their attitudes, ofcourse. The only route to success and securityin Burundi had been a position in public admin-istrationand the radio was a training groundfor working in the government. The journalistsmaneuvered in this circle, serving their ethnic,regional, or clan authority, hoping to elbowthemselves into a nice little spot as director, oras ambassador. But by getting so mixed up inpolitics, they ended up feeling more like politi-

cians than journalists. At the time of the Hutudemocratic victory, Hutu journalists figured thattheir time of privilege had come, and that Tutsicolleagues were looking at their own sunset.They were engaged in fanatical causes, led bypolitical leaders of their ethnicity. I did not wantto get involved in this game, because I detestedthe condition of our society which was broughtabout by political military authorities and theirhabitual manipulation and corruption.

Some of my Tutsi colleagues hated me, butthey also respected me. They considered me anidealist, and sometimes they circulated it aboutthat I was Hutu, which was a grave insult to mymother, who was afraid of the Hutus and actu-ally hated them. My Hutu colleagues wanted touse me, explaining that the Hutu cause was ajust one. But for me, I understood the game alltoo well by now: they were all the same, and Iwas different.

This state of the press, and especially ofthe radio, made me sick, and ashamed of myself.I was ashamed to go pick up my governmentpaycheck at a time when taxpayers were contin-uing to die without anyone making the least ef-

fort to bring about peace. After much reflection,I decided in June of 1994 to leave my job at thenational radio and to concentrate exclusively onwriting for La Semaine. I felt useless in radio. Ihad no influence to change the status quo, eventhough I was convinced that radio was the onlymedium really capable of diminishing tensions,if it wanted to play its role.

The paper paid me almost nothing, lessthan 100 dollars a month. I had heavy bills be-


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cause I was renting two houses, one for mymother and my two little sisters, and anotherfor me and my little family. Life was hard, butstill it was good because I loved what I wasdoing. Even if the newspapers readership wassmall, 3,000 total, my conscience felt at peace. Iwas serving a little at something and able towork according to my own conscience and pro-

fessional standards.Love Under the Machete and Bullets

was my last article for La Semaine before itclosed after receiving repeated death threats.Published in mid-August of 1994, the articletold the story of a mixed couple from Muyinga,in the northeastern region of Burundi, who wereseparated by the war. I had traveled to Muyingain a convoy with the American ambassador atthe time, Bob Krugger, and there I had met awoman refugee named Leonie Iconayigize inone of the Tutsi refugee camps visited by theambassador. I decided to center my reporting forthe paper on her story:

I dont know why those Hutus were hunting me

down. I married a Hutu, I have brought Hutus into

the world, on my back I am carrying a Hutu, she

told me. Then she cried, I have to say this; Saidi,

my husband, has to know this. He cannot come

see me without risking his life. I cannot run the

risk and go out into the Hutu area, but I love him,

and he loves me, too, I know he does.

She was crying. Across the story of this

woman, the suffering of thousands ofBurundians is spread. A people with the samelanguage, same culture, whod intermarried andmingled as neighbors and co-workers, were nowdivided because of differences among its lite.Even now, those families are separated and livein solitary anguish.

Exile to RwandaJust before La Semaine closed, I had been

investigating a planned coup dtat fomented byhard-liner military officers close to one of theformer Presidents, Jean Baptiste Bagaza. After

the paper closed, I began to receive threateningtelephone calls and anonymous letters person-ally. At first, I didnt take them seriously. Whenthey called, sometimes I responded with insults,sometimes by just hanging up. More important,I felt I couldnt stop my investigations: my mili-tary sources were giving me new details eachday on the impending coup.

On August twenty-fourth that midday, thetelephone rang at my home. Someone with a

very dry voice, without introducing himself,said, Listen, Alexis, the jokes are over. We aregiving you 24 hours to save your life and thelives of your family. We have nothing againstyour wife and your newborn daughter, but ifyou stay with them, and we kill them with you,we dont need any witnesses. He hung up. Hedidnt give me any chance to respond.

I looked at my daughter, barely twomonths old, and I began to count the hours. Inow lived in Nyakabiga, a Tutsi neighborhood,having left Kamenge out of fear for my family. Idecided to call my older brother, a captain inthe army. He was in the southern part of thecountry. His reply was simple, Shit, what canyou do, go to another neighborhood. I an-swered, Impossible. He let out a big sigh, andsaid he had no other solution to propose. I toldhim that I needed time to think, and said Iwould call him back in one hour. I didnt haveany solutions in my head. I couldnt go into aHutu neighborhood, because I was still Tutsi.Worse, I would be hunted down because I hadsigned articles that they hadnt liked at all. Iwas forbidden to stay in the Tutsi neighborhood.I was trapped between two opposing forces.

I decided to call my friend and La Semainecolleague, Jean Marie Gasana, a Tutsi ofRwandan origin. He said, I just got the samemessage. He seemed calm, and his sense ofhumor was intact. He added, I have to eat now.Im not going to let this spoil my appetite. Atany rate, they gave us 24 hours, and in a few

hours, before the time is up, you and I can be inKigali, in Rwanda.Two hours later, Jean Marie and I were on

our way to Rwanda, which had recently beenliberated by the Tutsi-led Rwandan PatrioticFront. I had only a moment with my wife andmy two-month-old daughter who would be saferwithout me, and then I was off. As we headed toRwanda, I thought of my daughter. I thought ofmy house at Kamenge, now destroyed by theHutus; of my childhood friends who had savedmy life; of the journalists at the radio stationwho would be very happy to learn that I was in

exile. My wife, Diana, had always told me to be-have like everyone else. Now I was alone, and Irealized that I was worth nothing.

I had no newspaper, no more job, nothing. Icried and swore never to be a journalist again.Youre right, Jean Marie consoled me as wedrove toward Rwanda, we have to think aboutdoing something else, and abandon journalismin this accursed country. Well find somethingelse to do. Come on, calm down.


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Alexis Sinduhije 9

Studio IjamboIn Kigali, Rwandas capital, there was noth-

ing to do. I lived in the house of some people Iknew there, and ate little, depending on whatJean Maries mother could find for us. There wasno work, and I spent five months begging formoney or cigarettes in the streets, reading oldbooks and magazines I could borrow, and won-

dering whether Id ever see my family or coun-try again.

Finally a call came from my brother inBurundi. The political winds had shifted again,and it was safe for me to come home. But hometo what? My family, of course, and those of myfriends who were still alive; but how to supportmyself and my family? Going back to journalismseemed impossiblewho knew when thewinds would shift again? Yet I couldnt com-pletely stay away. Through some acquaintancesin Bujumbura, I found work freelancing anony-mously through a tiny journalists collaborative,

the Association for the Protection and Promotionof Freedom of Expression. The pay was tiny, butwith my wife working as well, we survived.

One afternoon in March, 1995, a youngAmerican, very dynamic and very intelligent,found me at my office at the Association. Heworked for an American non-profit called SearchFor Common Ground. He seemed quite maturefor his age. His name was Bryan Rich. He intro-duced himself and asked me if I would talk oversome ideas with him. I answered yes, and whenI asked if my friend Jean Marie could come to,he said No, I came to speak with you.

The first meeting lasted less than fifteenminutes. At first I understood Bryan only withdifficulty, because he had at that time a brokenway of speaking French. He said that my namehad been given to him by several people, andthat he wanted to create something like a radiostation which would have as its goal the lessen-ing of tensions, and which would provide themeans for independent journalists like myself toreport on the human side of the conflict and ex-plained how public media meant to serve thepublic, etc.

We spoke two different languages, but wewere speaking the same language. Looking backon it, I understood that Bryan wanted to create aradio station whose goal would be to diminishor help to end the violence by using a very sub-tle and complex approach that would try to addcoherence and perspective to the crisis. This wasmy idea as well, but I didnt have the money orthe means. Right away I accepted his offer andwe arranged to meet again.

I then began to reflect. I had just returnedfrom Rwanda, traumatized by the six months ofexile and separation from my family. I did notwant to start it all over again, I did not want tobe labeled as a journalist. True, I was writingarticles, this time in the paper Le Phare (TheBeacon), but only under pseudonyms because Iwanted to remain clandestine. In addition, I did-

nt have enough money to support my family,and I had moved my family again, in order toshare my house with my mother and sisters.

My daughter was now eight months old. Iwas already afraid to get involved, I didnt wantto run any additional risks. But people were con-tinuing to die, the ethnic cleansing was reachinga troubling new level, the Hutus were beingchased from the entire city, and terrorization bythe Tutsi soldiers scared me. On one hand, I wasfascinated by Bryans determination. He didntknow our society, its intrigues, its lies, or itsmanipulations. Yet I felt a strong energy some-

where pushing me to work with him. I also feltsorry for him not being able to comprehend thereality facing what he proposed. I was pulled indifferent directions.

At the end of our second meeting, I felt Iunderstood Bryan perfectly. The meeting lastedtwo hours. Using diagrams of how program pro-duction could work using multi-ethnic teams ofreporters with strict guidelines, he explained notonly his idea but himself to me, and this time Iunderstood his language without difficulty. Wewould collect information for our programs,then we would edit it and give it to broadcast-ers. To begin with, the target broadcaster wasBurundis state radio station. For a long time Idiscussed with Bryan the objectives of this newapproach to media, and the way to obtain re-sults. He had been recruiting other journalists aswell and eventually with the final team of jour-nalists we defined it as such: to reach the maximum number possible of or-

dinary people, both the perpetrators and vic-tims of violence. Their eyewitness accountswould define the conflict and its consequenceson everyday life and would propose solutions.

to create, encourage, and reinforce the confi-dence and credibility of local journalists.For that, it was necessary to have a teamcomposed of Hutus and Tutsis working to-gether and respecting the basic rules of jour-nalism as well as showing the commonground they shared.

We decided to call ourselves StudioIjambo, choosing the word ijambo because itmeant both literally word and speech in


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Kirundi, and also speaking the truth. Fivejournalists and two technicians comprised theinitial Studio Ijambo team. Gervais Abayeho andPamphile Simbizi were our Hutu journalists.A third Hutu was the studios driver. AgnesNindorera and Aline Ruzindana, both Tutsi, werethe only women, Agnes a journalist and Aline atechnician. Jean Marie Gasana, my Tutsi friend of

Rwandan origin, was a member of the team, too.I knew both Abaycho and Simbizi, the two

Hutu journalists very well, having worked withthem at the radio station. Pamphile was young,just 25, very reserved. He liked to tell me thatthe only way to live in Burundi was to stayquiet and to speak only when necessary, becausewords can be interpreted in different ways. Hisstrategy so far had worked for him, because hewas one of the rare Hutus who stayed at theState radio station. But his end was to be tragic.

By then, after almost two years of slaugh-terand 60,00 dead Burundis elite, undertremendous outside pressure, had formed anethnically bipartisan government, led by a HutuPresident and a Tutsi Prime Minister. Althoughthe government was now formally open to allpolitical parties, the army and police force weredominated by the Tutsi, who had no confidencein the Hutu president, whom they accused ofbeing in cahoots with the Hutu rebels stillroaming the country. The country lived to therhythm of violence, encouraged by Tutsi politi-cians and the army on the one hand, and by theHutu rebels supported by the Hutu politicians

on the other. The latest word was that 100 peo-ple were being killed each day.It didnt take long for the Studio to become

a victim. As we prepared for our broadcastdebut, one of our journalists was killed by thearmy on June 5, as he was going to work.Pamphile Simbizi was dead just two monthsafter the launching of the Studio.

His corpse was found in a latrine, his headand his arms severed from his body. Accordingto friends who had been able to escape, theywere fleeing from a military patrol that had sud-denly ordered them to stop. Pamphile put his

hands in the air and cried, I am a journalistwith the State radio station! The soldiers shothim in the back. His friends, who didnt stop,saw him fall to the ground. Then as though theywerent satisfied with his death alone, the sol-diers had apparently then cut him into pieces,and dumped him in the latrine.

The murder of Pamphile affected all of us.Everyone broke down. I was ashamed to look aHutu journalist in the eye because I imagined

that he wouldnt believe in my suffering, mysorrow. I wanted to hide. A few days later someTutsi journalists at the state radio station triedto justify the death of Pamphile, using a rumorthat he had been a CIA agent. Beside myselfwith anger, we ended up insulting each other al-most to the point of coming to blows.

My wife was absolutely furious that Id got-

ten into this fight, and she forbade me from hav-ing this kind of public discussion with Tutsijournalists ever again. She was right, of course,and so was Pamphiles own saying about keepingquiet being the only way to avoid trouble. Theproblem was knowing whether to suspendStudio Ijambo. Bryan explained that he wasntable to judge the significance of this kind of inci-dent; he didnt want to see more journalists getkilled, one after another. After long discussionwe convinced Bryan that Pamphile had not beenkilled for his association with Studio Ijambo, andwe decided to continue because everyone feltthat to give up would be to give more strength tothe extremists. Pamphile was replaced byStanislas Mwero, another Hutu journalist. Wemoved into a building just completed by someGreek businessmen. We chose the building be-cause it had several entrances and exits, as wellas offices, so that it would be difficult for out-siders to track who was coming and going towhich office. It was both public in terms of ac-cess and private once you entered the studio.(This was different from other foreign-operatedprojects which operate from houses behind

walls, in neighborhoods where one ethnic groupor the other would feel intimidated.)We worked for several weeks in teams and

discussed the best approaches to program pro-duction. Bryan forced us to concentrate on de-veloping a style and approach that couldpenetrate the misinformation, but which wouldnot alienate us from the key players. The focuswas on developing a style and identity whichwould be considered neutral, relevant and credi-ble to listeners. We developed sample programsand test formats which combined different fea-ture and reporting styles and was devoid of com-

mentary by the reporters themselves. Theproduction quality was much higher than at thenational radio, something we wanted to be no-ticeable. Our editorial line was oriented towardsdefining problems and proposing solutions.

After lengthy negotiations, National Radioof Burundi (RTNB) became the initial broad-caster for our programs. The Studio had twoblocks of programs each week: one in the na-tional language, Kirundi, calledAmasangazira



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(Crossroads), and another in French (ProgramExpress). We all agreed that our initial focuswould be on the humanitarian consequences ofthe war; showing that both Hutu and Tutsicivilians had been victims of the war, that therewas no winner; as Bryan explained, this was inthe tradition of Search for Common Groundsapproach to reporting in conflict areas: program-

ming, the group believed, must build on com-monalties without avoiding the difficultquestions. To us, it seemed an effective way tobegin slowly building identity and credibility.

We began by producing a series of pro-grams on refugees, displaced and dispersed peo-ple. The conflict was heavily coded by accent,terminology, and neighborhood. We workedcarefully to avoid reinforcing these stereotypes,while trying to accurately depict the conditionsof civilians regardless of ethnicity as a conse-quence of the war. We didnt have to specifywhether the interviewee was Hutu or Tutsi; it

was enough to give the location of the refugeecamp for listeners to figure out the ethnicity ofthe person who was speaking. Normally thewords interviewees used or their accent denotedtheir ethnicity as well.

One of our first programs took us to aHutu refugee camp run by American missionar-ies led by an American pastor named Johnsonwho settled in Burundi in 1940s. The Hutussheltered there had fled the fighting between therebels and the army at Kamenge and on themountains edging the city of Bujumbura. Eventhough the camp was receiving at least mini-mum humanitarian aid, for a while four or fivepeople had been perishing there every day. Weconducted interviews with many different peo-ple. One woman told me,

I came here six months ago with five children.

Two have died, and I have three left. I used to sell

vegetables and things, and my husband helped out

with his small salary, but he is dead now, too. He

was killed in the fighting in the mountains. Back

when life was good, people lived together and

helped each other. Cant we live like that again?

Several people emphasized how difficultthe living conditions were in the camp. Oneman said to me,

Tell the politicians to send us back home. We need

to live again with our old Tutsi neighbors. We are

all the same; these problems have been imposed on

us. They need to straighten out their power strug-

gles and let us, the people, live in peace.

With these words echoing in my head, Ileft and went to Ngagara, the Tutsi refugeecamp not far away. The accounts were the same.Each day children were dying. I found an elderlyman I had known at Kamenge. He had aged con-siderably because of the living conditions. Hesaid to me,

I often listen to the radio, and the politicians arealways talking about the refugees. Do they really

know what our living conditions are like? I would

like to ask them to spend a single night here with

me. Maybe that would help them find a solution,

so we can go back to our homes. The Hutu leaders

talk about the Hutu refugees, and the Tutsi leaders

say the same things, but I havent yet seen a single

one of them come to visit the refugees. We want to

go back home and live like we used to. If we have

to die there, because theres no guarantee of safety,

at least well die with dignity, at home. This camp

is a place of death.

After completing my camp interviews, I invitedrepresentatives from different political partiesand NGOs to Studio Ijambo for a debate.

They listened to tapes of various inter-viewees; then I introduced the debate by saying,You have just listened to accounts by refugeesat the Johnson camp and the camp at Ngagaraabout their living conditions. We couldnt visitall the camps, but we are here in the studio withEdith Berwzyl of the International Red Cross,who has given us statistics on mortality andmalnutrition, and who has explained what theRed Cross is doing to improve the situation inthe camps. In general, the statistics and theNGOs description of living conditions arefrightening. Our idea has been to show everyonethe reality of the refugees lives.

I then asked the political party representa-tives: Have you already sent delegations tovisit the camps? Their response was always thesame, one echoing another: No, but were get-ting ready to do so. Right now we have people inthe camps who are sending us reports . . .

The programs on the war refugees exposed

the apathy of the political leaders and their inac-tion. We werent rude to them, and they re-sponded simply to our questions, which werebased on the refugees accounts. Our seriesseemed to have a very powerful impact.Listeners found these leaders ridiculous, and thedebates on the refugees began to take anotherform: the leaders stopped trying to dissuade therefugees from going back home. The seriesended up contributing to a mass return of Hutus

Alexis Sinduhije 11


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and Tutsis to the Kinama and Buyenzi neighbor-hoods of the capital, a very unified Muslim areathat had gone through a period of instability.

That early program became just one exam-ple among many other similar stories that wedid that focused on the war and sought to createan intersection between the people and the lead-ers on key issues. It was an oblique approach

that depended on the cooperation of theNational Radio and was therefore somewhatlimited. However it was perfect to test program-ming and experiment with our new ways of re-porting. After a short time, people began torespond to us as the journalists from StudioIjambo and would speak with us or give us testi-mony. This connection with ordinary peoplegradually became the crucial basis upon whichour expansion would be built.

Following the events in Rwanda, RadioAgatashya was founded by the Swiss foundationHirondelle as an emergency information servicefor refugees and displaced people. In November,1996, Studio Ijambo formed a broadcast partner-ship with Radio Agatashya in order to diversifyand sustain outlets for programming. RadioAgatashya, under the leadership of a Swiss jour-nalist, Phillippe Dahinden, had very quickly builta loyal and captive audience in the region. It wasnot always appreciated by the Tutsi elite whothought it was set up to provide information toHutu refugees in Zaire, but because of the qualityof the reporting they were forced to listen.

Studio Ijambo began feeding programs and

news to Radio Agatashya on a daily basis usinga satellite telephone and UHV transceivers, andwe increased our personnel to meet the in-creased demand. Adrien Sindayigaya, a Hutu,and Christophe Nkurunziza, a Tutsi, plus twolocal translators joined the team. With twobroadcasters, Radio Agatashya and RadioBurundi, Studio Ijambo now could be heard inseveral countries: Burundi, Rwanda, and easternZaire (now Congo), together more than six mil-lion radio listeners. Bryan assigned me responsi-bility for Radio Agatashya news broadcasts inKirundi, French, and Swahili.

Radio Agatashya and Studio IjamboThe partnership with Radio Agatashya was

a turning point for both us and Radio Agatashya.It provided more airtime to us and access to amuch larger regional audience. This meant anincrease in stature and credibility that we allhoped would provide greater security not just forus, but for all independent journalists. For RadioAgatashya it became a source of high-quality, up-

to-the-minute reporting on the conflict and en-hanced their profile as a regional radio.

Studio Ijambo thus began a second phase ofits existence. It had started out focusing on in-depth feature programming for Burundi, now wewere providing news packages as well as shortermini-feature stories in three languages to RadioAgatashya. As our mission changed so did our

journalistic responsibility. This meant a profes-sional obligation to cover the increasing atroci-ties against civilians as news as well ascovering the attacks against the Burundianarmy. As Bryan put it later, it was like tightrope walking in a hurricane.

On the eighteenth of March, 1996, I re-ceived a telephone call from one of the BurundiArmys spokesmen, Colonel Login Minani. Imgoing to give you some information, he said,This morning the ethnic cleansers attacked arefugee camp at Butezi, and, according to astatement I have, killed more than 50 people. Iimmediately called my friends ChristianJennings, the local Reuters correspondent, andSteven Buckley, correspondent for theWashington Post based in Nairobi, and who hadcome to cover Burundi. Butezi is a commune inRuyugi province, situated 140 kilometers fromBujumbura in the eastern part of the country.Before leaving, I told them that I needed to con-firm the information with an independentsource.

I called some missionaries living in theButezi region, who confirmed the news. So we

left, five of us, with a third foreign journalist, anAmerican journalist named Andy. I dont re-member anymore which newspaper he workedfor. Adrien Sindayigaya, a young BurundianHutu journalist who had just started working atthe Studio came also. We left in one of theStudio Ijambo jeeps.

I let Colonel Minani, Army spokesman,know that we were going, and asked if the routewas safe. He said that all was calm on theroute. But then twenty kilometers outsideButezi we came upon crowds of fleeing peas-ants. We stopped and asked them what was

going on. They said that they were runningaway from fighting. One of them gave us somedetails: This morning we heard that assailants(Hutu rebels) had attacked the camp at Butezi.We saw a lot of soldiers come, we were afraid ofreprisals, and already weve begun to hear gun-fire. Where are you running to? I asked.Anywherein the valleys, in the woods . . .

Several kilometers further on, we soon sawsoldiers with tanks and jeep-mounted automatic



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Alexis Sinduhije 13

weapons. Steven, the correspondent for theWashington Post, gave me a questioning look,and I saw that he was nervous. I didnt knowwhat I felt at this moment. Steven seemed tome a truly typical black American: huge,strongly built, serious, and handsome (all thepretty girls of Bujumbura wanted to go out withhim). To see him in a state of fear made me feel

like laughing while I felt sorry for him at thesame time. In English, Christian Jennings toldthe other two Americans, Dont worry; Alexisis going to talk to them in Kirundi.

The soldiers stopped us, and one of themapproached us very slowly. He said in Kirundi,Your papers. We are journalists, I said inthe same language. He turned around his vehi-cle, and came up next to Steven, asking himsomething in Kirundi. I immediately spoke up,saying that he didnt speak Kirundi, that he wasAmerican. Steven, Andy, and my Hutu col-league, Adrian, were all very tense. I then gavemy name, and the soldier said, Go ahead. Wecould hear automatic weapons fire everywhere,and Steven told me to ask if the route was safe.The soldier said that it was, that the shots werefar away in the mountains.

Back in the Jeep, I told Steven that the sol-dier had spoken to him in Kirundi becauseSteven looked more Tutsi than I did. I added thathis life would be in danger if we came upon aHutu rebel roadblock. He opened his eyes wideand said, Really? Yes, I reassured him. Butwe are with Adrian. Hell save us if they give us

enough time to explain, I said, but then I alsotold him that news of our trip had been sent tosoldiers by military headquarters in Bujumbura.

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at thecamp at Butezi. 58 corpses greeted us: 26 chil-dren, 21 women, five elderly men and six adultmen. Most of the children had been burned alive;others had been cut into pieces with axes. Someof the women had been burned next to their chil-dren, others had been killed with machetes; themen and the elderly had been killed with ham-mers and with clubs. The perimeter of the littlecamp of 300 people was soaked with blood. The

killers had been able to do their killing withoutinterruption. Looking at these corpses, one couldguess at the suffering these poor people had en-dured, killed only because they were Tutsi. Someof the survivors were crying and some were re-signed. Andy cried out, What violence! What acrime! Steven Buckley was stupefied and saidsimply, Jesus! My Hutu colleague, Adrien, hadtears in his eyes. It was the first time hed cov-ered a massacre. Tutsi students had hunted down

his Hutu classmates the previous spring, killingmore than twenty of them, but Adrien had man-aged to escape, and so had never seen bodieslying out like this. I didnt know that the Hutuskilled in this way, he confessed, I am trulyshocked, believe me.

Provincial government officials began toarrive under military escort to bury the bodies,

and we went over to the survivors so they couldtell us what had happened. According to them,the rebels had invaded the camp at about four inthe morning. First, using rifles, they had at-tacked the local militarys little garrison, to pre-vent the soldiers from interfering. Then others,numbering more than one hundred, had enteredthe camp with machetes, hammers, and otherweapons and begun killing. One woman sur-vivor, Marcienne Nzeyimana, recounted,

In 1993, on the hill where I lived before the crisis,

the Hutus killed my husband and two of my sons.

I took refuge in this camp with my three remain-

ing children. Now they came and killed two more,

and the only son who is left to me has joined the

army, perhaps to be killed as well in the fighting. I

have no more tears. I am resigned, because its too

much for one person to bear.

We made a quick visit to the adjacent hos-pital, which was run by Italian missionaries,hoping to talk to some of the wounded, about40 total, but the Italian priest refused to let usin. He had closed off all access to his hospital in

order to protect his Hutu employees, who wereat risk of becoming victims of military reprisalsand receiving journalists could be misinter-preted by the soldiers. Early that afternoon, wereturned to Bujumbura, brooding in silence.

At one point, Christian had tried to breakthe mood we found ourselves in. I have to finda mad cow here, he said, thinking of his Britisheditors. Ill make a lot of money with that.

We all laughed, but then silence took overagain. There was no mad cow, but madmenthere had been, and there were still. I looked atthe mountains bathed in the afternoon sunlight,

and contemplated the endless greenery unrollingbeside us as we traveled along, and the intenselycultivated valleys, which had been abandonedby a dispossessed and shifting population.

I remember thinking to myself, My coun-try is very beautiful, very poor, very violent, andvery ignorant. All the extremes. I felt a hateinside me towards no one in particular, becauseI had never seen the criminals, and knew theywould never pay for their crimes. I thought of


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my daughter, who would soon be two years old,and of the children her age whose lives had beenbrutally ended, and I knew that she risked thesame end, too. One single question kept comingback in my head, How to stop the violence?There was, of course, no answer.

We arrived back in Bujumbura at four thatafternoon. Work at the Studio was going to be

different from what the foreign journalists wereused to, because we had a very different audi-ence. We had as much or as little time as weneeded to convey the information. We could pro-duce a 10 minute piece or a 20 minute piece orwe could just give a basic wire service report. Wedetermined this based on each incident, trying toavoid inciting any kind of reprisals by providingas much perspective as possible to each story.

I had read the communiqu published bythe military staff during my absence, and Ifound it less than neutral. I called the armyspokesman, and told him that I wouldnt usethe communiqu unless he modified it. I pro-posed that he write, We are going to fight allcriminals of no matter what ethnicity in orderto stop the violence, instead of We are goingto fight the tribal-genocide criminals, whichwould be understood to mean the Hutus.

I explained to him that the first thingwould be to discourage the Tutsi militia fromwreaking vengeance on innocent Hutus. I wasntnave. I knew there would be reprisals, but inthe spirit of Studio Ijambo I had to try at least todiminish their magnitude. Im not sure why, but

he ended up taking my proposal and giving mean interview.Next, I called the various heads of influen-

tial political parties from all sides to ask themto issue a call for peace and to condemn thecrime. Then we sent our reporting to RadioAgatashya. First Adrien related the facts, speci-fying that Hutu rebels had killed the Tutsis, andsupporting these facts with eyewitness accountsfrom the scene. After his report came my inter-views, which aimed at discouraging any acts ofvengeance. Our structure had a double goal:Adrien reporting the Hutus deeds and being

himself Hutu lent credibility. Then the appealsId gotten from political and military officialsbecame voices against any act of vengeance.

After Steves story about the massacre ap-peared in the Washington Post, the U.S. StateDepartment reacted with a condemnation of themassacre. The army spokesman called me. Quitepleased, he informed me of the State Departmentscondemnation, and said that it was important forthe world to know that the rebel Hutu movement

was a bunch of killers. I knew then that the Tutsideaths wed seen were being mourned becausethey were useful to the army and Tutsi politiciansin their diplomatic maneuvers.

I understood that the lives of the peoplewere up for bid by their own political leaders.To our leaders, ironically, I was seen as a goodTutsi, and Studio Ijambo as a credible station,

very beneficial for the country. But severalweeks later the spokesman reacted differentlywhen the victims were Hutu and the perpetra-tors the national Army.

On the morning of May 15, 1996, while Iwas having coffee with Bryan, ChristianJennings, our colleague from Reuters, andFerdinand Farella, a journalist at Voice ofAmerica who specialized in the Great Lakes re-gion, a man came in and asked in Kirundi tospeak with Alexis.

He didnt know me, and I didnt knowhim. I asked him what he wanted; he said hewanted to make a proposal for some reporting,because everyone listened to Studio Ijambo andRadio Agatashya and had confidence in them. Iasked him to follow me into the sound booththat often served as an impromptu and secureroom for discussion. There he said again thatAlexis was the man he wanted to speak to.When I said I was Alexis, he refused to believeme, so I pulled out my identity card. Then hetold me, The soldiers have killed more than200 people at Buhoro. Wheres Buhoro? Iasked. He said it was at Mutoyi in Gitega

Province in the center of the country.I didnt even ask his name; instead I justsaid thank you and offered him a cup of coffee,which he accepted. Then I went out and called amissionary I knew at the nearby Xavierian mis-sion. He told me to come to his house, whichwas a five-minute drive from the studio. I knewthat the missionaries might have information,because there were some Italian priests living atMatoyi. Then I went back to the man who hadgiven me the news, and asked him how he hadknown. He said that one of his friends had beenat Mutoyi the week before. He added that he

had spent a long time looking for the Studiosoffices; and then he left. I yelled to my col-leagues, Put down your coffee! 200 people havebeen killed by the army in Gitega and we haveto go. Apricot is waiting for me at his housewith more information. I have to be there in 10minutes.

Once we got to the mission, the priest re-ceived us with a long discourse about the calmand beauty of their monastery, and how it had


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Alexis Sinduhije 15

been there for many years, but I cut him off. Idont give a damn about the beauty of yourdamn monastery! Tell us what happened atMutoyi! But thats old news, my friend, hereplied. The military killed those people atBuhoro two weeks ago. I lit a cigarette andasked why he hadnt told me. I cant tell every-thing to a crazy person, he said, smiling

slightly. Everyone laughed.He proposed that we drink some coffee, but

we refused. It was already 10 oclock, and I feltwe had to leave for Buhuro. I dont want you toget killed; thats why I keep certain informationfrom you, the priest then said. If you want togo now, its calm. When you get to Mutoyi askto see the priest there, and tell him that I sentyou. Hell help you. Good luck.

At the offices of Studio Ijambo, Bryan wasworried, as he was whenever the journalists anddrivers were traveling. He knew how many am-bushes had taken place and was weighing as

usual the use of the report against the risk. Thedriver grabbed some bulletproof vests. Reportingequipment was readied for me. Do you thinkAdrien should go? asked Bryan. I answered,No, because its too dangerous for him. In thisreporting well have soldiers against us, and ifwe bring along a Hutu, it will look like were onthe side of the Hutus. Bryan admitted hed hadthe same thought, but he didnt like breakingdown the teams except when security requiredit which was becoming more frequent.

So we set out in the Studios new LandRover for a trip of 85 kilometers, with a Tutsidriver, Jean Claude, instead of Yusuf, a Hutu, toavoid danger. This time, in order to get the facts,we had to work as an all-Tutsi team because themilitary would become dangerous if theythought there was a Hutu among us.

At the Army roadblocks, we couldnt pre-sent ourselves as journalists. As journalists wewould have less chance of reaching the massacresites, and might even be killed, even though wewere Tutsi. Each roadblock was different fromthe next: some were difficult, some were easy.At the less difficult ones, our driver, who looked

all too Tutsi, just said, Humanitarian aid orga-nization. The most difficult roadblock was atthe entrance to Mutoyi itself. I told the militaryofficial at the roadblock that I worked withthese white men for an American NGO thattook care of orphans, and that we were going toa meeting at Mutoyi to see how we could helpthe orphaned children. What is the name ofthis NGO? he demanded. I had no idea what tosay. I thought for a second, then blurted out,

Health Care, and then I yelled, Health Care,right, Jean Claude? to our driver, so he and Iwould have the same story.

The soldier, who apparently didnt under-stand any English, gave the order to let us pass.None of us even breathed for the next halfminute or so. We had to get to Mutoyi, and thesoldiers, knowing what they had done, had

every reason to stop, even kill, us if they knewwe were journalists. Even if we got there, weknew we would be placing our lives and those ofour sources on the line. It would be easy to am-bush us on our way back from reporting, if wordof what we were doing reached the military.

The priest welcomed us at Mutoyi. We ar-rived at noon, and he suggested that we eat.While we were eating, he recounted to us whathad happened up on the hill at Buhuro. Oneweek before the tragedy, he explained, localfarmers informed them that the rebels had in-stalled themselves on their hill. They had killed

a local Hutu chief, accusing him of being a trai-tor and a spy for the military. The priest went onto say that the rebels had stayed on the hill andkilled 20 people in all for the same reasons, thenhad left. A week later, the soldiers came duringthe night, circled the hill, and began killing. 234people had been killed and 36 wounded, almostall women and children. They had were all beenkilled with hand weapons like bayonets. Not asingle bullet had been fired. The missionarieshad gone to the sites to evacuate the woundedand to bury the dead, and to avoid an epidemic.

The priest was frank with us: Generally, Idont like to speak to the press. I told this to themilitary. What made me decide to speak withyou is that no one is saying that Hutu innocentsare often killed by the military. National radiobroadcasts only the deaths on one sidebutdont quote me. I dont want to have problemswith the soldiers. We wanted to interview sur-vivors, but because there were soldiers every-where, we left after lunch. We didnt go to thetiny local hospital to talk with the wounded asnormally we would because we didnt want tomake problems for the priest or subject the

wounded to further harm by the military.Back in Bujumbura, we went to the Armysheadquarters to hear their side of the story. Thearmy spokesmen were all denials. Nothing hashappened in that region. Its all false. We de-parted, saying that we would be content withtheir version. Back at the office, I received atelephone call from one of the spokesmen. Hesaid that perhaps something had happened, butthat the numbers were exaggerated.


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I decided to use this second version, sayingthat the army agreed with the facts but consid-ered the numbers to be exaggerated. At the stu-dio we began phoning politicians, asking themto call for calm. This Catholic bishop ofBujumbura condemned the massacres and askedall groups to stop the violence.

But even this reporting was not at all ap-

preciated by the army: some officers called meto say very violent things, such as We can dothe same thing to you. Sometimes we had tostop in the middle of reporting, for security rea-sons. At these times, we told our listeners thatwe had received such-and-such information, butthat we couldnt go investigate for reasons of se-curity, so here was what the military staff said,here was what the political leaders said, here isthe version of this person or another. One daythis turned into a nightmare.

On June 3, 1996, I went to CibitokeProvince in the northwest part of the countrywith Bryan, Christian, and Jeff, an Americancameraman based in London. Violent fightinghad broken out between the Army and rebelsbased in Zaire (now the Congo). This fightinghad provoked the flight of civilians, and forcedall the NGOs except the International RedCross to pull completely out of the region.

So we went there to cover the living condi-tions of those who had been displaced, whichthe Red Cross was calling catastrophic. Bryanand Christian had planned the trip by telephone,although we knew that our phones by now were

being tapped by military intelligence. After a 45-minute drive, we arrived at Cibitoke, 66 kilome-ters northwest of Bujumbura, where the RedCross had begun to distribute water to the morethan 20,000 people displaced by the fighting. Wehad barely finished arranging with the RedCross to go to Mugina, another sinister place inthe northern part of the province, when soldiersencircled us.

Their commander, a captain I knew verywell by the name of Rucintago, came up toChristian and said, So what is your name?Christian introduced himself, and explained

that he worked for Reuters. The captain sud-denly bared his teeth and snapped, So finallyyou have occupied all of Burundian territory!

I approached our driver, Joseph, and said inSwahili, knowing that the Burundian militaryofficers didnt understand Swahili, You saw thelook on those soldiers faces. If we dont watchout, were going to die. Bryan and his friendsdont know this. The driver, a Tutsi like me,was scared. I felt my own blood running cold.

There were many people around, refugees andRed Cross workers, so we didnt risk anythingby being there, but once on the road, we knewthe soldiers could kill us in an ambush.

We got into our Land Rover. I asked the dri-ver to pretend to head for the road back toBujumbura. In the mirrors, we could see a jeepcarrying our friend the captain and his well-

armed men was behind us. We decided then tostop and not leave Cibitoke. When we took an-other direction, towards the north of theprovince, the jeep did not leave us. We stoppedagain, and I said to the team, We might be liv-ing our last moments on earth right now. Bryan,these soldiers are going to kill us. Its simpletheyre following us so they can ambush us. TwoTutsis and three whites, thats sufficient to ex-plain that it was rebels who committed the act.

All of us were sweating with fear. Thewhite men looked flushed. We drank somewater and ate a little chocolate. We went into anearby bar where some military authoritieswere meeting with Red Cross workers.Rucitagos men got out of their vehicle, came intoo, and ordered drinks. We pretended to talk topeople, but the soldiers didnt leave. Desperate, Idecided on a ruse. I ordered drinks that I wassure the bar didnt have, then I said loudly to anofficer so that our friends who were followingus could hear, My commandant, they donthave much here, so were going to another bar.In 30 minutes well come back here for an inter-view with you and after that well go to Mugina

with the Red Cross. So, see you later. Onceoutside, Bryanwho hadnt grasped my planstarted asking us all for an opinion. What is thestory we need in Mugina that we dont alreadyhave? Why are these people following us? Whois this guy? I could see he too wanted to turnback, but wanted it to seem like a rationalchoice rather than one made out of fear or in-timidation. At that moment, I didnt carewhether the decision was rational or not. Wegot in the car and I yelled to the driver, Takethe road south, to Bujumbura.

We reached the Studios offices at 3 P.M. I

had made an appointment for an interview withPatrick Berner, the head delegate for Red Cross,to get some data on water distribution, cholera,and malaria in the region of Cibitoke. I arrivedat their office at 4 P.M., and saw that everyonewas tense. When Patrick saw me, he grabbed meand asked where we had been, when we left theRed Cross convoy, who was I with, etc.

Later, near 6 P.M., we learned that three ofthe expatriate Red Cross workers (Juan Ruffino,


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Alexis Sinduhije 17

Cedric Martin, and a man named Hoffmayer) hadbeen killed at Mugina at about 4 oclock in theafternoon. Bryan went home very depressed, con-vinced that the ambush had been meant for us.

Over the months, the Studio began to ac-cumulate a lot of support in Nairobi, wheremost of the foreign press corps was based, and,in November 1996 the BBC and Reuters agreed

to an arrangement with Studio Ijambo, in whichstringers at the studio would be paid directlybut Studio Ijambo would be credited in bothprint and radio.

The Studio was to produce programs andnews, which would then be broadcast by thesedifferent western outlets. A month later, theAFP and Associated Press did the same thing.Then the Voice of America, Canal Afrique andDeutsche Welle, a South African radio station,also entered into cooperation with us. We reor-ganized once again to meet the increased de-mand for news. Suddenly we were providinginformation to virtually every single foreignnews agency and radio in the country. Thisadded a great deal of pressure on the journalistsand on Bryan who constantly feared that some-one would be killed on a story.

The sudden new influence of the Studiofrightened and surprised the holders of political-military power and the armed Hutu move-ments. Now we were reporting directly to aregional and international audience that wasbroader than any reached by any of the govern-ment radio stations in the region. Now suddenly

dissemination of information to the interna-tional community was controlled by an inde-pendent production group outside their control.The Studio, which in the beginning had beentreated as a joke because of its low profile, wasbecoming more powerful and therefore couldnot be ignored. This new face of the Studio at-tracted harassment of all kinds, including theusual sophisticated methods of intimidationtypical of our culture, reaching the journalistsfriends, families, anyone who could possiblyexert influence over us.

Our reports on human rights abuses espe-

cially did not please the militants, in either thearmy or the rebel movement. The military com-mand threw my brother, a captain, into prison,falsely accusing him of responsibility for a mas-sacre, shortly after wed aired a series of reportsimplicating the senior military in widespreadcivilian killings. Additionally, they sent severalmembers of my family, cousins, uncles, andfriends, to tell me that if I didnt stop reportingon the Armys massacres, my brother would be

hanged to show the international communitythat the army was trying to discipline its men.

I answered that I was going to publish a re-port quoting those who had said this, and nam-ing their position in the government. Reuterspublished my report on 400 dead at Bukeye innorthern Burundi, and signed it Studio Ijambo.In a meeting on whether or not to levy sanc-

tions against Burundi, Nelson Mandela cited theStudios reporting in favor of levying sanctions.The harassment lessened; the army became co-operative, my brother was given the right to atrial, and was quickly acquitted.

One of the army spokesmen said to me,Its true that you report everything, but fromtime to time try not to expose what we aredoing. We are trying to correct things, but wecant do it under pressure. Your reporting is thetruth, but even so, why broadcast it? Whybroadcast it? It was the questions we as a teamof journalists had to consider so often. Thetruth can provoke a reaction, though we are notaware of any incident in which our reportingdid anything but hold the war and its leaders upto scrutiny. Some soldiers told us that our re-porting had made them more careful and wor-ried, because we always found out and reportedwhat we saw even if it was weeks after theevent. Still, we had to consider every incidentfrom a political point of view, not wanting tobecome an instrument of either the army or therebel movement. The military would often sayto us, look at the Americans during the Gulf

War; they controlled the media and censoredthem for reasons of national security. It was adifficult situation since some of the journalistshad lost so many friends and family on bothsides that they had to work so hard to avoidtheir bias.

The final test was the audience, who cameto know us whenever we went out to report.In many cases people would give us interviewsand refuse them to other foreign journalists orthe National Radio. It was a bizarre situationsince we were just a group of journalists with-out a transmitter, but known throughout the

whole region by our reporting. Ironically, nothaving a transmitter, which made us seempowerless in the beginning, was what now madeus strong: we focused just on the reporting. Allour meager resources went into the quality ofthe programming and the security of our staff.We didnt have to negotiate with or bribe offi-cials for the right to broadcast or fear the de-struction of a vulnerable and costly transmitteror antenna.


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Perspectives on Studio Ijambo by BurundianLeadership

In September, 1997, I left Burundi for theUnited Statesmy first trip outside Africa. Ihad been given a fellowship to work with aca-demics and other journalists at the KennedySchools Shorenstein Center on the Press,Politics and Public Policy. There I planned to

write my experiences, to gain some distanceand perspective on them, and contemplate thenext steps in my own future, and that of StudioIjambo.

After several strange and often disconcert-ing weeks in Cambridge, as I learned to adjust toAmericas pace, its affluence, and my own halt-ing command of English, I began to formulatewhat it is I would write.

But as I began to write from my own mem-ories, I realized I also needed to interviewBurundians who could help me frame a perspec-tive on the Studios impact on our nations suf-

fering. I especially wanted to see whether ourleaders felt influenced by our work.

President Pierre Buyoya

In a telephone interview, Major Buyoya,the strongman of Burundi, acknowledged theusefulness of Studio Ijambo, even if he seemedto minimize its impact on the countrys politi-cal evolution.

I am perhaps not the best person to makean evaluation, but I believe that this projectcame at a moment when we in this countrywere in the dark as to how to approach theproblem of peace, at a moment where the na-tional press was dragging its feet, tied, no doubt,to the crisis which deeply affected everyonesspirits. Then, I think, we wanted to promote thepress, create a good example, introduce profes-sionalism, and in this way I think that this pro-ject has been useful. But this is my personalopinion, my personal appreciation, that this pro-ject hasnot influenced the general situation in asignificant way.

Army Spokesperson Colonel Nibizi

For his part, the Armys spokesman,Colonel Isaie Nibizi, felt that the Studio couldimprove its results if it would just stay withinits primary objectives. Some of the Studio jour-nalists dwell on sensationalism, blood, playingto the West which is not good in our situation,its not helpful. Its necessary for the Studio tokeep to its primary objectives, which is recon-ciliation between Burundians, peace, and teach-ing tolerance.

It was clear that the Colonel was protect-ing his interests, and that the civilian politicalleaders had a different view of the Studio thanthe military officers.

Former President Sylvestre Ntibantunganya

The former Hutu president, SylvestreNtibantunganya, deposed July 25, 1996 by the

military coup that had brought Major Buyoya topower, was full of praise:

We have to encourage the Studio, becauseit makes great efforts in spite of the difficultiesand the threats. I know about the threats thatthe Studio journalists have received, but I thinkthey should be encouraged even more than be-fore. I regret they havent had their own meansof broadcasting, but at any rate I say congratula-tions to the accomplishments of the journalistsof the Studio Ijambo. Himself a former journal-ist at the State radio station, Ntibantunganya af-firmed that the government radio station was,

and would remain, a mouthpiece for those inpower. For me, the power here is in the handsof the military officers, who dont want to giveup to the people.

Charles Mukasi, President of UPRONA

Charles Mukasi, the President of theTutsi-dominated UPRONA party also spoke tome. He affirmed that Studio Ijambo was thefirst and only good press organ in Burundi andthe Great Lakes region. Its level of technicalproduction, its quality of reporting, and its pro-grams, let alone its level of independence, make

Studio Ijambo the best in the region. Its profes-sional quality is unbeatable. We cant discussthis, but the problem is that it depends onbroadcasters who can accept or not accept itsprograms and its reporting. Another formerjournalist, Charles Mukasi, felt that he was in agood position to know good from bad journal-ism. We can detest Studio Ijambo, but we can-not refuse to recognize that they do goodwork.

These are the opinions of some of our lead-ers; I spoke to others, who did not want to bequoted. Harder to assess is our impact on ordi-nary people. I have to confess that we didnt per-form any surveys of our listeners. However, aswe were not the broadcasters, we thought the lis-teners of our broadcasters were our listeners, too.When I went to Kisangani in Congo to cover thewar last March, the Congolese rushed towardsme. I stood out in the middle of a crowd of whitejournalists, one of only two of us who were


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Alexis Sinduhije 19

black. When I told them my name, people in thecrowd cried out, Studio Ijambo! Studio Ijambo!

The much greater impact of Studio Ijamboon Burundis people, in my own personal viewoccurred in two ways:

1. First was the phenomenon of emulation. Thestudios philosophy of independence and ongo-ing contact with civilian victims of the wartransformed journalists who had long beenprisoners of ethnic-partisan ideologies.Witnesses to horrors committed by Hutusagainst the Tutsis or vice versa, they each dis-covered, depending on their ethnicity, whathad been hidden from them. At the same timethat its journalists were changing, the Studioserved as an example to the journalists at theState radio station, who copied the formula ofour programs. Our colleagues at the Stateradio station understood that they, too, couldbroadcast sensitive news in a positive way.

2. Second was the decentralization of informa-tion. Studio Ijambo put an end to the cultureof centralization of information by the Statemedia by providing a variety of sources tointernational organizations. Until November1996, the only source the international orga-nizations had was the State media, and thisplayed a negative role, since the internationalcommunitys actions were based on false ordistorted information.

In a divided society where even the press isdivided along the same lines, Studio Ijambo ben-

efited from an important credibility among thepeople of Burundi. In several cases individualsrefused to grant interviews to the State mediabecause they werent sure that they would beprotected as sources of information or they did-nt know whether the information would bebroadcast in a neutral way. For this reason theStudio was systematically perceived by every-one as able to play a credible role. In addition,the BBC, Voice of America, and press agencies,in contracting with Studio Ijambo to broadcastits news and programs, constituted a very signif-icant step towards a new form of media cover-

age of the situation in Burundi.But the Studios influence then raises the

question of how the Studio was able to succeedat all, given the conditions it faced. In my opin-ion, the success of Studio Ijambo was due tothree principal factors. The first is leadership.Bryan Rich, as the project leader, did not fallinto the same trap as other foreigners, who uponarrival create friendly relations with political of-

ficials, which eventually pushes them into tak-ing sides in the conflict. He simply preferred hisnormal work relationships, which allowed himto maintain independence and clear observationof events. I could not have worked with him ifhe had taken a position in the conflict.

The second reason is the journalists.Concerned by a conflict that was, after all,

theirs, the journalists collected and dealt withinformation in a neutral way without takingsides to help in the resolution of the conflict.All the journalists practiced the universal rulesof journalism, and put out more fires than theystarted. This strict line of the Studio progres-sively changed the journali

rwanda ijambo speaking truth - 1998

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