In October 1993, the United Nations established a mission to aid the peace process between the Hutu-led government of Rwanda and the Tutsi-led Rwandan Patriotic Front.
Then Brigadier-General Roméo Dallaire was the UN Force Commander.
Rwandan radio stations had been transmitting anti-Tutsi messaging, inciting neighbours against neighbours.
The messages repeatedly dehumanized Tutsis, describing them as “cockroaches” and “snakes.”
In January 1994, an informant, Jean-Pierre Abubakar Turatsinze, approached Dallaire’s aides.
He told them a Hutu paramilitary group, the Interahamwe, was planning to exterminate the Tutsis and that they “could kill up to 1,000” in just 20 minutes.
Dallaire sent this memo to his UN superiors, to share the information and his plan to seize a weapons cache.
He acknowledged that the informant’s tips could be a trap. Nevertheless.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Let’s go.”
The response.
“We cannot agree to the operation contemplated in paragraph 7 of your cable, as it clearly goes beyond the mandate entrusted to UNAMIR under resolution 872 (1993).”
That April, a plane carrying Rwandan President Juvenal Habyarimana, a Hutu, was shot down, killing everyone on board.
The rampage began. Militant Hutu groups killed 20,000 Tutsis and moderate Hutus within a few days.
Dallaire and his staff tried unsuccessfully to arrange a ceasefire. They helped individual Rwandans and foreign nationals find safety.
Major Brent Beardsley ventured into hostile armed mobs to rescue people and bring the injured to hospital.
Those radio broadcasts and their dehumanizing messages? Those that turned neighbours against their neighbours?
The broadcasts continued.
In 10 weeks, more than 800,000 Rwandan men, women, and children were shot, hacked with machetes, or beaten to death.
Women and girls raped before they were murdered. Others, left for dead, survived.
More than 800,000 people horrifically erased.
Survivors’ wounds seen and unseen.
The Canadians who arrived after the genocide helped with relief efforts. They still carry it with them.
With his Jewish mother weeping after hearing her brothers and sisters were murdered by the Nazis, Alex Polowin wondered what he could do. He wanted to try to help her remaining relatives.
“I felt I owed it to them try to save their lives.”
Born to a Jewish family in Lithuania, his parents brought him to Canada when he was three years old.
14 years later, in the middle of the Second World War, he lied about his age to enlist in the Navy.
As he and his shipmates protected the supply routes from U-Boats, he stared down antisemitism.
Fighting the Nazis on the Atlantic crossing, the Murmansk Run, off Normandy on D-Day. Fighting the intolerance of his own shipmates.
When his father took him to the train to head off to the war, he looked him in the eye and said words Vince Speranza never forgot. As he was about to jump for the first time, those words came rushing back.
"Son, don't do anything to shame the family."
When they were surrounded by the Nazis in Bastogne, his wounded friend asked him for a drink. He scoured the bombed out local taverns until he found the fruitful tap.
Vince filled his helmet with beer and brought it back to Joe Willis.
Frank Slade was helping his Aunt Ethel run her gas station in Goldsboro, North Carolina, when there was a knock on the door.
Two men told him he had a choice between joining the U.S. Army for the Korean War or returning to Canada.
What did he do?
He returned to Canada. But at the Horseshoe Tavern in Toronto, he bumped into a buddy from Newfoundland.
Don Penney was in a Canadian Army uniform and about to head to Korea. He told Frank to join him.
The next day, Frank Slade signed up.
Frank and Don were from fishing villages in Newfoundland, their childhood far removed from the conflicts they read about in the newspapers and heard on the radio.
Frank's first job was carrying messages to people in town who didn't yet have telephones. His pay?