In 1994, I was a young journalist in the information graphics department at The Detroit News, just two years out of college.
In April of that year, the Rwandan genocide — a war of ethnic tensions — erupted, resulting in 100 days of unspeakable carnage.
The United States, still stinging from its failed peacekeeping mission in Somalia the year before, refused to fully intervene. I saw it as an unconscionable abdication of moral leadership. I felt angry and helpless. It seemed to me that no one really cared.
When the fighting ended in Rwanda, 800,000 people — a tenth of the population — were dead, many of them hacked to death with machetes.
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