The day began like any other, and the program followed the familiar structure of Kwibuka events: a time to remember our loved ones. When we arrived at the memorial, we followed the Path of Remembrance, tracing Rwanda’s history—from the peaceful era before colonialism, to the introduction and spread of hatred against the Tutsi, to the massacres that occurred over the years leading to the horror of 1994. We saw how the divisive colonial ideology was planted into Rwandan hearts, and how it culminated in the tragedy that befell our people.
One aspect of the remembrance path that feels heartwarming, if such a thing can exist in these difficult times, was the video shown at the start. It told the story of two genocide survivors who fell in love through shared grief, married in their pain, and built a new life together. At the end of the path, they appeared again on screen, telling how they healed each other, raised children, and found joy again. That story gave us hope. It gave meaning to the quote, “They tried to bury us, they didn’t know we were seeds.”
We visited the mass graves and observed a minute of silence to honour everyone who was murdered simply for being Tutsi—especially those laid to rest there. It was a deeply emotional and heartbreaking moment.
Afterwards, we gathered to hear a survivor’s testimony and reflect on the lessons from this year’s Kwibuka. Fidele, the survivor, spoke in vivid detail. He described how he and his entire family were hunted like animals across valleys and hills. He recounted meeting other families also on the run—sleeping outdoors in the heavy rains, hiding, clinging to hope. Some Rwandans, not targeted themselves, risked their lives to shelter or feed them, though often only temporarily, before fear drove them away again. Fidele watched loved ones being murdered in front of him. Eventually, when all hope seemed lost, he and a few family members were saved by the RPF Inkotanyi.
Throughout the program, I was strong. I kept myself together. But I was beyond sad. I couldn’t stop wondering how such things could ever happen. I was carrying the pain—not only Fidele’s, but that of all survivors who had endured the unimaginable. Still, I didn’t let my emotions break through. Not yet.
Then, the head of our institution spoke. He reminded us why we remember: to ensure that such horrors are never repeated. He encouraged us to be kind to one another, to work together in mutual respect—as human beings.
The guest speaker, Dr. Antoine Rutayisire, spoke to us about Agaciro ko Kwibuka—the purpose of remembrance. I whispered to my friend beside me how inspiring Dr. Antoine always is. This time, he spoke about the peaceful Rwandan society that existed before colonialism, before the Germans and later the Belgians arrived. He explained how Rwandans once prioritised Ubunyarwanda (Rwandanness), Ubwami (the Kingdom), Meritocracy, and Itorero—a concept close to civic education but rooted deeply in patriotism, unity, and community engagement.
He elaborated on how colonisation disrupted our social fabric. The Belgians, upon finding an organised society with a king who ruled all Rwandans without discrimination, chose to sow division and hatred. With examples from his own life, Dr. Rutayisire traced how that propaganda led to the killings of Tutsi in 1959, 1963, 1973, and ultimately to the 1994 Genocide.
As he described the persecutions of 1973, including how he and other Tutsi students were hunted down, I couldn’t help but think of my late father, Munyankindi, who fled to Burundi during that time. He too suffered—reduced from a university professor to a high school teacher—until he was finally saved by the RPF in 1994.
Then came a break, during which Nyiranyamibwa Suzanne was invited to sing. That’s when I lost it. Her voice made me cry instantly. I’ve always been moved by her song “Ese Mbaze Nde?” (“Whom Shall I Ask?”), but this time, after spending over four hours immersed in the pain and memory of the genocide, it hit differently.
Maybe it was because every time I hear that song, I’m brought back to August 1994, when we returned home from exile in Burundi. I remember the journey through Kirundo into Bugesera, where we saw unspeakable things. I remember adults stopping the car to gently move bodies from the road so we could pass. I remember resting in Nyamata, entering Ntarama Catholic Church and nearby houses looking for survivors… and running out after seeing what no 13-year-old should ever see. My five younger siblings were even smaller. Our young hearts shattered that day.
We had been told about the beauty of the “Land of a Thousand Hills,” a place of milk and honey. But what we saw… we were not prepared. We arrived in Kigali and stayed with one of our father’s friends in Remera. We were relieved to be surrounded by the Inkotanyi. We felt safe again. But that safety came too late—we had already lost our innocence. We had witnessed the aftermath of one of history’s worst genocides.
When Nyiranyamibwa sings that line, “Mpingutse i Rwanda, nyoberwa aho ndi…” (“I arrived in Rwanda, and didn’t know where I was”), it breaks me. She sings of roads overgrown with grass, of deserted hills where children used to play, now overtaken by crows. Of churches filled with bodies. Of mothers and fathers, children and babies, all slaughtered. Of machetes used when bullets were too expensive. Of unanswered prayers and swallowed tears.
Each time I hear her sing, I remember. I think of the scenes from Kirundo to Kigali. I think of the unanswered questions. I think of my little brother, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles I never got to know, the cousins I will never meet. Most were killed in Kibuye—in churches, stadiums, or their homes. Few survived. Only two aunts from Kigali, and one cousin who survived the Kibuye massacres as a child.
This question “Whom shall I ask?” haunts us. It lingers in my mother’s heart. It lingers in all of ours. If we ever want to know what our loved ones were like, what they loved, what they dreamed of, what made them laugh—we can’t ask. Even the few old photographs that survived don’t fill the void.
Every year during Kwibuka, I remember them all—even those I never knew existed. My family and I grieve. Our friends grieve. We cry for them. We live for them.
We also remember the pain of survivors. Those who watched it all, lived it all, and somehow survived. Their trauma cannot be measured. We must grieve with them, honour them, and pray that their lives thrive in spite of the pain.
As Dr. Rutayisire said, the purpose of Kwibuka is not to live in the past. It is to give thanks for the blessings we now enjoy. To thank the RPF Inkotanyi, and our leader, Paul Kagame, for rescuing survivors and giving us back our dignity. But most of all, we remember to restore the respect that was stolen from our loved ones. We remember to lay them to rest, and to give back their humanity.
We remember so that when our children ask us why we love our country so deeply, why we cherish our President beyond politics, as one would love a parent, why we revere our Inkotanyi family, why we carry such fierce patriotism and unity despite the divisions our forefathers suffered, we can answer proudly. We remember so that such distortion, hatred, and horror will never ever happen again in our country.
