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When I first moved to Rwanda in 2017, I imagined what my year there would be like and there was one constant - the dream of speaking perfectly fluent Kinyarwanda. What happened instead was a lot of time spent with my colleagues, during work hours and leisure time, where very little Kinyarwanda was practiced on my end. Being part of the Programme Unit meant I got to go on plenty of field missions across the country, and notice the distinctions among the five provinces in Rwanda. I felt more at home in the Eastern Province, where people we came across reminded me of neighbours and friends in Uganda. When I travelled South, I discovered the best coffee roastery and devoured the best meal I have ever had to date – it was the habitual combination of soft posho and the most perfectly done beans (kawunga n’ibishyimbo). The air in the South was warmer and more temperate than anywhere I’d been in the country, and the energy of the people less pastoral than those in the Eastern province. Their conversations that simultaneously relaxed and intellectual (likely because of the dominating influence of the University of Rwanda Huye campus). In the North, travelling between verdant hills and inching towards my paternal ancestral home, I was reminded of childhood travel to the village and the ensuing nausea from endless circling motions on the winding roads. In the Western province, the Francophone influence is omnipresent and the lake-side culture yielded more slowness, peace and quiet. There were generally less people per capita as compared to the other regions – this I observed purely from eyesight, not based on any official population census. It was in Kibuye that I broke my vegetarianism momentarily to eat some sambaza that my colleagues insisted I partake in. “It’s not meat!” They asserted, “It’s fish!” – any Vegetarian who has lived in Africa will come to realise that fish doesn’t count as meat in our societies. You have to be deliberate and say, “I don’t eat animals of any kind; land, sea and air - all inclusive.” Later in the year, I travelled back West with my mother and uncle to try out the healing properties of the Nyamyumba Hot Springs – naturally-occurring heated water that springs to the surface because of subterranean volcanic activity. We were charmed by the separate springs for men and women, feeling more certain of their healing powers since we wouldn’t be mixing chromosomal energies. In April of 2017, Rwanda was commemorating the 23rd anniversary of the Genocide against the Tutsi for 100 days. As with every year prior and since, the dedicated week of mourning and remembrance lasts 7 days from 7th April, where sombreness is rightfully required. The mourning week honours the grief so many Banyarwanda hold over the loss of their loved ones in this time, whether as victims, or self-sacrificing liberators who fought to end the massacre. The deliberate act of remembrance is so essential - it insists that you do not forget the atrocities that transpired in 1994: when people came together with the heinous aim of eliminating an entire ethnic group. During the 100 day commemoration that year, my workmates and I climbed into a minivan to attend a Kwibuka event at the HQ of all our sister organisations. On the way there, one of my colleagues gently offered a corrective note as we talked about the events of 1994. He requested that I state in full, “Genocide against the Tutsi.” I asked him why the distinction was necessary, shouldn’t it be obvious? It wasn’t, not to genocide deniers. Along with others in the van, he launched into observable evidence and experiences of genocide-denial, where people have tried, and continue, to distort the deliberate attempts that occurred to eradicate Tutsi from the face of the earth. For this reason alone, it is a must to always specify the following: Genocide against the Tutsi. On this same journey, another colleague shared the story of her own survival. She thought there would be no moment as extraordinary as when she was rescued by the RPF soldiers who found them - she later realised she was wrong. She said the best feeling in the world happened a few hours later, in their march towards the city, when she found 500 Belgian Francs in between the pages of a book, at an abandoned house of a genocide perpetrator. She ran to one of the soldiers she had bonded with the most, the one who helped her out of the pit and who she walked closest to. He looked down at her and asked in Kinyarwanda, “What is it, sweet girl?” and she handed over the bills she found. He knelt down in front of her, till he was just about her height and hugged her for a very long time. As she relayed the story, she folded her arms around herself, smiling and saying, “I still remember the hug so well. That was my best moment.” I’ve never forgotten the story she shared, nor the loss she experienced from the Genocide against the Tutsi, losing a cherished father she was so close to – and her family’s valiant efforts amid unwarranted terror. This colleague was already someone I loved to spend time with even beyond the office we shared, but if the Interahamwe had their way, none of us would have experienced her infectious laugh and her beautiful spirit. She brightened up our office in such a way that you would never think she had been through one of the most harrowing experiences of humankind, at only eleven years old. This realisation, that there are many Rwandans who have so much beauty and grace to share, despite losing so much 31 years ago, was one the most meaningful moments of my life - reminding me of the power of human resilience that the country has embodied in its people and its growth. In that van, as more of my colleagues shared their stories of survival, of the friends and family they lost, chatting away openly and kindly to me, and offering answers to sensitive questions I nervously asked because I worried about dredging up horrific memories. They shared their own and others’ stories of survival, one after the other jumping in when something relatable was brought up. From then, and precisely because of them, I became keenly aware of all that was lost, in a deeper, more personal way, and therefore became overcome by all that was saved, revived and renewed in the aftermath of such horror. At the beginning of the 23rd commemoration of the Genocide against the Tutsi, there was a Walk to Remember, an annual event. I made my way to Amahoro Stadium and reached what I remember was a side entrance, where hundreds of people were waiting to enter. Police officers stood at the front for crowd control and I wondered if I would ever get in. Thankfully, voices from the front shouted in Kinyarwanda for women to enter first, and I got through easily. When I entered the stadium, I made my way to a section nearby, not wanting to be too far from an exit. Letting women in first made sure that majority of them got seats. I looked around at many of the people inside and on the field, who wore the same grey polos with black collars, and an image of the Flame of Remembrance and Kwibuka23 were printed on the top left of the shirt. The direct translation of Kwibuka in Kinyarwanda is ‘To remember.’ I decided to sit at the top, on the edge of one of the concrete stairs, since most of the seats were full. A young woman with cropped dark hair was next to me and like the entire stadium, she sat silent and sombre. As the program began on the field, Rwandans in white t-shirts and black trousers shaped themselves in the formations of a flame and spelled out Kwibuka23 with their bodies. I saw hands reaching towards faces to wipe their eyes or cover their bent heads. When the performers sang haunting traditional music, the people around me sang softly with them. During the mini-plays presented with poetic narration, you could almost hear the footsteps of the actors on the soft grass - that’s how attentive everybody was. The testimonies from survivors were the hardest to hear and witness. The eyes of the woman next to me would well up with water, but she sat perfectly still throughout, likely steeling herself so no tear would fall. I thought about what I could do to bring her some comfort, but ultimately decided to say nothing – we were all meant to sit there and absorb the pain that the thousands among us felt. When the speakers got emotional recalling memories of survival or loss of someone so special to them, a hush went over the air before bursts of grief were expelled across the stadium in the form of weeping and shrieking. The woman next to me sighed heavily and audibly. I rushed out of the stadium as fast as I could and grabbed the first moto I saw to head straight home to bed from the feeling of exhaustion - a feeling that had become physical despite its psychological cause [1]. In-real-time, I recognised the urgent need for the national commemoration week, every year. It is an instituted period of mourning and remembrance with due prohibitions such as; no weddings and celebrations en masse, no concerts, no sports competitions and projections, and the unspoken understanding to show respect by observing solemnity. It is a time for reflection, a way to show solidarity for the pain among survivors, and it is an honouring of the victims - so that they know that we will always remain conscious the tragedy of their premature deaths. The Genocide against the Tutsi was so unjust, and so preventable, that to inflict further pain on people’s healing by denying it is beyond any understanding. Commemoration officially begins with the lighting of the Flame of Remembrance at the Kigali Genocide Memorial, which burns for 100 days – the entire duration of the annual remembrance period in Rwanda. The most sombre mysteries of the Rosary are called the Sorrowful Mysteries – they start with Jesus’ agony at realising he must sacrifice himself, then follow with graphic descriptions of his scourging, beating, bruising, bleeding; his scalp being pressed upon by thorns, and ultimately, his crucifixion. Catholics are to recite the Sorrowful Mysteries on Tuesday and Friday. At my previous workplace, Tuesday was the designated day for a lunchtime meet to recite the Rosary for Catholic staff (or anyone) who wished to. I used to dread when we’d cycle our way back to the Sorrowful Mysteries, because this meant returning to my desk a little less content than I’d left it. The mysteries ascribed for the other days of the week are Joyful (recited on Mondays and Saturdays), Glorious (recited on Wednesdays and Sundays) and Luminous (recited on Thursday). Yet, sadness is the point of the Sorrowful Mysteries with their apt name – we are meant to feel discomfort at the suffering experienced by another, in this case suffering felt by the most important figure in Christianity. In Rwanda, the massacre experienced by Tutsi and the people who sacrificed their lives to protect them, is discomfiting in a similar way. The commemoration is not supposed to be palatable, and the graphic details are part and parcel of healing for survivors and liberators. April 7th commemorations are not supposed to be joyous, they are supposed to be taxing to the heart and difficult to listen to. It’s the least anyone can do who has been spared from witnessing or experiencing such brutality. Hearing graphic and devastating detail also brings deeper understanding to a complete outsider, for the context of the Genocide against the Tutsi, and the history of Rwanda as a whole. These are the tough parts of solidarity we must take on if we are true allies. When Catholics finish the Sorrowful Mysteries, they know that in spite of the violent detail of the crucifixion, there is a resurrection. For victims of the Genocide against the Tutsi, there is no resurrection. For their loved ones who are still here, our duty as friends and sympathisers should be to discourage any attempts at denial that sour the memories of the ~1 million souls lost, and commit to never, ever letting it happen again - which means facing it, accepting it and remembering it. I will say that there has been a different type of resurrection in Rwanda, not of human beings, but of a reputable nation-state. As many Rwandans have put in varying ways; they are a country ‘risen from the ashes of ‘94’. In 2023, it had been 29 years since the Genocide Against the Tutsi and I was part of the planning for a workshop hosting about 20 individuals from all over the continent based in Kigali. This involved selecting a bonding experience for participants, so I chose a visit to the Kigali Genocide Memorial. We went on the last day of the workshop, when the group was relaxed and familiar with each other. When we reached the memorial, the group took pictures in front of the Kwibuka29 letters on the lower ground of the memorial area. A few of them commented that starting with pictures was a smart idea, because at the end of the tour, many were completely depleted of the vibrant energy they had started the visit with. The tour of the memorial begins with a video that made several people very emotional, and set the tone for everything else they would see and learn. In silence, and each at their own pace, they bent to take closer looks at photos of victims and shuddered at corporeal remains placed near their owners’ possessions, including toys and clothing belonging to children. I won’t say much more about the visit, but only encourage anyone reading to go. After the tour, out in the sunshine that clashed with the solemnity of our mood, the group’s voices that started the journey with curiosity and excitement, were now hushed and toned down as they discussed what they saw. The Ugandan facilitator and another Ugandan participant both said they were shocked at how little they really knew about the Genocide against the Tutsi, even if the two countries are neighbours. “It’s different when you know the graphic details, you can’t forget it after seeing that,” one of them said. Before the visit to the memorial, the Genocide against the Tutsi in 1994 (and its precursor in 1959), was an abstract thought of human tragedy for many of the Africans at the workshop. To be immersed in it, however, turned what was once perceived as misfortune of recent past, to a constant memorialisation of the horrific extremes human beings can go to, when they harbour misplaced feelings of disenfranchisement, or disagreement. Memorials and remembrance are part of true and sustained reconciliation, they contextualise great loss that is just too vast for the human brain to process – how can you visualise 1 million people being killed? You can’t, initially, but you must at least accept that it happened, no matter how difficult to comprehend. To reach acceptance and thus use appropriate language, is to understand the details of an atrocity. With this understanding comes the justice of criminalising denial. Menachem Z. Rosensaft writes of genocide: “It is the underlying nature of the crime – the intent to destroy a designated group as such – that makes every genocide, and every comparable crime against humanity for that matter, a crime that shocks our consciousness. Engaging in comparative suffering is a counter-productive and morally repugnant exercise.” In 2017, when we were driving back from the commemoration event, the colleague who corrected me to state ‘Genocide Against the Tutsi’ in full, shared a riddle with me. It was how he tried to help me learn deeper Kinyarwanda. The riddles are called Ibisakuzo. “Sakwe Sakwe” he called out, and I responded, “Soma!” Later, he wrote out the full riddle for me to practice and left it on my desk. My favourite is one that translates to: My cow browses among the rocks without knocking against them. The answer: a tongue. It is a violent act to use your tongue to deny a genocide or diminish its occurrence in any way, but one can only perceive this act as violent if they truly understand the gravity of what genocide is – the mass killing and targeting of one group of people. ‘...all denial is harmful no matter when, where, or regarding what genocide. Moreover, in our modern globalised world, denial doesn’t stop at regional or state borders. Due to the internet and new social media, deniers reach international audiences. These developments turn genocide denial into a collective problem, that is not limited to states or regions where a certain genocide has been perpetrated.’ - Roland Moerland At the end of my year in Rwanda, another of my wise colleagues said, “We are so sorry for not teaching you Kinyarwanda properly but you must return because this is how it goes: First, you learn the culture, then, you learn the language.” When you decide to discuss the Genocide against the Tutsi, first engage in the difficult task of deeply learning about what happened - in DETAIL, then you will understand how essential it is to use the correct LANGUAGE and thus value the meaning and impact of consistent COMMEMORATION.

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Kwibuka31: Honoring the Commemoration with Due Respect

When I first moved to Rwanda in 2017, I imagined what my year there would be like and there was one constant - the dream of speaking perfe...

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 By Oluwapelumi Oluwayemi
 
 
 
 The Nigerian artist Mr Eazi shared the profound sorrow he felt after losing his mother, Pastor Mrs Ifeoma Edith Ajibade.
 
 
 At her funeral, as his mother was buried, notable attendees included the renowned businessman Femi Otedola along with his spouse, Nana Otedola. The music artist Tekno was likewise in attendance to back up his close associate and fellow musician, Mr Eazi.
 
 
 I feel an unspoken longing for you. The gap created by your departure remains unfilled; it’s a sorrow even time fails to mend," he said. "Not even cherished recollections can substitute for your presence, your affection, or your steadfast backing. You stood as the bedrock of our belief system, the pillar from which countless others drew fortitude and direction.
 
 
 Mr. Eazi portrayed his mother as an individual who led a life of selflessness, constantly making sacrifices and offering support, particularly during times when he found it hard to have faith in himself. He highlighted how her steadfast confidence in him greatly influenced both his personal journey and professional path.
 
 
 Without you, life seems chilly, remote, and unfinished," he went on. "Even though everyone says you're in a better place, personally, I long for your presence here with us—binding us, leading us, and cherishing us just as only you can.
 
 
 The homage likewise highlighted the part
 
 his
 
 His mother took part in shaping his life, providing comfort during his fears and consistently recognizing greatness within him, even when he couldn't recognize it in himself.
 
 
 “My mother, you bore my burdens, guided me with affection, soothed my fears, and consistently saw excellence in me,” he continued. “I pledge to lead a life that honors your aspirations for me, to grow into the person you always knew I could be.”
 
 
 
 Mr Eazi
 
 he ended his homage with a vow to cherish his mother’s affection and legacy, stating, "Thanks for loving me without limits. Thanks for always supporting me. Thanks for being my mom. I love you. I miss you. And till we reunite, I will hold onto your love eternally."
 
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"Mr. Eazi's Heartfelt Farewell: 'Life Feels Cold Without You'" – International Edition (English)

By Oluwapelumi Oluwayemi The Nigerian artist Mr Eazi shared the profound sorrow he felt after losing his mother, Pastor Mr...

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