A gem is taken, how can it be? How dare the world go on as if nothing has shattered? The sun still rises — oblivious to all that’s been lost. Do they not see a light has gone out in our generation?
Lily, my sweet cousin, my sister, you were woven into the fabric of my childhood — bound by friendship that run deep, laughter that found us even in the hard times. We’d look back on those days and marvel at how far we’d come, how grace carried us through storms.
You were the best of us, Lily.
You held softness like breath, kindness like a second skin. You never raised your voice, wouldn’t hurt a fly, and carried everyone else’s burdens without complaint, or judgement, as though your heart was made to shelter the world.
You loved Jesus with a fierce, quiet fire. Not performative. Not loud. Just deep, real, unshakable. I’ve known many people, but few I would call righteous— you were one of them. You loved without limits, cared without keeping score, gave of yourself and asked for nothing.
With your other half!
You were the Proverbs 31 woman— for your children, for your home. Clothed in dignity, love on your tongue, your life was a sermon they watched daily. You rose early, gave endlessly, and your children called you blessed.
And now you leave behind a husband, beautiful children— too young to lose their mother, too young to understand why love sometimes gets taken too soon. Oh heaven’s gain! We weren’t ready Lily, we never would be.
Say hi to your aunt—my mom—for me. What an incredible reunion that must be! Tell her I miss her every single day. And tell Papa, Manyike and Nkeke. Tell them grief still lingers like smoke here.
How I wish this were like Tabitha’s story— where the widows wept with such aching love, that life was summoned back from death.
I am weeping. My soul is heavy. I have more to say—so much more. Too much silence between us now, too much unsaid.
The righteous has left us, and the earth should tremble in mourning. I will carry you— your memory etched in every heartbeat, until we see each other again, where no goodbye will ever be needed.
“Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.” (Matthew 25:23)
The red crosses mark my 4 angels, now watching over me. The only photo of us all together—my Catholic First Communion.
💜
I Rise.
April—the month my world went silent, laughter stolen, love torn from my grasp. The embrace of my parents and two siblings— now a memory I hold but can never touch.
April 1994 did not just take them; it tried to take me too— my voice, my light, my innocence, my will to exist. Darkness swallowed my paradise, grief clung like a shadow, but even then, something within refused to fade.
So I Rise.
Not only on April 7th for my little sister Marie Claudine, or April 17thfor Papa, or April 24th for Mama and my big brother Jean Félix— I Rise every day.
I rise for forgiveness—I do it for me. I rise for love; hatred is too heavy a burden to bear.
I rise for my parents’ three surviving gifts, my first rays of sunshine, whose existence gave my life meaning.
I rise for the little loves they blossomed, —my preciouspearls— treasures my parents never got to hold, spoil or adore. I rise for their other halves, who cherish and are deeply cherished.
I rise for the scars I bear— a testament to survival. I rise for the journey I have walked. For the life I built far from home, Rooted in love, standing on solid ground.
I rise for the child I once was— orphaned, lost, abandoned, poor. Now, a proof that hope survives.
I rise beyond trauma, beyond nightmares. My story is no longer just my own. I rise for the children who walk the road I once did, for those unseen, unheard, alone.
Rising Above the Storms, a whisper: “You are not alone, your pain does not define you. You are seen, you are worthy, you too can rise.”
I carry wounds neither time nor any human can heal, yet still, I rise—undefeated. When strength fails, faith lifts me. And one day, beyond sorrow, I will see and hold them again—forever.
For my light that dimmed in April 1994— I am Here. I Remember. I Grieve. I Speak. I Forgive. I Hope. I Love.
31 Years.
Still. I Rise.
💜
🕊️💜 In loving memory of my four angels perished during the Genocide against the Tutsi in April 1994. May their memories remain a blessing.❤️ 🕊️
The past few months have felt like a walk through memory lane. My husband and I took our annual Christmas holiday trip to Rwanda, my homeland, and it turned out to be more special than I ever imagined. While our visits always include spending time with my siblings and their families, the children and staff of Rising Above the Storms (RAS), and exploring Rwanda’s beauty, this trip held an extraordinary addition—my US parents joined us.
On my wedding day with my parents ♥️ Jan 2019
If you’ve followed my journey on this website, you know I lost my parents in the 1994 Genocide against Tutsi in Rwanda. But “my US parents”? Allow me to explain.
In 2008, shortly before I graduated from grad school in Rochester, NY, I met an incredible couple through a local church connection. They invited me into their home, and while most students they hosted came and went, I stayed. Over time, they unofficially adopted me as their daughter. They gave me the motherly and fatherly love I thought I’d never feel again. Their unconditional love helped heal the wounds inflicted by surviving relatives who had been abusive and heartless.
My parents arriving at Kigali International Airport, Rwanda (Jan 2025)
Kigali International Airport Arrivals.
From left: dad, mom, me and my youngest sister, and my husband (front) taking the selfie
This trip marked my dad’s first visit to Rwanda, and my mom’s second. One highlight was visiting my parents’ land, just outside Kigali. As I stood there, I reflected on how, from the ashes of my deepest losses, God had blessed me with parents who love me fiercely, even if we don’t share the same blood or story.
Getting ready for the 30 min ride to my childhood town
Giving my new parents a tour. One of the roads around my heavenly parents’ land ♥️
Our childhood’s main road—oh, if only it could speak!
My childhood’s driveway
My childhood’s driveway
So many memories
My parents’ hard work!
My innocent childhood lives here
So many memories
And so much more
Another special stop on our itinerary was my childhood Catholic Church—a short drive from my parents’ land but, in my childhood memories, a distant hike.
Standing before my childhood parish. I couldn’t quite recall it ever having this shape!
The moment I stepped onto the parish grounds, a flood of memories overwhelmed me. Standing tall and unchanged was the magnificent acacia tree that had witnessed so much of my family’s life.
Only the two of us, out of four siblings, had the chance to witness this moment. We hope to return together someday, all four of us, to share and compare our memories!
The only photo I possess of my entire family together—taken during my Confirmation—was very near this tree, beneath another acacia tree.
My beloved family, captured during my Catholic Confirmation. The red cross honors our cherished loved ones now in heaven.
As I stared at its sprawling branches, I couldn’t help but wonder: Does this tree remember my parents? Does it remember me? If only it could speak, I would have lingered longer beneath its shade.
This tree stood as a silent witness while the world around it changed—while neighbors turned into enemies, while innocence was lost. But the acacia remained steadfast, offering shade to churchgoers and a home to nesting birds. In its stillness, it felt like a keeper of memories.
The Mighty Acacia Tree
The Parish Courtyards
With my baby sister ♥️ Guardians of our loved ones’ memories!
Under the Acacia Tree. The last time we were here she was a few years old
Stepping inside the church, everything seemed smaller than I could remember. The once-grand sanctuary of my childhood felt humble now, though its spiritual significance had not diminished. I knelt in one of the rows—the one I believed we sat in during sacramental celebrations—and whispered prayers to the Savior my parents had taught me to worship.
Silently, I mourned the loss of my innocence and childhood, reflecting on how I was forced to grow up in a rush, denied the chance to be young. As I reminisced on cherished memories, I marveled at the journey that has brought me back to where it all began.
Stepping into the church and absorbing it all after more than 30 years!
One of the rows where I believe my parents once sat. The emotions were beyond words!
Saying a prayer to honor the memories of my loved ones and worship the God my parents taught me!
I shed tears of both sorrow and gratitude, praising the Lord for His protection over the past 30 years and 9 months.
Thank you Lord for your Faithfulness!
With my parents
And with my husband
With my baby sister
With my hubby
I couldn’t help but marvel at how deeply my parents had rooted us in faith. Amid unimaginable loss and pain, that foundation gave me strength and, eventually, hope.
Lastly, I wanted to see the eucalyptus forest behind the church— somehow a place of peace and meditation in my prayers, often appearing in my nightly dreams. To my disappointment, the trees had been cleared for construction. It felt like a part of my sanctuary had been taken, but the memories remain, vivid and unshaken. It will be interesting to see how my nightly dreams change as a result; this area was one of the reasons I longed to return here.
The eucalyptus forest that once stood here is now gone.
Now being transformed into a convent.
Sunday school hall
It was taller in my childhood memories
My new family walking my memory lane
My baby sister
This church, and the acacia tree in its courtyard, is where my faith began. It is a place of cherished memories, not resentment or guilt. It is a reminder of my extraordinary parents, who continue to guide me even in their absence.
I survived—I made it. I am my parents’ wildest dream and their best wishes fulfilled, their pride, and the voice of my loved ones who perished. I carry their legacy, a beacon of their hopes, resilience, and the enduring love they left behind.
With my baby sister, beneath the tree that holds the cherished memories of our loved ones, taken from us too soon.
♥️♥️ In loving memory of my parents and two siblings who were taken from us in April 1994. May their memories forever be a blessing!♥️♥️
Life has a funny way of triggering memories. Sometimes it’s a familiar smell, a bite of a biscuit, a fleeting melody, or the way the sunlight hits a corner of the room just right. Other times, it’s a visit to the planetarium on a touristy trip to Washington, D.C., with your spouse.
At DCA Airport
Downtown DC
The White House
Pennsylvania Ave
The FBI Building
For my husband and me, this past month trip (November 2024) was our first time exploring D.C. together. We checked off all the must-see landmarks: Capitol Hill, the Supreme Court, memorials, museums—you name it. But for me, the highlight was the National Air and Space Museum. There, we marveled at the history of aviation, from the Wright brothers’ first flight to the dizzying innovations of space exploration. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least.
National Air and Space Museum
When we stepped into the planetarium and navigated the stories of the Apollo missions, something unexpected happened. A memory surfaced, vivid and bittersweet, transporting me thousands of miles and decades back to my childhood home in Rwanda.
National Air and Space Museum
My dad started building it before he married my mom, and as our family grew to eight, so did the house. By the time I was old enough to recall it clearly, it had expanded to eight rooms (not counting the living and dining rooms). Now, before you imagine a modern open-concept design, with long hallways connecting everything, that’s not what we are talking about here. Oh no, that wasn’t the 70s or 80s style—at least not in our home. To reach the kids’ bedrooms, you had to navigate a labyrinth of interconnected rooms. It was like playing an eternal game of hide-and-seek.
The US Supreme Court
The Capitol Hill
The Capitol Hill
With hubby
City Center Outdoor Mall
And here’s where the Apollo missions come in. Two of the bedrooms at the far ends of the maze were affectionately dubbed Appollo Onze and Appollo Douze—French for Apollo 11 and Apollo 12. Why? I have no idea. My parents, who had only elementary school educations, somehow knew about these historic space missions and decided to immortalize them in our home. Maybe they were inspired by the grandeur of human achievement. Maybe they liked the sound of it. Or maybe it was my dad’s way of dreaming big for his growing family.
National Air and Space Museum
From the planetarium in D.C., I texted my siblings to see if they remembered this quirky naming convention. It was an outright no. None of them recalls it. You see, when we lost our parents during the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, I was 13—the second child in my family. My two siblings, who were two years older and two years younger than me, were taken too. The memories I shared with them, the validation of our shared childhood, are forever out of reach. The three surviving siblings were all younger than ten.
Downtown Washington DC
Sometimes I feel like my memories are broken, scattered fragments that no one else can piece together with me. It’s a lonely feeling, like shouting into the void and hearing only your own echo. So many memories are tied to my three younger siblings—shared moments that bind us together. Yet, there’s an equally large collection I hold alone, without validation, because they were too young to remember. Like the way our mom would lovingly write songs to help with our school music homework or the wise, often humorous sayings of our parents that shaped my understanding of the world. These memories feel both precious and fragile, like whispers of the past that only I can hear, and sometimes, that solitude weighs heavy on my heart.
But even in that sadness, I find wonder. How did my parents, with their limited formal education, know about the Apollo missions? And why those particular ones—Apollo 11 and 12? Did they choose them deliberately? Or was it as random as the triggers that bring these memories rushing back to me?
I may never know the answers to the questions about my childhood home, or many other questions I wish I could ask my loved ones no longer with us! But that’s okay. What I do know is this: I carry these memories like precious cargo, a connection to the parents and siblings I lost too soon. They are my history, my anchor, and my orbit.
Delicious Mediterranean Restaurant in DC
And as I stood there in D.C., under the twinkling lights of the planetarium, I smiled. Because even though the memories are mine alone to carry, they are a testament to the love, curiosity, and resilience of a family that once was.
“These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” ~ John 16:33 NKJV
There are topics that I get excited to write about and share, yet there are others that give me pause, particularly when sharing over the vast expanse of cyberspace with individuals I may never encounter face-to-face. It truly exposes a sense of vulnerability within me. Nevertheless, since launching this blog and founding Rising Above the Storms (RAS) over a decade ago, my goal has been to open up to my readers and audience about the wounds of my past, narratives of the present, and the person I aspire to become.
If you are new to my blog, I frequently delve into my personal journey amid the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda. I recount the harrowing stories of humans who became ferocious animals. I share about the tragic loss of my loved ones, the struggles, and immense grief I faced as a young girl, and the arduous path toward healing, forgiveness, and embracing hope. Amidst the trials, I attribute the person I have become today to the profound encounter with God throughout this tumultuous journey.
My Dearest Mommy, the Source of My Inspiration
The month of April permanently reminds me of the darkest time of my life, an experience that left me with wounds that defy healing from any human, object, or time. Amid numerous close calls with death throughout April and subsequent weeks, one particular date stands out as pivotal in shaping my identity: Sunday, April 24, 1994.
That fateful afternoon marked a week since my mother had assumed the role of the head of the household, thrust into this responsibility abruptly. Exactly one week prior, on Sunday afternoon, April 17, my father—my cherished confidant—was murdered. We learned of his death while cowered in hiding and overhead the Hutu Interahamwe militiamen passing by. They boasted: “We just killed Alphonse and cut him into three pieces; he indicated that he left a wife and five children behind. Where are they? We’ll finish them all.”
As newcomers to this town, my resilient mother may have hoped we could blend in unnoticed, believing perhaps that our lives might be spared. Unfortunately, this hope proved futile. On Sunday afternoon, April 24, my mother, elder brother, cousin, and I were led by Hutu Interahamwe militiamen to a mass grave in Mulindi, Kanombe, northeast of Kigali, a mere ten-minute distance from the Kigali International Airport. Despite our unfamiliarity with the area and the fact that the militiamen didn’t know us, our appearance alone betrayed our identity. Trapped in this moment, escape was inconceivable.
My entire family in one place, the only photo I have of us together. Blurred faces are friends/relatives.
We were instructed to sit down on the top of the looming mass grave, a pit that had already consumed countless innocent Tutsi victims and awaited many more. The militia leader, sneering at my mother, questioned how she was still alive, two and a half weeks into the genocide. Then, with chilling certainty, he asked my mother if she had other children not present with us at that dire moment.
Any response such as “I have no other children,” “they ran away,” “they are dead,” or “I am uncertain of their whereabouts” could have sufficed. However, my mother, characterized by her honesty, and extraordinary nature, opted for transparency during this critical moment. She revealed that she had three additional children in hiding. My emotions were already muted; I cannot claim that her response had a specific impact on me. Waiting for death has its own effect that cannot be put into words.
💔A red cross for the souls I lost 30 years ago, from left to right: Jean Felix, Dad, Mom, Marie Claudine💔
The same squad leader singled me out, citing my perceived physical vulnerability compared to my elder brother. The assailants assumed I would be unable to flee as swiftly as he could. My brother, aged only fifteen but appearing mature and towering at almost six feet tall, looked like an adult. Therefore, I was the target. The killers actually thought that my brother was much older and accused my mom of lying about his age. I was given an armed soldier to accompany me, with a mission to locate and bring my younger siblings so that we could all meet the same fate together.
I couldn’t walk away without saying something; I begged the merciless militia leader not to kill my beloved mother before I returned, hoping he would listen. My plea was my last conversation with my mother. The militia had already started beating my brother and he was bleeding when I left.
💞May their Memories Forever Be a Blessing💞
After disclosing my younger siblings’ hiding, the armed soldier didn’t take me back to the crime scene. Instead, he directed me to leave my siblings in their hiding place and escorted me in the opposite direction, towards a small house where a few others were also seeking refuge. While many details from that day remain hazy, I distinctly recall him leaving me in that house. I don’t remember how many people were there or their stories. After some time, the soldier returned and told me to follow him, leaving me no choice but to comply. With an assault rifle in hand, he held not just my safety but my very life in his grasp.
At that moment, I feared he intended to sexually assault me, a tragically common practice by the assailants before executing their victims. Though at just 13, I also harbored a sense of relief, thinking he might simply fulfill my plea and kill me with a bullet instead. It sounds bizarre, but knowing I might die by gunfire felt like a small mercy, a luxury denied to my loved ones.
I followed him and we walked, I cannot say for how long with certainty. Eventually, we reached a home that I’d later learn belonged to his brother, a soldier as well, near the Kanombe military barracks. Darkness had already settled in by then. To my surprise, he offered me food, clothes, and a place to sleep. He also delivered the devastating news, that my brother, mother, and cousin had been killed. Adding to this anguish, he also disclosed that the death squad had discovered the hiding place of my younger siblings, and raised serious doubts about their survival.
As I lay in the tiny bed within that gigantic house, sleep eluded me completely. The events of that day still felt surreal, as if trapped in an unending nightmare. Questions swirled in my mind, wondering about the soldier’s role in the murder of my loved ones. He had claimed to have witnessed their deaths firsthand. I couldn’t shake it off: How did the death squad discover my siblings’ hiding place? Could the soldier have disclosed their whereabouts? After all, he was the only one who had seen them. Yet, despite these suspicions, he didn’t touch me and remained committed to his promise, emphasizing that he had spared my life to be the storyteller of my family’s tragic fate. It was evident that he believed I might be the sole survivor among my family members.
Like many in the ex-Rwandan Army Forces responsible for planning and perpetrating the genocide against the Tutsi, he eventually fled as the Rwandan Patriotic Forces (RPF) advanced, leaving me in that home. Weeks later, around the 4th of July, following intense clashes between the RPF fighters and ex-Rwandan forces, the RPF army seized control, leading me and other survivors to safety. This marked the beginning of a new journey, one marked by solitude but also survival.
My Blessings From Above. Our Parents in heaven must be proud❤️
Upon sensing the first semblance of safety, I embarked on a journey of piecing together fragmented memories to safeguard recollections of my loved ones. Details around when and where they were murdered, and any information I could remember, I attempted to trace back. It was during this introspective process that I grasped the true significance of my mother’s honesty. Had it not been for her truth, my own history would too have concluded on April 24, 1994. If I hadn’t been taken by that soldier to reveal my younger siblings’ hiding, the mass grave that claimed my mother, brother, and cousin would have become my dwelling.
I often ponder what compelled my mother to speak the truth when survival hung in the balance. I will probably never know; nevertheless, of this I am certain: I am alive today because of her actions, and here to share this story.
Although my time with my mom was tragically brief, her legacy lives on through me. She was honest, had immense kindness, a capacity for forgiveness, and devout faith. If I can embody even a fraction of her remarkable qualities, I will consider myself immensely fortunate. In a piece dedicated to her memory a few years ago, I wrote, “To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power,” capturing the essence of her indomitable spirit.
These narratives form the foundation of my faith; God has been our Father, Provider, Protector, and the source of everything we could ever need.
Thank you for reading my story!
“And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” ~ Revelation 21:4
Another year is gone! I don’t know about you but I feel like 2016 just flew by. While this year has generally been a great year for me and my family, it has also been my busiest as far as I can remember. In addition to my regular job and non profit work, I have also had a decent amount of travel, both in the US and outside the US. It has been a full plate!
Our Family Vacation Time!
As we bid 2016 adieu tonight, I would like to take this moment to express my gratitude:
First and foremost, to God who is my Strength, Hope, Counselor, Provider, my reason to rejoice. He Has a new mercy for me everyday and for that I am forever in awe of Him!
I am indebted to an incredible group of people who have been walking with me & caring for a cause very close to my heart, Rising Above the Storms. A few individuals who worked tirelessly around the clock, juggling their busy lives and dedicating their time, talent and finances to make our First Annual Gala a success! I can’t thank them enough.
Our RAS Team @ our First Annual Gala
Many people who believe in me, my personal story of hope and my life’s dream to change one life at a time, through sharing a message of hope, empowering through education and advocating for orphans. I am especially thankful to my Cisco community, my immediate team that organized an event to raise money for RAS, many individual Cisco employees who donated, Cisco that matches donations, every single donor (small or big) who is contributing to making our dream coming true! I am forever humbled!
First Annual RAS Gala, Sept 22, 2016
I am very excited about our very first partnership with a non profit (Amahoro Builders Ministry or ABM) locally based in Rwanda and set to launch on Friday, January 6, 2017 in Kigali. Our main focus there will be to care for street children by listening to their voices and needs, helping them reintegrate in the Rwandan community and guiding them to a future filled with hope. ABM is a non profit organization that places focus on the well being of the family, youth and early childhood development in Rwanda. Their main office is in the Eastern Province.
RAS & ABM Facilities in Kabeza, Rwanda!
My friends, too many to mention here, who are always there for me, even when I am not as available for them. I am very thankful to know the greatest individuals!
My adopted family in NY and relatives who have given me another chance to have a family that truly cares about my well being. My adopted Mom who has been the greatest supporter of my hopes and dreams, even when my vision seemed impossible.
Last but not least, my siblings who are my greatest boast in the Lord, my source of inspiration, my best friends. I cannot imagine my life without them. In addition to my brother and his beautiful wife, last year our lives have been blessed with a little bundle of joy, my nephew (I also call him my grandson) that I love beyond imagination. I know his real grandparents would have loved him as much as I do and more.
With my 14 month old Nephew, Igor Adley!
I look forward to 2017 with great anticipation! Happy New Year to you and all your loved ones! God bless you!
Okay, so, when it comes to talking about my children, wait a minute, my siblings, yes I took the liberty of adopting them as my own, I get super excited. You can blame GOD who gave me the love I have for them.
So, it was my birthday few days ago. How old I am? Let’s just say I was born many moons ago. In Rwanda, at least when I was growing up, we didn’t really celebrate birthdays; people barely remembered it was even their birthday, leave alone celebration. That has drastically changed recently though, and I guess it is because of the western influence through movies, TV, Internet, social networks & media etc. Not to mention that you do not ask a Rwandan lady how old she is, and this is almost true :).
My favorite part is best wishes messages I receive from friends and family. I have some friends whom we normally don’t get a chance to talk often, but they sure know when to drop me an e-mail, exactly to wish me a happy birthday. How thoughtful they are! I keep records of inspiring notes from friends, on paper or by heart, but for the sake of this post, I wanted to share this year’s messages from just my two sisters. Whether they used a dictionary, or Google translate, got a help from our brother or whether I underestimate their English skills is irrelevant here. I just love everything about them and their effort. I was deeply touched. “Ndagukunda” means “I love you” in Kinyarwanda.
Mireille Noella
Mireille, above, is the youngest of our family. I just love it when she calls me Mom, it melts my heart. I am sure parents would understand. This is her message on my birthday:”My beloved sis and Mom, may this day brings and makes your spirit bright and there be many pleasant surprises for u from morning to night. May all your dreams come true and this day be just right especially for u because u deserve it and all My Love. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. NDAGUKUNDA.
Alice, below, wrote: “I’m so thankful that i not only have a magnificent sister, but an amazing friend that stands by me and supports me, by giving every piece of her life. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOVE U SO MUCH.”
Alice
My brother Jean Eric’s messages, like always, are full of wisdom and beautiful wishes from the heart. His English is far better and I don’t get surprised as much as I do when it’s a message from Mireille or Alice.
I love them more than I can ever put in words. I sometime have silly thoughts when I picture my siblings’ respective wedding day. I wonder if I will be called “the mother of the bride/groom” or just “the sister of the bride/groom”, or later a grandma or just auntie. Either way, it will certainly be my best moments. Even if I had to start over again and raise them, I would do it in a twinkling of an eye.
Beauty for Ashes 