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
In this tender month of April, Grant me the moment to entreat. For within this season’s embrace, Memories abundantly flow. A path through trials, battles faced anew, Life’s tapestry woven, by pain and strength tried.
♦
In ’94, hell engulfed Rwanda, The land of a thousand hills that once gleamed with light. Rolling hills and lush green, a paradise’s hymn, Now veiled in the blood of my kin, a tragic tale. Silent world, their crime? Physical features they couldn’t curtail.
♦
I harbor no grudge, my word stands strong, Bitterness won’t mend the past. No victim’s stance, I claim my place, Resilience carries on, a path unmarred. From the ashes rising, steadfast in my stand, Forgiveness, not vengeance, a lighter hand.
♦
Three decades on, wounds still tender and raw, Their memories revered, a pledge of eternal splendor. Their absence echoes, a void within my heart, Their journey truncated, a poignant call to persevere. Allow me, O world, to unveil my story arc, Of valor, endurance, and transcending the dark.
♦
I vow, no tale of despair shall you find, Instead, one of strength against fate’s bind. From shadows, a journey to illuminate, Survivor by name, warrior within. Carving purpose from chaos, A new life to behold, another chance to cherish.
♦
Each trial conceals a lesson’s profound lore, And within every warrior, hope eternally soars. In brokenness, faith endures in tranquil sway, In this April’s remembrance, my heart doesn’t tarry. Allow me to raise this resounding anthem high, To honor, to unite, in hope’s enduring embrace.
💓
Paying tribute to my dad, mom, brother, and sister who were taken from me so soon, during the 1994 genocide against Tutsi, in Rwanda (4/7, 4/17, 4/24). 💓May their memories forever remain a blessing💓
“For You have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, and my feet from falling. I will walk before the Lord, in the land of the living.” Psalm 116: 8-9
My First Loves, my Children, my Treasure, my Crown before God!Alice, Jean Eric, Noella and me. Christmas 2021
It must have been sometime in September, or maybe October, I am not entirely sure. Please bear with me as I try to relive the darkest period of my life. Allow me to tell you the horror of my childhood, almost three decades later, as a 13-year old, holding my chin up high, with hope rising. The genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda had just ended a few months earlier, by Rwandans who lived as refugees in exile. They had been denied to return to their home country, with the excuse that it was full. These refugees, formed a grass-roots army, the Rwanda Patriotic Front or RPF. The RPF came fighting without sophisticated artillery, armed with the love and dedication to liberate their beloved country and save any Tutsi who still had breath in them.
I lived with my paternal aunt at the time, whom I miraculously met at the same refugee shelter, Kigali International Airport, where RPF soldiers gathered survivors behind the enemy line. I think it was the end of May or beginning of June.
With my beautiful sisters Alice and Noella; I call them my babies. December2021
Our airport living quarters were empty cargo shipping containers located right across from the airport hangar. Downtown Kigali, twenty minutes or less north of us, was still an active combat between RPF soldiers and the Rwandan Army Forces who planned and executed the genocide. Some of the refugees were the survivors of the worst atrocities of the 20th century, dehumanized for just being born with certain physical features. This unimaginable cruelty would later be recognized as genocide too little too late.
My aunt and her two toddlers under age three had been hidden by her Hutu neighbor in Remera, just minutes from this airport. (Her husband, my uncle, had been on a business trip out of country before all this started).
As far as I was concerned, before bumping into my aunt, I was the only living soul left in my family and the world that surrounded me. Meeting my aunt was a small glimmer of hope, a connection to a forgotten happy past. I was grateful to see someone familiar and thankful she asked me to live with her, whatever that meant, since everything we held dear was gone.
My nephew Adley and niece Abiella (they’re cousins). I call them my grand-babies. Three years apart but still best friends!
On July 4th, 1994, the country was liberated by the RPF. Victory, we had a sense of hope. Soon after, we were allowed to return to homes, or whatever was left that resembled our lives.
Fast forward a few months later, I believe it was September or October, when my aunt’s friend came to visit in Remera. As soon as he saw me, he said there were two small boys from my family living in an orphanage in the next town, Ndera. I couldn’t believe my ears! Two boys? We initially had two boys and four girls in my family, and my older brother had been killed along with my mother. Besides, there was no way he could be called little, standing at 6 feet tall at fifteen years old.
When we were separated the April before, I left my little brother and two sisters. If there were siblings at the orphanage, I wondered which of the three was not there. My young mind was trying to make sense of it all. Now there was a possibility I still had two siblings. I might not be the only one who survived. I couldn’t believe it. It was a lot to process!
My (not-so-little-anymore) bro Jean Eric and the love of his life Redempta
I honestly don’t recall how I arrived where my siblings were at the time. I probably walked since there was no public transportation in place yet. Then the most life-changing moment arrived. I saw my siblings! And the greatest part was, there were not two, but all three. Memories flooded back to that April 24th day, that life and death defining moment and the last time I saw them. We had just been informed my older brother, Jean Felix, was being held by the Hutu militiamen. My mom, cousin, and I rushed to see Jean Felix. When we arrived at the “crime scene”, which sat at the mouth of a mass grave, our physical features must have given us away. The killing squad leader asked my mom where she had been hiding for that long and if she had any other kids not with us.
For reasons I don’t know today, rather than lying, my mother told the truth. She perhaps thought that we wouldn’t be able to survive on our own, or she was ready to see the Lord. I will never know.
My greatest life’s accomplishment, my three siblings!
I was immediately given an armed soldier as an escort and sent to bring my three younger siblings from hiding, instead of my brother Jean Felix who was believed to be a flight risk. For whatever reason that I still don’t understand, this soldier decided to leave my younger siblings in their hiding place. Moreover, rather than taking me back where my mother, brother and cousin were being held, he took me somewhere else. Sparing you details for now, I am alive today to tell the story because of his decision. This same soldier knew my mom, brother, and cousin were dead and how they had been executed.
I have so many questions that I won’t have answers for in this life. Ironically, I owe my ability to tell this story to this same soldier. Whatever he did or didn’t do, he spared my life.
Holding my newest niece/granddaughter (three month-old Kaylee Shiloh)
Five or six months later, after that horror, I stood in shock unable to believe my eyes at the sight of my siblings. They were so malnourished that I could understand why someone would think my two sisters were boys.
I may have intentionally blurred a lot that happened before and after, such as the fact that my youngest sister didn’t recognize me. While that and so many broken memories shattered my heart, this encounter remains the most treasured moment of my life. From that very moment, I found my life purpose. My survival finally had a meaning!
Adley holding Abiella. Best friends ♥️♥️
Now, what about the Sacred Promise I gave the title of this post?
Sometime after I had found my surviving siblings, I had an incredibly vivid dream. In it was my father, Alphonse, looking as handsome as ever in a white robe. You cannot believe my shock thinking how I had been applying for documents that would exempt me from paying school fees because I was an orphan. Yet, there stood my father looking at me with a big smile. The dream ended with me making a promise to him, that I would love and take care of his surviving children as he would have done himself. When I awoke, I felt like I had met an angel and I felt my father’s presence.
My handsome daddy (in early 1980s)
April 7th, 2022 begins the twenty-eighth commemoration of the genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda. Today, I can humbly divulge that keeping this promise remains the most important accomplishment of my life. And if this is the only success I will ever achieve in this life, I will call myself the luckiest person on God’s earth. Before my God who Has my parents and two siblings with Him, I have unconditionally loved my three younger siblings as my own children, and their children as my grandkids. With every fiber of my being, and breath I take, I will keep my sacred vow to my dad in that dream late 1994 for as long as I shall live.
With my best friend, the love of my life
There’s nothing in this life that I cannot do for my siblings I call my children; God is my witness. Their happiness fills my heart with joy and gratitude before God! I love them more than life itself. I am immensely grateful to our Father God Who has been everything we ever need. He provided, protected and carried my siblings and I through the darkest and trying times of our lives. He truly is the Father to the fatherless!
I am married to my best friend, my partner in righteousness, who’s not only understanding of what my siblings and I endured at a young age, but also supportive of my keeping the sacred promise I made to my father in that dream! When Jesus will come with the clouds and all eyes will see Him, before the heavenly congregation, I will tell my dear parents that I had kept my vow to them and our God!
I found hope, faith and purpose amidst great loss!
♥ If tears could build a stairway, and memories a lane. I would walk right up to Heaven and bring you back again ♥
A memorial wreath laid on one of the graves at Kigali Genocide Memorial, Gisozi, Rwanda. Feb 2019
This specific Wednesday night, my parents and 4 of my siblings, we all went to bed, completely unsure of what even the next day would look like; you see, earlier that evening around dinner time, we suddenly heard loud explosions nearby, and saw flames in the sky. We then rushed to listen to our home radio receiver only to learn that the plane carrying the president of Rwanda had just been shot down as it landed at Kigali International Airport; the announcement added thatthepresident died, along the president of Burundi and everyone onboard.
That night, all of us kids slept together in the same bedroom with our parents; we were too terrified to sleep anywhere else.
Reflecting on Memories of my Family and Childhood in what used to be our home. Feb 2019
The next day brought a usual warm and sunny morning, that’d have otherwise been a great opportunity to be outdoors. Unfortunately, nothing could ever have prepared my family for what was about to unfold before our eyes. My little sister Marie Claudine (I had 5 siblings) had been visiting her godmother, Theresa, who lived about 15 minutes away, for Spring/Easter Break. All of the sudden, Theresa, showed up at our house unannounced. She wasn’t alone, but not with my sister either; instead, behind her were men carrying a dead body –my little sister’s, we found out! Theresa informed us that Hutu militiamen attacked her home that very morning, killed her 2 kids and my sister, and looted her house. Theresa had been in hiding at the time of the attack.
With our world crumbling down piece by piece, it was as if a double edged sword has cut deep, deep, through our hearts. Unbeknownst to us then, this very Thursday morning, April 7th, 1994 would mark the beginning of the genocide, the Tutsi ethnic cleansing in Rwanda. Theresa’s kids and my little sister were the first victims in our area. The next 100 days would cost 1 million lives of men, women, children, young, old, strong, beautiful. Their crime? The way they were born, something they did not get an opportunity to bargain with their Creator during their births!
That staggering number would include my parents, and 2 of my siblings, neighbors, classmates, friends, amazing people who had an entire future ahead of them!
Beautiful Kigali, the Capital of Rwanda. Feb 2019
Fast forward to 26 years later, today, our whole planet is reeling under a devastating COVID-19 outbreak, a global pandemic that has brought our normal daily routines to a near standstill, my beautiful home country Rwanda included. Countries imposed lockdowns to stop the imminent spread of the virus. Families are huddled in their homes, some with the possibility of dying of hunger, especially people whose income was based on jobs that cannot be done remotely. The losses of lives are astonishing, and no country is immune to the impact.
Somehow, unfortunately, this danger and fear feels all too familiar to me, although not to the same extent. My eyes have seen things that no young child should ever have to endure. The people of Rwanda have been through so much already, and my heart is heavy for them, especially around this time of the year, during this unprecedented time.
So, will you allow me this opportunity to pour my heart out for my people in the Land of a Thousand Hills? Will you indulge me for a moment, while I weep, grieve, remember, honor, and commemorate innocent lives that we lost, the shameful death our loved ones died in 1994? Spare me a moment of silence, to reflect, to pray, to cherish memories of the people who meant the world to me, whose lives were cut short!
Allow me to ponder on the dates that are forever a reminder of the horror that descended on Rwanda, scars that no lifetime can ever heal: Thursday, April 7th, my little sister Marie Claudine (11) was killed. Sunday, April 17th, my Dad (43) was killed. On Sunday, April 24th, my older brother Jean Felix (15) and my Mom (40) were killed together.
The Kigali Genocide Memorial is the final resting place for 250,000+ victims of the Genocide against the Tutsi. Feb 2019
Today Tuesday, April 7th, 2020
We remember, commemorate & honor all those Tutsi who died in shame! They didn’t choose to be born the way they were born. May they rest in Eternal Peace with you Jesus, until we will see them again, in a life that knows no sorrow or pain!
God, we pray for Your comfort and love wrapped around every survivor. Please, Lord, give each and every hope, endurance, strength, prosperity, courage, a voice, healing, ability to forgive. You alone can heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds.
We remember & pray for those left vulnerable—widows, orphans, women who were raped and left with pregnancies and diseases, and those inflicted with physical scars that bring emotional trauma and recurring nightmares.
We remember those who were not a target but chose to hide Tutsi, risking their lives. They are the heroes of our survival stories!
We pray for the leaders of Rwanda, the president, and everyone around him: for wisdom to lead the country with justice and fairness and continue to move Rwanda forward.
We pray for peace over Rwanda; and for genocide perpetrators that themselves will receive forgiveness, come to know the Lord, and repent. We will leave vengeance to God, as it is written that vengeance belongs to Him, and He will repay.
We thank you Jesus for the unity, renewal, and healing, progress, prosperity, that has been bestowed upon Rwanda and her people. Amen!
“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.” Revelations 21:4 (NKJV)
Beauty for Ashes 