“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My first Rays of Sunshine: a Sacred Promise to My Dad will take you through the journey of how I found out that my three younger siblings, the ones whose hiding I revealed, had survived.

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