In the hush between footsteps on the morning of the 7th, in the way the wind hesitates as it moves through the hills of Rwanda, something shifts. Something sacred. It is called Kwibuka.
The world may see candles, tears, and quiet gatherings. But for Rwanda, it's the sound of hearts breaking all over again. It's the echo of names unspoken and stories unfinished.
It is the week where time pauses, and memory sits beside every Rwandan heart, heavy and alive.
You may pass through Kigali, Huye, Musanze this week. You may go about your days, clocking in, cooking dinner, replying to emails.
But somewhere deep in the ground beneath, voices still speak.
Some were children. Some mothers. Some uncles. Some neighbors.
Some are laid to rest in memorials with dignity. Others in mass pits with none.
And yet, there is another voice.
One not from the graves, but from the spaces between conversations.
The subtle voice of forgetting, of avoiding, of questioning in ways that are not innocent.
But this isn't about accusing.
It's about asking.
Asking what is spoken in homes when April comes.
Because truth does not only live in speeches or public squares.
It lives in kitchens. In quiet family talks.
In the words chosen around the dinner table.
Sometimes, the words may still be trapped in your throat.
You may not yet feel ready to tell the full story, even to your own.
But even in silence, you can choose truth.
Let the television speak for you.
Let the radio fill the room.
Let the Kwibuka messages find their way into your child's hands, on a phone, on a screen, in the quiet of your home.
If your voice trembles, let these voices carry it for you, until yours is ready.
Even that small act becomes a brick,
laid gently in the foundation of unity.
A quiet offering.
A future guarded by truth,
not only in public,
but where it matters most, inside.
A memory lingers
It was in 2015, near Rwamagana. As the bus passed by a Genocide Memorial, a young man, no older than twenty, looked out and softly asked,
'What is done inside there?'
The question fell into silence.
Not because no one knew the answer, but because in Rwanda, where memorials stand as sacred reminders, and each April 7th opens the nation's heart to remembrance, such a question lands heavily.
I didn't dwell on the silence around me.
I thought of him.
And of the home he comes from.
What is remembered there?
What is taught when no one is watching?
Denial doesn't always wear a banner or march in defiance.
Sometimes, it's just… silence.
Sometimes, it's 'they said something happened.'
Sometimes, it's 'why bring that up again?'
Sometimes, it's a quiet reshaping of facts, a hesitation to use the right name.
And here's where it matters most.
Not in courts or headlines,
but in homes.
In the corners of living rooms.
During school rides.
In the tone used when explaining history to a child.
Start there.
Use the name that carries the truth.
Say: Genocide against the Tutsi.
Not war. Not conflict. Not tragedy.
Genocide against the Tutsi.
That name carries weight.
But it also carries dignity, and healing.
It is a brick laid into the foundation of unity.
A house Rwanda is still building, stone by stone.
And here is a gentle ask:
Whoever you are, wherever you are, whether this is your history or not, help in the building.
The future of Rwanda doesn't ask for guilt.
It asks for truth.
For honesty.
For the heart to find the words, and let truth rise, untouched, unchanged.
And this is where history becomes personal.
Not because one lived it,
but because one chooses what to do with it.
There are still those who flinch when April arrives.
Some turn their faces.
Some dismiss remembrance.
Others even mock the pain.
But to do so is to forget not only the lives taken by hate,
but the humanity left in the living.
Rwanda has come far.
Not by forgetting,
but by walking with memory, unhidden, unaltered.
And there's still more to do.
If you can speak up when someone misnames what happened, do it.
If your family dances around the truth, be the one to bring it home.
If a child asks,
'What is done inside there?'
Let your voice rise and say:
'That is where the victims of the Genocide against the Tutsi are laid to rest.
That is where memory lives.
That is Rwanda's heart, still healing.'
This isn't about politics.
It isn't about sides.
It's about the soul of a nation.
And Rwanda watches, not to condemn, but to hope.
That its people, all of them, will choose truth over comfort.
Dignity over denial.
Speak it.
Even when your voice shakes.
Especially then.
AN
Source : https://en.igihe.com/opinion/article/when-memory-whispers-a-call-for-truth-in-the-silence-of-april
