In The Roads That Found Me, Amelberge Nyagatare traces a life shaped by resilience, displacement, discrimination, and extraordinary courage.

From a childhood marked by family separation and ethnic exclusion in Rwanda, to academic excellence achieved against systemic barriers, and through the trauma of the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi, her story is both personal and political.

Trained in law and later in social pedagogy and psychosocial counselling, Nyagatare has spent decades advocating for dignity and inclusion. Living in Austria since 1995, she became a strong voice for Black and African communities facing discrimination and structural marginalisation.

In this interview with The New Times, she reflects on the experiences that forged her character, the traumas that tested her, and the lessons of forgiveness and perseverance that continue to guide her work.

Can you introduce yourself to our readers?

My name is Amelberge Nyagatare. I have lived in Austria since 1995, after marrying an Austrian. I am a mother of three; aged 29, 25, 22 and I turn 60 in March.

I studied law and, after the genocide, worked for an Austrian corporation under the Austrian Relief Program. Later, I served as a Desk Officer for Africa, particularly French-speaking countries.

I have always believed that if something needs to change, you must take responsibility and act. That conviction led me to law, then to social pedagogy, and to psychosocial counselling.

While living in Austria, I saw Black communities face discrimination and structural barriers with little support. I returned to study so I could stand beside them with both conviction and qualification.

For many years, I worked closely with African communities in Upper Austria—helping people find employment, secure school placements, access housing, and navigate a society where they often felt invisible.

Today my work has shifted. I have returned to Africa as the African Representative of Global Research Park, building bridges between international capital and African governments to support projects that create jobs, strengthen education, and foster long-term growth.

It is still about dignity and opportunity—now at a structural level.

You describe growing up in a comfortable family. What was your childhood like?

Materially, we were comfortable. My father was an entrepreneur, and we attended good schools. But I learned early that comfort and stability are not the same.

When I was four, my mother was sent away. She left six children behind; none of us went with her. Power belonged to whoever controlled resources, and my father made that decision. I did not see my mother again until I was nine.

When you reunited with your mother, what stayed with you?

I asked why she had left me. She told me my father was her cousin and the love of her life, then asked me to love him and respect my stepmother because he loved her.

There was no bitterness. From her, I learned forgiveness and acceptance—how to live with grace in difficult circumstances.

When did you first become aware of ethnic divisions?

At school. At home, we did not discuss being Hutu, Tutsi, or Twa. At school, identity suddenly determined treatment. I was once expelled without fully understanding why; later I learned it was linked to ethnic tensions. As children, we felt isolated long before we understood politics.

Did you talk to your family about it?

I asked my stepmother why we were treated badly. She told me to speak less and accept life as it comes, not to escalate an already difficult situation.

Despite this, you excelled academically. How?

I was part of the first cohort of an education reform in the early 1980s that extended primary school to eight years and added vocational subjects.

I performed very well, but because of the quota system at the time, I was not assigned a secondary school. It hurt—not because of ability, but because merit did not matter.

Through family intervention, I later attended a religious secondary school in Jenda, Burundi, and completed my studies. Education, for me, was a tool for independence and dignity.

You later studied law in Burundi. What happened then?

I graduated in 1993, the year President Ndadaye was killed. A Burundian friend feared for her life after her home was destroyed. She believed Rwanda would be safer, so I took her myself.

That journey was dangerous. What happened?

We passed through the DR Congo. People called me a "snake,” accused me of killing Ndadaye, and tried to attack me—more than four times. I am tall and fit the stereotype of a Tutsi woman.

I defended myself by saying I was taking a Hutu woman to safety. Once, they nearly threw me off a moving bus. Some women intervened and saved me.

What message do you hope young people take from your book?

Life is a mix of good and bad. We must find strength within ourselves to endure the hard days and learn from them—not be held back by them.