Every year, during the first week of the commemoration of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, we remember the lives that were lost, the families that were destroyed, and the future stolen from an entire generation.

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But beyond the numbers and tragic events, there is a quieter, and deeper wound that many survivors carry; the loss of confidence, as the very people who once made them feel safe were hunted and killed.

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For many children, role models are not distant public figures. They are parents, older siblings, uncles, aunts, and neighbours—the very people whose presence makes the world feel secure and predictable. These are the individuals children believe will always protect them, no matter what.

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The genocide against the Tutsi shattered that belief.

In 1994, children witnessed the unimaginable. They saw their parents, once seemingly invincible, hunted and killed. They saw their older siblings, their heroes, unable to protect them. The people they looked up to became vulnerable, afraid, and, in many cases, were taken away forever. For many children, the genocide did not only take away loved ones; it also took away their sense of safety and trust in the world.

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I experienced this personally. During the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, I was 13 years old—an age when a child still looks up to older siblings for protection, guidance, and reassurance. At that age, you believe your older brother or sister can face anything. You believe they will always find a way to protect you.

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My role model was my big brother, Theodore, whom we nicknamed "Kiyodori.” He was more than just a brother; he was my protector. In times of uncertainty, I felt secure knowing he was there. Like many younger siblings, I believed that as long as Theodore was around, nothing bad could happen to me. His presence gave me confidence and comfort, but during the genocide, that sense of security disappeared.

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Theodore went into hiding, like many others who were being hunted. We hoped he would survive. We believed he would find a way, because in my mind, he was strong and capable. He was my role model, after all. Unfortunately, he was found by the genocide perpetrators in Buhanda, a trading center in the then Masango commune, now part of Ruhango District.

What makes this memory even more painful is how he was discovered. My brother used to smoke. And it was the cigarette smoke that revealed his hiding place. Something so small, so ordinary, became the reason he was found and ultimately killed. His death did not only break my heart; it broke my confidence in the idea that someone stronger would always be there to protect me.

From that moment, like many children who survived the genocide, I realized that even the people we look up to can be taken away. The world suddenly felt unpredictable and unsafe. Childhood ended abruptly for many of us who had to be the heads of broken families.

Yet remembrance also carries resilience. Every year, on May 15, the day Theodore passed away, I remember him in a personal and symbolic way. I normally don’t smoke, but on that date, I sit in a quiet corner and smoke one cigarette in his memory. It is not about the cigarette itself; it is about remembering him, his life, his presence, and the role he played in my childhood. It is my quiet tribute to a brother who once made me feel safe.

This commemoration period reminds us that the genocide did not only destroy lives; it also disrupted childhood, broke trust, and forced children to grow up too soon. Many survivors had to rebuild confidence from the ground up, learning to trust again, to find new role models, and eventually to become role models themselves.

Today, as we remember, many of us who were children are now parents. We also recognize the responsibility we carry: to be the role models that were taken from us, to protect, to guide, and to inspire the younger generation, and to ensure that children grow up in a country where their confidence in their role models is never shattered again.

The writer is a genocide survivor who currently serves as the acting Chief Digital Officer in the Ministry of Environment and the Ministry of Emergency Management.