In Mayange Sector of Bugesera District, Mbyo village, known locally as ‘Ku giti cy’Umuvumu’, stands as one of Rwanda’s most complex and quietly powerful spaces of remembrance and renewal.
Here, survivors of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi live side by side with men who once took part in the killings, sharing not just land but daily life, responsibilities, and, in some cases, deeply personal bonds that would once have seemed impossible.
More than two decades after the village was established, coexistence is no longer an experiment. It is a lived reality shaped by difficult conversations, painful truths, and a gradual rebuilding of trust that continues to evolve with time.
The story of Mbyo is not one of easy reconciliation, but of deliberate choices made by individuals who refused to remain trapped by the past.
The local name, "Igiti cy'Umuvumu", is also not a random. It is under the traditional strangler fig tree, locally known as ‘Umuvumu’, where most meetings happened.
The tree, known also as ‘Ficus thonningii’, carries a significant meaning in Rwandan and African culture, not only for its longevity, but also for providing a shade where meetings and ceremonies are held.
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As Rwanda continues to commemorate 32 years after the Genocide, The New Times visited the village which today stands out as a model of unity and reconciliation.
A life shaped by exclusion before the violence
For Cécile Mukagasana, a genocide survivor who now calls Mbyo home, the roots of that past stretch far beyond 1994. Growing up in Nyaruguru, what was then Gikongoro Prefecture, she remembers a childhood defined by systemic discrimination, where being Tutsi meant limited access to education and constant social exclusion.
Mukagasana, now in her late 50s, recalls how that marginalisation eventually gave way to outright violence. Her family was attacked, their home looted and burned, and they were forced to flee repeatedly, moving from one place to another in search of safety before eventually crossing into Burundi.
Even in exile, life remained precarious, shaped by instability and fear. When the genocide ended and survivors began to return, the reality that awaited them was stark.
Many had lost entire families, homes had been destroyed, and basic necessities were scarce. For Mukagasana, survival in the aftermath meant starting over with nothing, in a country still grappling with the scale of its loss.
What proved even harder to confront was the return of those who had carried out the killings.
When those who killed came back
The release of perpetrators following confessions and prison sentences marked one of the most difficult periods for survivors. Mukagasana recalls that seeing them again reopened wounds she had barely begun to process.
Encounters on the road, however brief, brought back vivid memories of how people had been hunted and killed.
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She avoided them whenever she could, unable to reconcile their presence with what she had lived through. Even seeing their children at play could trigger images of violence that had defined her past. Accepting their return, she says, was not something she could do immediately, or even willingly at first.
Across the same community, Thacien Nkundiye, now 76, carries a parallel memory of that time, but from the other side. Nkundiye speaks openly about his role in the genocide, explaining how local mobilisation, propaganda, and fear were used to organise ordinary people into killing groups.
At 42, Nkundiye joined Interahamwe militia groups, after attending meetings where residents were instructed to take up weapons and hunt down Tutsi. He does not attempt to justify his actions.
He describes them plainly, acknowledging that he participated directly in killings and that what happened was organised, deliberate, and widespread.
From prison to reflection
After the genocide, Nkundiye was arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment. He spent eight years in prison, where the first steps toward accountability began to take shape.
It was during this time that faith-based organisations, including Prison Fellowship Rwanda, began working with inmates. Through regular visits, pastors and facilitators encouraged prisoners to confront their actions, confess their crimes, and consider the possibility of seeking forgiveness.
At first, many inmates were suspicious, unsure of the intentions behind these visits. Over time, however, the message began to resonate. For Nkundiye, it prompted a difficult but necessary reflection on the reality that those he had helped target were people he had lived alongside for years.
He eventually wrote a confession letter, detailing his actions and asking for forgiveness. Many others did the same, forming part of a broader national process that sought to balance justice with reconciliation.
In 2003, those who had confessed and demonstrated remorse were released. "Our letters were received by the President of the Republic and after assessing them, I was among those who were pardoned after opening up.” It is something he says he would never forget or take for granted.
Facing each other again
Returning home did not mean returning to normal life. Survivors and perpetrators were brought together in structured meetings, often facilitated by religious leaders and reconciliation programmes. These encounters were marked by silence, fear, and uncertainty.
Mukagasana remembers sitting across from men she associated with unimaginable loss, unsure of how to begin speaking. The tension in those early meetings was palpable, with both sides uncertain of what the process would lead to.
But the meetings continued, creating space for dialogue to emerge gradually. Survivors spoke of their experiences and loss, while perpetrators began to acknowledge their actions. Over time, these exchanges shifted from silence to conversation.
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One of the most significant turning points came when perpetrators began revealing where bodies had been hidden. For many families, this was the first opportunity to recover remains and give loved ones a dignified burial.
Mukagasana says this process, though deeply painful, helped restore a sense of closure that had long been missing.
Building the village, building trust
Mbyo village itself was established in the early 2000s, with support from Prison Fellowship Rwanda, which helped construct homes for both survivors and released prisoners.
At the beginning, the settlement consisted of the initial 48 houses, forming the foundation of what would become a unique community.
The construction process brought residents together in practical ways. Men worked on making bricks and building structures, while women carried water, soil, and other materials needed for construction. This shared effort created early points of interaction that slowly helped reduce distance between the two groups.
Even then, trust was not immediate. Nkundiye recalls that fear lingered, particularly around the possibility of revenge or renewed conflict.
Survivors, too, carried their own concerns about safety and the sincerity of those who had returned.
Over time, however, those fears did not materialise. Daily interaction began to reshape perceptions, and the shared experience of building and living together created new forms of connection that had not existed before.
A long and personal journey to forgiveness
Even with exposure to religious teachings, she says acceptance did not come easily. It was only after years of interaction, dialogue, and visible change in the behaviour of perpetrators that she began to feel a genuine shift within herself.
Today, she says she has reached a point where she can interact freely, without carrying resentment, though the memory of what happened remains.
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Jeannette Mukabyagaju, born in 1979 and now 48, shares a similar perspective. Mukabyagaju moved to the village in 2005, after surviving the genocide at the age of 16, and has since built her life there.
Mukabyagaju emphasises that forgiveness cannot be imposed from outside. For her, the decision to forgive came from within, shaped by personal conviction rather than external pressure. That choice has translated into a level of trust that is visible in everyday life, including the ability to rely on neighbours connected to perpetrators for support and care.
Living together, beyond the past
Today, reconciliation in Mbyo is expressed less through words and more through daily practice. Residents support each other during illness, work together during farming seasons, and collaborate closely during commemoration periods.
Mukagasana recounts how neighbours linked to perpetrators have supported her during some of her most vulnerable moments, including childbirth and periods of illness, offering care that she describes as sincere and consistent.
For perpetrators, forgiveness has not erased accountability. Aloys Mutiribambe, now 72, speaks openly about the regret he carries and the responsibility that comes with being forgiven.
Mutiribambe was in his early 40s during the genocide and later served a prison sentence before being released after confessing his crimes. He remains conscious of the trust extended to him by survivors.
In his case, reconciliation has extended into family life. The family of a woman he wronged forgave him, and over time, their relationship evolved to the point where their children married, creating bonds that reflect a level of acceptance that goes beyond coexistence.
A model shaped by responsibility
While Mbyo village is often seen as a model of reconciliation, its residents are aware that their experience does not reflect the situation everywhere. Cases linked to genocide ideology and attacks on survivors continue to be reported in other parts of the country.
For those in Mbyo, this reinforces the importance of acknowledging the truth and continuing to engage in dialogue. Both survivors and perpetrators stress that denial or silence risks carrying unresolved tensions into future generations.
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Nkundiye speaks of reconciliation as a responsibility, not just a personal transformation but a contribution to the stability of the country. Mukagasana echoes this, emphasising that confronting the past honestly is essential for building a shared future.
Remembering and rebuilding
As Rwanda marks Kwibuka 32, Mbyo village offers a perspective shaped by lived experience rather than abstract ideals. Residents continue to remember those who were lost, while also focusing on rebuilding their lives and their community.
Families have grown, children are in school, and daily life reflects a level of stability that once seemed out of reach. Yet the memory of the past remains central, not as something that divides, but as something that informs the choices people make today.
Mukabyagaju says the country has moved forward, but the responsibility to preserve that progress remains.
Across the village, there is a shared understanding that what happened must never be repeated. It is a lesson carried not only in memory, but in the choices people make every day.
In Mbyo, reconciliation is not presented as complete or perfect. It is ongoing, shaped by individuals who continue to choose coexistence despite the weight of history.
And in that choice, made day after day, the village has found a way not only to remember, but to live again.
lmbabazi@newtimesrwanda.com