As Rwanda gathers once more under the solemn weight of Kwibuka 32, my heart stirs with a quiet but resolute conviction. Thirty-two years have passed since the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi tore through our nation in 100 days of unimaginable horror. We have rebuilt with remarkable resilience, thanks to the survivors who gave us the courage never to let remembrance settle into silence.

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Kwibuka needs to breathe more than ever, to move, and beyond that, to invite the world into its meaning. One idea has come into my imagination, a living monument that transforms remembrance into an experience. I envision a monument installed on one of the highest points of Kigali, perhaps Mount Jali, that turns the ascent into an act of memory and the summit into a beacon of enduring hope.

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Imagine beginning at the gentle foot of the hill, where the path starts with intention. One hundred steps, each deliberately carved or laid, rising steadily toward the crest. One hundred steps for 100 days. Not a casual staircase, but a deliberate journey. With every footfall, visitors would feel the weight of time compressed into physical effort. Along the way, subtle markers could whisper stories, illuminated at intervals. The climb would demand presence in a world that often rushes past pain. The steepness would ask us to slow down, to measure the days not in abstraction, but in the rhythm of our own breath and stride.

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At the summit, rising like a flame against the sky, would stand the monument itself. It should be an emblem of rebirth and renewal, symbolizing the resilience of a nation that refused to die twice, and the indomitable spirit of survivors who dared to move forward into the future.

The structure would glow as a reminder that memory, though born of darkness, can illuminate the path ahead. From afar, especially in the evening hours, it would serve as a gentle lighthouse for the city, saying: we remember, we endure, and we invite you to stand with us.

Yet this monument must be more than a symbol viewed from below. It should welcome people in, with spaces that bring life to remembrance: an observation deck, an auditorium, a dedicated reading library stocked with histories, testimonies, and reflections on genocide prevention; a coffee shop and restaurant where conversations flow over our red bourbon specialty brew; and a gift shop featuring crafts made by survivors and cooperatives. These are bridges, places where reflection turns into dialogue and where seeds of understanding are planted.

A monument like this, perched on a hill with sweeping views of a city reborn, complemented by an underground museum displaying tools used during the Genocide against the Tutsi, would stand as both witness and warning. It would tell every visitor that Rwanda chose not to remain defined by its scars, but to transform them into strength. The 100-step journey mirrors our national story, the painful climb from abyss to renewal, step by deliberate step.

This is not about glorifying suffering. It is about honoring the lives lost, celebrating the courage of those who survived and rebuilt, and creating a space where unity is not abstract but experienced, one step, one conversation, one shared view at a time.

I believe the international community has a role to play, not as distant observers, but as active partners. Support for this vision could come through expertise in memorial architecture, sustainable design, and educational programming. Funding streams focused on peace-building and genocide prevention could help bring it to life. Rwanda has shown the world what is possible when a nation harnesses collective will. Now is the moment for friends across the globe to help etch that story into a landmark that future generations will climb and cherish.

Let the weight felt in the legs and in the soul while climbing those one hundred steps be a reminder of the cost of hatred and the power of remembrance.

As the monument rises above the hills of Kigali, may it call not only to those who remember, but also to those who must learn. May every step taken toward it carry a story, a lesson, and a quiet vow that such darkness will never return. For remembrance is a global duty, reminding us that even after tragedy, humanity can rise, rebuild, and choose a better future together.

The writer is an ideator and alternative development financing strategist.