For many young Rwandans in the diaspora, the commemoration of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi is no longer confined to memorial sites or community gatherings.

It lives on their phones, social media, in comment sections, and sometimes in battles they never expected to fight.

Chris Hoza, a content creator based in France, has spent nearly a decade building an online community. But during Kwibuka, her platform shifts from lifestyle content to remembrance, truth-telling, and, at times, confronting denial.

What emerges is not just content, but a deeply personal commitment to memory, identity, and home—even from afar.

Last year, on April 7, Hoza took her commemoration public, holding a poster in busy spaces declaring April 7 as the day marking the Genocide against the Tutsi. This year, she carried the same message to the Eiffel Tower, Rwanda’s flag in hand, reaffirming that truth far from home.

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In this Q&A, Hoza shares what informs her Kwibuka content, the public reaction, and how navigating remembrance online in the diaspora has become both a personal responsibility and an emotional journey.

You didn’t start as a Kwibuka content creator. How did this become part of your online presence?

Honestly, it wasn’t something I planned. When I started, I was just sharing life in Europe—what it looks like and what it feels like. When you first arrive, you think it’s paradise, then you realise it’s not that simple. There’s loneliness. You consume a lot of content just to fill that space. That’s how I began reacting to music, just passing time.

But as I grew, I also grew in awareness. I started learning more, asking questions, and understanding things more deeply, including our history.

At some point, it didn’t feel right to only share the "nice” parts of life with my audience. These are people who trust me and engage with me. So when Kwibuka comes, I bring them into that space too, because this is also part of who I am.

Last year, you made a more public and bold step with your commemoration. What changed for you?

It felt different. I had always commemorated quietly at home, with friends and within community spaces. But last year, something shifted. I felt like I couldn’t keep it private anymore.

Living in the diaspora, you quickly realise that people can openly deny what happened. And that does something to you. So I thought, if people can deny it publicly, then I can also affirm it publicly. I can stand in the street and say: this is real, this happened, and we remember.

It wasn’t about attention. It was about presence. Sometimes you feel you have to show up differently.

What does it mean to commemorate in a space where denial exists so openly?

It means you can’t be passive. In Rwanda, remembrance is part of the environment. But here, there’s a risk of distance—of forgetting or people rewriting history. Social media makes it worse. People hide behind accounts and say things they would never say face-to-face.

So for me, it becomes a responsibility. Not because I experienced the genocide, but because I understand it, I’ve learned it, and I carry it through my family and identity. Some people try to dismiss you, saying you didn’t live it. But that doesn’t remove the responsibility, it makes it more urgent.

Social media seems to be both powerful and dangerous during Kwibuka. How do you navigate that?

It’s both. On one hand, it’s powerful. You see young people engaging, sharing testimonies, and learning in ways that feel natural to them.

Someone can listen to a survivor’s testimony while going about their day. That matters.

But it can also be ugly. Someone once took a commemoration poster I made and altered it—replacing "Tutsi” with something else. That’s not just denial; it’s distortion. Seeing your work manipulated like that hits differently.

Still, you realise this is not your fight alone. There are many of us. And you keep going.

How do you emotionally deal with that kind of hostility?

You learn to choose your battles. Sometimes I respond, especially when there’s misinformation, because I can’t let falsehoods go unchallenged if I can correct them.

But there are moments when you realise someone doesn’t want to learn. That’s difficult, because you want to believe conversation can change things. Sometimes it can’t.

So you focus on those who are listening—those who are open—and keep showing up for them.

There was a moment you shared where even your identity was questioned online. What did that reveal to you?

That moment stayed with me. We were discussing something unrelated—sports and fitness—and suddenly someone brought in ethnicity. They said I don’t "look” like what they think a Rwandan, or a Tutsi, should look like. I wondered how we even got there.

It showed me how deeply some people are still stuck in those divisions. But it also reminded me that this is not the Rwanda I know.

When I go home, I don’t experience that. So I speak from that truth. I tell people what they’re holding onto is outdated—it’s not today’s reality.

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Despite all that, what keeps you going?

The positive responses—and they are the majority. Sometimes it’s not even a message, just a share or repost. But that tells you someone saw it, learned something, felt something.

It reminds you the message is landing somewhere. And that gives you hope that, slowly, people are understanding what "Never Again” really means.

Kwibuka is emotionally heavy. Does sharing it publicly affect you personally?

It does, but not in a way that breaks me. I grew up with this. The difference now is expressing it publicly, which requires emotional awareness.

I make sure I have people I can talk to—my husband and my close circle. You cannot carry something like this alone.

And every year, you learn something new. Kwibuka is not static. It continues to shape your understanding.

What would you say to young people in the diaspora who feel disconnected from Kwibuka?

Build a relationship with your country—not just the easy parts, but the real parts too. Having a place you belong to matters, and you feel it more when you live away from it. That relationship includes history.

Even if you don’t speak the language fluently or grew up abroad, it still concerns you.

Today, there are many ways to reconnect—through communities, content, even by listening.

You can always go back, physically, emotionally, and culturally.

Do you think you will keep doing commemoration content?

Yes, without question. This is not about trends or content. It’s about truth and memory. People will question you, challenge you, and some will try to silence you. But we will keep meeting here—every year. And I will keep showing up.