Among the many stories of survival from the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, those of widows remain among the most profound.

Forced to endure unimaginable loss, many were left not only to grieve husbands, children and entire families, but also to rebuild shattered lives while carrying the weight of memory.

Their journeys are defined by extraordinary resilience, quiet courage, and an unwavering determination to transform personal tragedy into strength, leadership and hope for future generations.

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For Saverina Mujawayezu, 1994 is not just a year in Rwanda’s history. It is the moment that split her life into two distinct chapters: before and after.

Before, she was a wife, mother and teacher, deeply rooted in family and community. After, she became a widow, a survivor, and the sole bearer of memories too painful to forget, yet too important not to share.

A life torn apart

Like countless other Rwandans, Mujawayezu’s world was upended during the genocide. In a matter of weeks, she lost her husband, Charles Higiro, five of her children, and many members of her extended family.

The violence robbed her not only of loved ones, but also of the ordinary certainties that make life feel secure. Home became a memory. Safety became fleeting.

"I was left asking myself how I would go on,” she recalls. "The man I had built a life with was gone, my children were gone, and everything we had known had been destroyed.”

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What followed was a life of displacement, uncertainty and immense grief. She fled with her surviving children, carrying little more than the instinct to protect them.

Each day brought fear, hunger and impossible choices. At times, survival itself felt beyond reach.

"When I looked at the children who were still with me, I knew I had no choice,” she says. "I had to keep moving, because their lives depended on it.”

The burden of survival

Survival, she says, was not a single act, but a series of decisions made hour by hour.

Some were practical: where to hide, when to move, how to keep her children safe. Others were deeply emotional: how to go on when everything familiar had been destroyed.

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She remembers nights in hiding, days of wandering, and moments of desperation. One memory remains vivid: lying in the bushes with her child, only to find biting insects covering the child’s body.

"There are things you can never forget,” she says. "The fear, the uncertainty, the question of whether we would see another day.”

She also carries the pain of not knowing exactly how her husband and five children were killed.

"I often thank God I did not witness it,” she says. "Perhaps the trauma would have been even greater.”

Yet the absence of closure remains its own burden.

Returning to a changed world

When the genocide ended, returning home was not truly a return. The physical journey ended, but the emotional one had just begun.

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Like many survivors, Mujawayezu came back to a country in ruins, communities shattered, trust broken, homes destroyed or occupied, and the future uncertain.

At one point, a man connected to her husband’s killing approached her privately, admitted his role and asked for forgiveness, saying he had acted under pressure. But he refused to speak publicly.

"I asked him why he could not say it openly,” she recalls. "If it was true, why fear the truth?”

That moment underscored the difficult path toward justice and reconciliation and her insistence on truth, however painful.

She later testified in Gacaca courts, believing that healing required honesty and accountability.

Rebuilding, one step at a time

Life after the genocide demanded more than survival, it required rebuilding.

Mujawayezu returned to teaching. In the early days, she was sometimes paid in food rather than money, but even that helped her begin again.

Gradually, she provided for her surviving children, paid school fees, and restored stability. Education became both a necessity and a symbol of hope.

"I started with very little,” she says. "But little by little, life began to return.”

Her children resumed school, grew up, and today have families of their own, a testament to resilience.

Building AVEGA in Rwamagana

Her recovery soon extended beyond her household. Mujawayezu became a pioneer in establishing AVEGA Agahozo in the former Kibungo Prefecture, now Eastern Province.

After the association was founded in Kigali, it spread across the country.

In Rwamagana, she helped organise widows, offering solidarity and support.

She later became the first president of AVEGA in the area, a role she continues to hold.

"We were few at first,” she recalls. "But we knew we needed each other.”

They travelled across the region, mobilising widows, listening to their stories, and encouraging them to believe in renewal.

Creating homes, restoring dignity

One of AVEGA’s earliest initiatives was housing.

In 1996, under her leadership and with partner support, 12 homes were built for vulnerable genocide widows in Rwamagana.

The women pooled savings—sometimes as little as Rwf5,000 and worked collectively. Donors supported construction, while local partners contributed materials.

"We built it with our own hands,” she says.

For beneficiaries, the homes symbolised dignity, belonging and a new beginning.

Leadership as healing

For Mujawayezu, leadership became both responsibility and therapy.

She immersed herself in community service, serving as president of her sector council in Rwamagana for 15 years, and later engaging in politics through the Rwandan Patriotic Front.

"Work gave me purpose,” she says. "It helped me manage grief.”

She also worked with prisoners preparing for reintegration, encouraging them to reflect on how they would rebuild relationships and coexist with their communities.

Strength in faith and action

Mujawayezu credits her resilience to faith and constant activity.

Prayer sustained her through decades of grief and renewal. Reading, staying informed, and engaging with others help keep her focused.

"I do not like to sit idle,” she says. "I am always doing something.”

The lingering scars

Despite her strength, trauma endures.

She lives with diabetes and high blood pressure, which she believes are linked to the burdens she has carried. Memories often resurface, especially during commemoration periods.

"There are wounds that never fully heal,” she says.

Yet she refuses to be defined by them.

A message for the next generation

As an educator, Mujawayezu is committed to ensuring Rwanda’s history is passed on truthfully.

"Our children must know what happened,” she says. "So that it never happens again.”

She warns against denial and revisionism, stressing that remembrance is both a duty and a safeguard.

She also emphasises the courage of those who stopped the genocide, noting that young people must understand both the dangers of manipulation and the power of moral choice.

A legacy of courage

Today, Mujawayezu stands as a symbol of resilience, leadership and hope.

She has transformed personal tragedy into public service, helping rebuild not only her own life, but also the lives of others.

Her journey is a reminder that survival is only the beginning. True courage lies in what follows—the choice to rebuild, to serve, to remember, and to hope.