As Rwanda approaches Kwibuka 32, the period dedicated to remembering the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, the image of a flickering candle—urumuri, a light—takes on a deeply personal meaning. To some, it is simply a small flame. But within the Rwandan experience, it represents something far greater: the essence of life itself. ALSO READ: April still speaks—are we listening? In Ikinyarwanda, the way we speak about life carries a quiet philosophy. When we ask someone their age, we use the word imyaka. At its root is kwaka, a verb meaning to shine or to burn brightly. This is not mere linguistic coincidence; it reflects a deeper understanding of existence. To live is not simply to exist, but to shine. When we ask, “ufite imyaka ingahe?”—“how old are you?”—we are, in a deeper sense, asking how long someone has been shining in the world. Life becomes a measure of light, not just time. Each year is another moment of brightness, another expression of presence. To be alive is to bring light into spaces that might otherwise remain dark. ALSO READ: The enduring legacy of Rwanda's genocide survivors This understanding gives profound weight to loss. There is a word often heard during remembrance: harazimye. It is used when speaking of families that were completely wiped out during the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi—families where no one remained, where the father, the mother, and all their children were killed. In its deepest sense, harazimye conveys more than loss; it tells us that an entire light has gone out. Not just one life, but a whole circle of light extinguished at once—every voice silenced, every shared memory cut short, every future that might have been erased. ALSO READ: Echoes of remembrance: Nurturing mental wellness during Kwibuka And yet, even in naming such darkness, the word calls us to remember that these lights once shone. By speaking of them, by refusing to let them be forgotten, we gather what remains of their brightness and hold it within our collective memory—ensuring that even a light that was completely taken continues to be seen. As Kwibuka approaches, this meaning becomes even more profound. The 1994 Genocide was not only an act of violence; it was an attempt to extinguish countless lights at once. Each life lost carried its own brightness, its own story, its own potential. These were people meant to continue shining, to contribute to the collective light of their families and communities. This is where the idea of ntibazazima finds its meaning. It is often said that those we lost will never be extinguished. At first, this may seem difficult to accept. But on closer reflection, it becomes clear that their light continues in different forms. We carry it in memory. We carry it in the stories we choose to tell. We carry it in the way we live, in the values we protect, and in the humanity we extend to others. In this way, the flame is not lost; it is passed on. Lighting a candle during Kwibuka is therefore not an empty gesture. It is a quiet acknowledgment that the light did not end—it changed hands. The flame we hold is a continuation. It reminds us that remembrance is not passive; it is something we actively sustain. The candle also carries a deeper message. It speaks, without words, to a commitment: ntibizongera kubaho—it will not happen again. Not as a slogan, but as a responsibility carried in everyday choices. It is a call to remain vigilant, to reject indifference, and to protect the dignity of others in even the smallest moments. As we enter this period of remembrance, there is also a personal reflection to be made. If life is measured by how we shine, then the question becomes unavoidable: what kind of light are we offering? To honor those who were lost is not only to remember them, but to live in a way that reflects the value of their lives. It is to choose presence over absence, kindness over silence, and humanity over division. It is to ensure that our years are not merely counted, but truly felt. The strength of a candle lies in its simplicity. It does not compete with darkness; it quietly overcomes it. In the same way, remembrance does not erase pain, but it refuses to let darkness define the future. Those we lost did not simply disappear. Their light, though interrupted, continues to guide. It lives in the resilience of those who remember, in the lives being rebuilt, and in the quiet determination to keep shining. And so, as the flame flickers once again, it reminds us of something both simple and profound: light, once given, never truly fades.
