In living rooms across Rwanda, playlists shift almost instinctively. Radios and televisions turn to remembrance programming. The cheerful noise of pop records and weekend countdowns gives way to slower, reflective compositions. For many Rwandans, that annual turn is now instinctive. It marks a national mourning period tied to the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, a time when music is expected to do more than entertain. It is asked to console survivors, preserve history, challenge denial and help hold collective memory across the 100 days of commemoration. ALSO READ: Kwibuka: The flame that endures I remember the change before I understood it. Growing up in post-genocide Rwanda, there was always a moment in early April when the air waves felt heavier. As a child, I could not articulate why my morning cartoons were replaced by sombre French documentaries or why the adults in the room fell silent when certain songs came on. We did not have hundreds of channels to scroll through. You sort of had one option. And that option told you something serious was happening. Now, as part of the creative industry, it makes sense. The programming was not about restriction. It was about remembrance. It was about creating a shared emotional space where music does not distract from grief but carries it. ALSO READ: As we mark Kwibuka 32, we must confront genocide ideology at all costs One voice that defined that space for me was Senderi Hit, born Eric Senderi Nzaramba. To this day, I consider him one of the country’s most consistent patriots in commemoration songs composers. Senderi has spent years making songs that speak to civic responsibility, national unity and the country’s post-genocide identity. In his view, that work is not just artistic. It is historical. “Making that sort of art requires an understanding of what transpired in the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi,” he told The New Times. “It also requires creating art that consoles the survivors, honours memory of victims, teaches those who were not present and taunts the perpetrators by showing them what they did was an atrocity.” For Senderi, the song has to carry several duties at once. It must remember. It must teach. Not only that, but it must comfort. It must also help shape the future, he said, by speaking to a unified and resilient Rwanda. His music, he added, follows the country’s broader message of rebuilding and national cohesion. That mission, he believes, should not be left to a single generation. He sees a growing gap between younger musicians and the kind of music that speaks directly to Rwanda’s history. “Youth these days might be interested in making this kind of music for profits or to make money,” he said. “But what they do not know is this music is an act of love, an act of preserving history.” Senderi argues that commemoration music also pushes back against denial and distortion. In a media climate where false narratives continue to surface, he said artists have a responsibility to respond through their work. During the commemoration period, he said, some mainstream acts fall silent because they have not created music that speaks to the season. Others quietly leave the country for a few weeks, resurfacing once the calendar turns. He wants more artists to treat remembrance songs as part of their job, not a side project. He knows the terrain from experience. Before 1994, Senderi was already singing as a student in Kirehe. By 1997, he had begun releasing songs about Kwibuka, liberation and civic engagement. One of the tracks he still treats as especially important is “Abanyarwanda Twaribohoye,” which he says arrived at a time when the country was emerging from darkness. He also spoke about songs tied to specific places and personal pain, including older works he is now revisiting in updated versions. A new take on “Nyarubuye Iwacu Hari Heza,” now titled “Nyarubuye Nziza Twibuke,” is among the works he says is being refreshed for modern listeners. Another song, “Guhanga si Uguhaga,” he described as deeply personal, rooted in loss rather than performance. For the veteran artiste, that emotional grounding matters as much as the production. He says older songs often came from grief, memory and lived experience. The new versions, he added, benefit from better studios, stronger production skills and more polished sound, but the message still has to remain intact. That tension between memory and modernity is visible behind the scenes as well. Chris Kirenga Mudahemuka, a visual technician for media brands, said broadcasters are careful about what airs during the commemoration period. Some content is cleared through the Ministry of National Unity and Civic Engagement, MINUBUMWE. In other cases, he said, staff members rely on judgment and the message of the material itself. “Yes, things do change around this period,” he said. “The key lies in the message being disseminated.” For media workers, that means every song, every video, every program and every content posted in general is measured not only by entertainment value but also by its timing and social responsibility. The goal is not censorship for its own sake. It is care. That care is also shaped by a generation that came of age in the shadow of tragedy. Record producer Bob Pro, whose real name is Emmanuel Ndayambaje, said many Rwandans were forced to grow up quickly, referring to childhood in displacement, the burden of survival and the perspective that comes from returning to a country rebuilding itself. “We grew up fast, time forced us to grow up fast,” he said. His point was simple. Many young people today live in conditions of relative safety and opportunity that earlier generations could not imagine. For him, that privilege carries an obligation to contribute, not just to consume. Deodathe Mutamuliza, who was 12 when the genocide began, said music has carried a different meaning for survivors and their families. In the years after the genocide, she said, songs of remembrance often acted like a searchlight, helping people identify lost relatives, neighbours and fragments of memory. She recalled how, as late as 2009, some families were still discovering connections through music tied to commemoration. “Much of the music was like research,” she said. For her, the songs are now part of the country’s commemorative rituals, including nights of vigil. She named artists such as Grace Mukankusi, Suzanne Nyiranyamibwa and Dieudonne Munyanshoza alias Mibirizi as part of the body of work that helped define that period. Raised in Brussels, Belgium, Mutamuliza said the music travelled with her and helped shape her understanding of Rwanda, its pain and its resilience. What emerges from these voices is a picture of music doing what archives, speeches and ceremonies alone cannot always do. It holds grief in a form people can sing. It carries history into households, classrooms, studios and broadcast booths. It marks the 100 days not only as a period of mourning, but as a test of memory. In Rwanda, the annual commemoration period is not only about silence. It is about choosing the right sounds. And for those who have lived through the country’s losses, that choice still matters. The songs are not just background. They are part of how Rwanda remembers what was broken, what was rebuilt and what must never be denied.
