As Rwandans continue to observe 100 days in which over a million people were killed during the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, stories of survival continue to emerge, not only from those who lived through the violence, but also from those born in its shadow. Diane Umumararungu is one of them, a young woman born out of genocidal rape, whose life has been shaped by a past she never witnessed, but has carried with her every day. A truth uncovered over time Born in 1995 to a mother who was raped during the genocide, Umumararungu grew up holding on to a simple explanation about her origins. ALSO READ: Overcoming trauma: The enduring story of children born of rape during Genocide “I was told my father had died, and that is what I believed as a child. I didn’t question it. As a child, you accept what you are told and live with it.” For years, that explanation was enough. But as she grew older, small, seemingly insignificant moments began to raise questions. “It did not come all at once,” she recalls. “It came in fragments—in things I heard, in questions that started forming without clear answers.” One of those moments came while she was still in school. “At some point, we were asked to write our parents’ names. That is when things started to change for me. The name I had always believed to be my father’s turned out not to be true.” That realisation marked the beginning of a painful journey toward understanding her identity. ALSO READ: Genocidal rape: How Rwanda set an international precedent “It was the first time I felt that there was something about my life that I did not know,” she says. “And from that moment, the questions only grew.” The full truth did not come immediately. It unfolded gradually, and when it did, it was overwhelming. “I came to understand that my mother was raped during the genocide, and that is how I was born. I do not know my father.” Coming to terms with that reality was deeply unsettling. “You begin to rethink your entire life, everything you thought you knew about yourself. It is not something you are prepared for, and it leaves you with more questions than answers.” Looking back, she understands why the truth had been hidden. “My mother did not want me to know, and even the family avoided it. They were afraid of what it would mean for me to understand everything.” But the silence, she says, came at a cost. ALSO READ: Rape victims, Genocide perpetrators' children find common healing ground “When you finally do understand, it becomes a heavy burden. You start connecting things, the way people treated you, the things you heard growing up, even the silence in your own family.” Growing up with silence and stigma Long before she knew the truth, Umumararungu sensed that something about her story was different. Her childhood was shaped by confusion and an unspoken awareness that she did not fully belong. In communities where her mother’s experience was known, including in Nyamata, where they later settled, fragments of the truth surfaced in painful and often public ways. “Children would repeat what they heard at home. They would say things or even sing things you don’t fully understand, but you feel they are about you,” she recalls. Unable to ask questions at home, she carried that confusion silently. “You grow up with questions, but without answers. And when you feel your mother does not want you to know, you learn to keep quiet.” As she grew older, that confusion deepened into something heavier. ALSO READ: Genocide: Child born out of rape, mother recollect the painful journey to healing “There were moments when I was called names, when I felt like I did not belong, even in places where you expect to feel safe,” she says. “You start asking yourself where you belong, whether people accept you, or see you as something different.” That sense of exclusion followed her into adolescence and beyond. Even within her own home, the effects of trauma were present in complex and often painful ways. “It was not that my mother did not love me,” she explains. “But she was also hurting. She had gone through so much, and sometimes that pain showed in how she related to me.” During commemoration periods, the strain was especially visible. “There are times when she avoids me or uses hurtful words. But I understand it comes from trauma. My presence reminds her of what happened.” There were also moments of instability that shaped her sense of belonging. ALSO READ: Youth urged to counter anti-Rwanda narratives during Kwibuka 32 “We had to move at times. People around us would know what had happened to my mother, and the story would spread. You find yourself treated differently, even when you are just trying to live your life.” These experiences reinforced a feeling that she was constantly being defined by something beyond her control. Carrying the weight of survival As she transitioned into adulthood, Umumararungu found herself not only confronting the past, but also dealing with new challenges shaped by it. She became a mother at a young age after a relationship that ended abruptly when her partner learned about her background and chose to leave. “He cut off contact completely,” she says. “And from that moment, I knew I would have to raise my child on my own.” The experience deepened her understanding of how her past continued to influence her life. “When you grow up with fear, rejection, and not fully accepting yourself, it affects the choices you make,” she reflects. “You carry that weight into your own life, even when you are trying to do better.” Today, she shoulders multiple responsibilities, raising her child, supporting her siblings, and standing by her mother. “I feel responsible for everyone,” she says. “Sometimes it feels like I am fighting for my child, my family, my siblings, and my mother all at once, with no one to lean on.” The emotional and economic strain can be overwhelming. “There are days when I feel broken—when the weight of everything is too much, and I cannot even talk to anyone about it. You feel alone with your thoughts and your pain.” Yet even in those moments, she finds a way to keep going. “Those feelings do not last forever. Somehow, you find strength again.” Her experiences have also shaped how she approaches relationships. “Sometimes you feel like you cannot fully accept love, or that someone will leave when they know your story,” she says. “You ask yourself if you will ever find someone who truly understands and accepts you.” Choosing healing and a different future Despite the challenges, Umumararungu has chosen to move forward. She holds a degree in Tourism from the Integrated Polytechnic Regional College (IPRC) Kibungo, an achievement she describes as a turning point in her life. “If that support was not there, I would not have studied,” she says, referring to national efforts and programmes that support vulnerable genocide survivors. “It gave me a chance to have a future.” She also acknowledges the role of organisations that helped survivors begin to open up. “There are organisations that helped our mothers start talking,” she says. “Even if healing is not complete, it allowed them to share and allowed us to begin understanding our own stories.” For her, that shift—from silence to dialogue has been critical. “Before that, there was so much silence. And silence can be very heavy.” Now raising her eight-year-old child, she is determined to do things differently. “My child is still young, but one day I will have to explain everything,” she says. “I think about it a lot, because I want to tell the truth in a way that gives strength, not pain.” She wants her child to understand their history, but not be defined by it. “I want my child to know where we come from, but also to know that it does not limit their future.” For Umumararungu, healing is not about forgetting. “We cannot change the past, and I cannot change how I was born,” she says. “But I can choose how I live. Accepting that is part of healing, even if it is not easy.” Breaking the silence Umumararungu believes that speaking out is essential, not only for her own healing, but also for others who share similar experiences. “To others like me, I would say do not stay silent,” she says. “Silence itself can become a sickness.” Speaking, she believes, is the first step toward acceptance. “When you speak, you begin to heal. You begin to accept yourself.” She also emphasises the importance of visibility. “We are not something to hide, and our stories are not something to be ashamed of. We are part of this history, and we have a right to be heard.” ‘I am evidence’ On the issue of genocide denial, her tone becomes firmer, grounded in lived experience. “People like me—we are evidence,” she says. “I am evidence. You cannot deny what happened when I exist.” She is particularly critical of how denial is sometimes spread online. “There are people who go on social media and deny or distort what happened—not because they do not know, but because they are looking for attention,” she says. “They want reactions, views, and engagement.” Such behaviour, she warns, is dangerous. “They know the truth, but they choose to ignore it.” At the same time, she urges caution in how such narratives are confronted. “When you argue with them, you may be helping them by giving them visibility,” she says. “That is why we must be wise. Not everything deserves your energy.” Still, she insists that truth must stand. “We cannot allow the truth to be erased,” she says. “What happened is real, and there is evidence everywhere—including in people like me.” Holding on to purpose For Umumararungu, the past is something she carries, but it is not something she allows to define her future. “I have chosen to live,” she says. “To fight for my family, to raise my child, and to build a future—even when it is difficult.” That sense of purpose sustains her through the hardest moments. “There are many challenges, but I keep going because I know there is a reason I am still here.” In the end, it is that belief—quiet but unwavering that keeps her moving forward. “There is a reason I survived,” she says. “And there are people I have to live for. That is what gives me strength to continue.”
