For those familiar with Rwanda’s history, the Eastern Province remains one of the regions most profoundly shaped by the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi. It bore a heavy toll, largely because of its significant Tutsi population and its role as one of the early fronts in the Rwandese Patriotic Front (RPF) liberation struggle. In this region, Tutsi were often labelled ibyitso, accomplices—a term that carried dangerous implications. It placed them under suspicion, excluded them from opportunities, and ultimately marked them for violence. These divisions were not sudden. ALSO READ: Keeping memory alive: A genocide survivor’s promise to Rwanda They were cultivated over decades, particularly during the regimes of Presidents Grégoire Kayibanda and Juvénal Habyarimana. It is within this layered history that Alfred Musafiri’s life unfolds, a story shaped by displacement, fear, survival, and resilience. Today, as Rwanda reflects on its past, his message is not just about memory, but about vigilance. The warning signs that preceded the genocide, he says, must never be ignored again. A life shaped by early rupture For Musafiri, a resident of Kigabiro Sector in Rwamagana District, the genocide did not begin in April 1994. Its roots stretch back to earlier decades, embedded in the lived realities of exclusion and displacement. Born in 1960, he grew up in a Rwanda still grappling with the aftermath of the 1959 anti-Tutsi violence. His family was among those forced to flee, seeking refuge in neighbouring countries, including Uganda, like thousands of others whose identity had become a matter of survival. “Even when you return, you carry that experience with you,” he recalls. “It shapes how you see the country, and how you see yourself in it.” Returning home did not mean returning to equality. Under the Kayibanda and later Habyarimana governments, ethnic identity continued to shape daily life in visible and invisible ways. Access to education, employment, and leadership positions was often unequal. As a young boy in Rwamagana, Musafiri began to notice these patterns. “You would look around and realise that certain positions were simply not meant for people like us,” he says. ALSO READ: Survivors’ tips help unmask long-hidden genocide perpetrators It was not always openly stated, but it was deeply understood. Representation in higher offices was limited, and opportunities were unevenly distributed. Even in schools and local communities, subtle forms of exclusion reinforced a sense of difference. Elections, too, offered little room for choice. With only one candidate presented, participation became symbolic rather than meaningful. “You went to vote, but the outcome was already decided,” he says. Over time, this created an environment where exclusion was not only practised but internalised. “You grow up already knowing your limits,” he explains. “Not because someone tells you directly, but because everything around you shows it.” Looking back, Musafiri believes these conditions laid the foundation for what would later unfold. “Division did not begin in 1994,” he says. “It was built slowly, step by step.” A country drifting toward crisis By the late 1980s and early 1990s, the political and social climate had become increasingly tense. Radio broadcasts and public discourse began to frame communities in oppositional terms, often referencing earlier violence and linking it to the RPF insurgency. ALSO READ: ‘Killed twice’: A Bigogwe survivor’s story of loss and resilience Fear was no longer occasional, it had become structural. “We were already living with fear,” Musafiri says. “It was part of everyday life.” Rumours circulated frequently, and suspicion grew between neighbours. The language used in public spaces became more divisive, reinforcing existing fractures. In hindsight, Musafiri says, these were clear warning signs. “But at the time, many people did not fully understand where it was leading,” he adds. April 1994: Confusion turns to terror On April 6, 1994, when President Habyarimana’s plane was shot down, Musafiri was at home in Rwamagana. The news spread quickly but without clarity—through whispers, neighbours, and fragmented radio announcements. “At first, it was confusion,” he recalls. “People did not know what exactly had happened.” That uncertainty did not last long. By the morning of April 7, tension had taken hold. Radio broadcasts urged people to stay indoors, warning against movement. At the same time, local leaders began calling meetings, particularly targeting men and young people. ALSO READ: Facts about Habyarimana's role in planning, implementing 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi They were instructed to organise night patrols and defend their communities from what was described as “the enemy.” “At the time, it sounded like security,” Musafiri says. “But in reality, it was mobilisation.” What began as seemingly protective measures quickly became part of a broader, more sinister plan. The first signs of violence In the immediate days after April 6, Rwamagana did not descend into violence as quickly as some other areas. However, the warning signs were unmistakable. People began arriving from surrounding areas such as Rubona, fleeing attacks. They came distressed, some unable to speak, others struggling to explain what they had witnessed. “You could see from their faces that something terrible was happening,” Musafiri says. By April 10 and 11, reports of killings became more frequent. Fear spread rapidly, even before violence reached their immediate community. Then, on April 17, the killings arrived in Rwamagana. The murder of neighbours, including Muzehe Kabera and his wife, marked a turning point. “When people you know are killed, it is no longer a story,” Musafiri says. “It becomes real immediately.” From that moment, there was no doubt—no place was safe. April 15: The day everything changed For Musafiri, April 15, 1994, remains etched in memory as the day his life changed forever. ALSO READ: How Genocide survivor’s experience birthed passion to support teen mothers That morning, his father left home to check on their animals, as he often did. There was no indication that anything was wrong. But along the way, he encountered the Interahamwe militia. “They stopped him on the road,” Musafiri recalls. “And that was it.” The loss was sudden and devastating. Yet there was no time to grieve. “There was no time to cry, no time to think,” he says. “From that moment, it was only about survival.” The family scattered, each member trying to find safety in a landscape where danger was everywhere. Homes were no longer secure. Roads were deadly. Even familiar faces could not always be trusted. Survival in hiding In the days that followed, Musafiri moved with his wife, Marie-Thérèse Murekatete, and their young children from one hiding place to another. Their children, aged around ten, seven, and five had to remain silent at all times. “You had to think about everything—every movement, every sound,” he says. “Even a child crying could expose you.” ALSO READ: Why healing is a life-long journey for Genocide survivors They avoided roads when possible, moving through fields and bush, constantly alert to danger. At times, they encountered roadblocks manned by militia and soldiers, where identity checks could determine life or death in seconds. Survival often depended on quick thinking—and luck. In the early days, there were still moments of humanity. Some neighbours tried to intervene. “There were people who would say, ‘He is our neighbour, do not harm him,’” Musafiri recalls. But as the violence intensified, such voices grew quieter, replaced by organised killings and fear. A shift in momentum By mid-April, the dynamics began to shift. Fighting intensified, and the sound of gunfire became constant. In some areas, government forces and militia began to retreat. “Even those who had been in control started running,” Musafiri says. Amid this uncertainty came a moment that would mark a turning point—his encounter with RPF soldiers. After weeks of fear, hiding, and loss, this felt different. “You could see it in how they treated people,” he says. “For the first time, you felt that maybe you could survive.” The fear did not disappear overnight, but it changed. It was no longer the same fear of being hunted, but a cautious hope. Rebuilding from ruins When the violence subsided, Musafiri returned to Kigabiro to find devastation. Homes had been destroyed, property looted, and families shattered. “There was nothing left,” he says. Together with his wife, he began rebuilding from scratch, using whatever materials they could find—pieces of wood, iron sheets—anything that could provide shelter. “We started from zero,” he says. In July 1994, the Government of National Unity was formed, bringing together different political groups. For Musafiri, this was a defining moment. “They had won the war, but they did not claim everything,” he says. “They said we rebuild together.” He also contributed as a local leader during this period, working without pay. “There were no resources, but people were committed,” he recalls. Gradually, systems were rebuilt. Security improved. Communities began to stabilise. Building a future through education For Musafiri, rebuilding life meant investing in his children’s future. Despite limited means, he prioritised their education. With support from the Genocide Survivors Assistance Fund (FARG), his children were able to pursue higher education. His eldest daughter studied at EAV Kabutare and later at ISAE Busogo. “When I see where she is today, I feel proud,” he says. “It shows that life can move forward.” All his children have since completed their studies and are now living independent lives. He also credits broader national progress, improved healthcare and social support systems for restoring dignity and hope. “People began to believe again that life can continue,” he says. A warning for today Despite Rwanda’s recovery, Musafiri remains concerned about emerging trends. “There are people bringing back the same ideas,” he says, referring to renewed ethnic narratives. He warns that attempts to revive figures associated with the past risk reopening old divisions. “This is not innocent,” he says. “It is dangerous.” For him, the lesson is clear: genocide does not begin with violence. “It starts with ideas, with words, with how people begin to separate themselves,” he says. By the time violence begins, he adds, the groundwork has already been laid. ALSO READ: Rutsiro: Genocide survivors urge efforts to find missing remains of loved ones A message to the next generation Now in his mid-sixties, Musafiri speaks with urgency about the responsibility of younger generations. “This country belongs to them,” he says. He urges them to reject all forms of division, whether based on ethnicity, region, or any other identity. At the same time, he emphasises the importance of not passing on the burden of the past. Children of both survivors and perpetrators must be allowed to move forward, even as history is remembered. “The country will remain, but we will not,” he says. “What matters is what we leave behind.” Remember, but never repeat For Musafiri, the message is simple but urgent. Remember what happened. Learn from it. But never allow the same conditions to take root again. Because the greatest danger is not only forgetting the past—but allowing it to happen again.
