Kwibuka 32: Holding hope while honoring memory and humanity

Each year, during the commemoration of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, we gather to remember, to honor lives lost and bear witness. Thirty-two years later, we carry both the weight of memory and the quiet light of resilience. Holding both is not easy. ALSO READ: ‘We refused to wait for death’: Inside Mwulire’s stand in 1994 In ordinary circumstances, no one would ask this of you. You would simply live, grieve as you are, and heal at your own pace, without being measured by strength. But this is not an ordinary story. This life has asked the impossible; to grieve and yet keep moving, to mourn and yet stay strong, to rebuild while carrying what was lost. To be resilient. ALSO READ: Rugeshi Hill: A survivor’s memoir of memory, loss, and rebuilding after Genocide And still, you do. Not because it is easy. Not because you are untouched by pain. But because, somehow, you continue to move forward. There are days when the weight feels heavier. When memory is not something you visit, but something that visits you. When strength feels distant, and all you can do is get through the moment as it is. That, too, counts. That, too, is part of continuing, part of being human. ALSO READ: A letter to negationists: During these 100 days, let memory be sacred This balance of mourning and moving forward is not easy, but in doing so, you are a living proof that renewal is possible. Your strength is not the absence of pain, but the persistence of hope. Even in loss, you have chosen to create: new families, new communities, new futures. These acts, big or small, are the quiet revolutions of resilience. ALSO READ: I remember April 1994 as if it were yesterday Resilience is not always loud, not always perfect, and does not always look like strength. Sometimes it looks like showing up, resting, or allowing yourself to feel without rushing to be okay. Sometimes, there is no right way to carry this, only the way that is honest for you. Resilience is simply the many different ways people continue after being undone. And when it is used to prescribe forgiveness or growth, it quietly shifts from a truth into a demand. Perhaps the more honest thought is not only who became stronger, but who is still carrying the pain and what it costs them to do so. ALSO READ: ‘Killed twice’: A Bigogwe survivor’s story of loss and resilience But if there is something to hold onto, let it be this: you are not alone in what you carry. Across generations, across stories, there is a shared understanding, a quiet recognition of what it means to live with both loss and life in the same breath. Of shame and guilt existing in the same space. Now, when things feel hard, remember that your mind is not your enemy; it is responding, in its own way, to what has been too much for too long, and you do not have to carry it alone in order for it to count as strength. Slowing down, or not knowing what to do, nothing about this makes you less worthy of care, support, or gentleness, especially from yourself. ALSO READ: A preventable genocide, a denied responsibility: What ‘Corridors of Power’ reveals about Rwanda Keep going, not as a demand, but as a choice you are allowed to return to, again and again, in your own way. And in that, there is something deeply human, and enough. Let us remember that seeking support is also an act of strength. Healing does not mean we stop needing others; it means we allow love, care, and compassion to do their work. You can reach out for help without shame. You can cry and still believe. You can carry sadness and still carry hope - there is room for both inside you. ALSO READ: An open letter to DR Congo’s verbose minister Patrick Muyaya As we commemorate, it is also important to understand what our hearts and bodies carry. Many people use the words grief and trauma equivalently, but they are not the same. Grief is the natural pain of loss; it comes in waves, and over time, it softens, making space for memory and meaning. Trauma, however, is when the nervous system stays trapped in survival mode. The event may have ended, but the body has not received the message. Safety, trust, and time all feel different. Pain exists on a spectrum, one can be grieving without being traumatized, they can be struggling without being mentally ill or need help without needing a diagnosis, and none of that makes the pain less real. The goal, always, is not to find the heaviest word for our suffering, but to listen carefully enough to give it what it truly needs. Compassion, support, rest and understanding. As we remember during Kwibuka 32, may our resilience not mean silence or comparison. May our strength not ask us to carry more than we can. And may our humanity continue to grow, quietly, tenderly from the soil of everything we have endured. May hope, in its gentlest form, remind our bodies, daily, that we are still here, and still becoming whole. The writer is a psychiatric nurse, exploring the emotional landscapes we rarely name.

Opinions

Kwibuka 32: Holding hope while honoring memory and humanity