At the heart of Rugeshi Hill Where Humanity Was Buried is not only a story of survival, but a careful reconstruction of how violence was normalised long before the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi. Book the author Dr. Apollinaire Munyanezareflects on a childhood shaped by fear in Bigogwe, in today’s Nyabihu District, where he grew up witnessing early signs of ethnic persecution that would later explode into genocide against the Tutsi. The book traces his early years, capturing how division and hostility were already present in schools and communities. He recalls an incident while studying at St Jean Nkumba, where a fellow student stole his Bible, tore out the pages bearing his name, and later attacked him. When he reported the case, the school administration showed little concern. The response he received was blunt: the student “didn’t like Tutsis,” and he should move on. “That moment stayed with me for a long time, not just because of what happened to me, but because of how it was handled,” Munyaneza recalls. “It showed me that discrimination was not only present, it was tolerated, normalised, and even quietly justified by those who were supposed to protect us.” The build-up to catastrophe In the book, Munyaneza documents how repeated waves of violence, including attacks in Ruhengeri, destabilised communities in northern Rwanda. Nkuli, he explains, became particularly vulnerable, partly because of its association with political elites—making Tutsi civilians easy targets for extremist groups. He recounts how, as insecurity escalated, he was forced to leave home, moving between places in search of safety. One of the most haunting moments he describes took place while seeking refuge in Kabgayi, now Muhanga District. There, he and others encountered an Interahamwe militia member who beat them, demanded to see their identity cards, and mocked them for hours. After confirming they were Tutsi, the man returned with a chilling question—framing their identity itself as wrongdoing. “He asked us what we had done to stop being Tutsi, and the way he said it, it was as if being Tutsi was something you could correct or erase,” Munyaneza said. “In that moment, it felt like our existence itself was being judged, like we were guilty simply for who we were.” The assailant taunted them for not attempting to change what was written on their IDs, before eventually letting them go. That encounter would later shape one of the book’s most powerful chapters, A Natural Sin, where Munyaneza reflects on how identity was criminalised, and how victims were forced to confront accusations simply for existing. On April 7, 1994, the violence had reached its peak. In Nkuli, many Tutsi were killed, including his parents and several siblings. Another sister was murdered in Butare on April 30, where she had fled at the onset of the Genocide. Munyaneza survived alongside Catherine, one of his sisters, who later became a nun. Nearly his entire family was wiped out. Rebuilding life beyond Rwanda After the genocide, Munyaneza rebuilt his life through education. In 2003, he moved to South Africa to study at the University of Witwatersrand, where he and his wife, Hyacinthe Murekatete, welcomed three of their children. The couple, who married in 2002, later had their fourth child in Eswatini. Munyaneza went on to earn a PhD in Chemistry, and his journey took him across Botswana before eventually settling in the United States in 2011, where he lives with his family today. Despite spending much of his life abroad, he has remained closely connected to Rwanda’s remembrance efforts, actively participating in commemoration activities within the diaspora. “Living abroad does not distance me from remembering what happened, if anything, it makes me more aware of my responsibility to remember and to speak,” he says. “Memory is something you carry with you, and it shapes how you see the world and your place in it.” He emphasises that remembrance should not end with the official commemoration period. “Kwibuka should not be confined to a specific period on the calendar,” he says. “If we only remember during those 100 days, we risk reducing something so profound into a routine. Remembrance has to be continuous, intentional, and lived in how we think, speak, and act every day.” He also warns about the dangers of distortion in the digital age. “What worries me today is that, even as we try to preserve memory, there are others actively working to distort it,” he claims. “Genocide perpetrators and deniers are constantly reshaping narratives, especially on social media, and if we are not careful, silence can give space to those falsehoods to grow.” Turning memory into testimony The idea of writing his story first came to Munyaneza in 2007, but it would take nearly two decades to complete. “I started writing in 2007, that’s when I made a decision to put my journey into a book even though sometimes I would put it on hold because of school, he said. “It took time, because you are dealing with memories that are painful, complex, and deeply personal.” He began drafting the manuscript gradually, refining it over the years until finishing it in 2024. After a review process, the book was officially launched on April 20, at the Kigali Genocide Memorial. The memoir has also inspired a documentary, When The Hills Remember, which revisits the events in Nkuli and surrounding areas, offering a visual account of how the genocide unfolded in those communities. For Munyaneza, writing the book was not only about documenting history, but also about confronting it. “I wanted to make sure these stories are not lost,” he says. “Not just for remembrance, but for understanding how it all became possible.” His story, like many others, is a reminder that the genocide did not begin in April 1994. It was preceded by years of prejudice, silence, and impunity—realities that his book brings into sharp focus.
