On the eve of April 6, 1994 in Kigabiro Sector, Rwamagana District, Rwanda, Alfred Musafiri spent a quiet evening at home with his wife, Marie-Thérèse Murekatete and their three children. Life followed its usual rural rhythm – simple routines, children settling in and the expectation of another ordinary day ahead. Nothing in that moment suggested what was coming. Yet beneath the calm, years of growing tension had already shaped how safety and belonging were understood – through quiet boundaries, unspoken exclusions and the awareness that life could shift without warning. Within hours, that shift began. On April 6, 1994, news broke that the plane carrying President Juvénal Habyarimana had been shot down. In Rwamagana, the information arrived in fragments—via radio, neighbours, and uncertainty. “At first, it was confusion,” Musafiri recalls. “People came out of their houses trying to understand what had happened.” By the following day, instructions were circulating: stay indoors, avoid movement, attend local meetings, and organise night patrols. “At the time, it sounded like security,” he says. “Later, you realise it was something else.” ALSO READ: ‘Killed twice’: A Bigogwe survivor’s story of loss and resilience Rwamagana had not yet fully descended into violence, but early signs were already visible. People fleeing nearby areas began arriving in distress, unable to clearly describe what they had witnessed. “You could see it on their faces,” he says. “Even before we experienced it directly, we knew something serious was unfolding.” Violence reaches the community By April 10 and 11, killings became more frequent in surrounding areas. Fear spread quickly, and soon reached Kigabiro itself. Among the first personal shocks was the killing of neighbours, including Muzehe Kabera and his wife, Nyampinga. “When people you know are killed, it stops being a story,” Musafiri says. “It becomes real immediately.” From that moment, safety disappeared. The violence was no longer distant – it was immediate, local and unavoidable. April 15 - a personal loss For Musafiri, April 15 remains the most painful day. That morning, his father left to tend livestock, a routine task that carried no sense of danger. On the way, he was stopped by Interahamwe militia and never returned. “They stopped him on the road,” Musafiri says quietly. “He did not come back.” There was no time to mourn, only to survive. From that point, the family scattered, each member seeking safety in a world where trust had collapsed. ALSO READ: Facts about Habyarimana's role in planning, implementing 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi Survival in hiding In the days that followed, Musafiri moved with his wife and children between hiding places. Their three children, aged about ten, seven, and five, had to remain silent to avoid detection. “Every movement mattered,” he says. “Even a small sound could expose you.” They travelled through fields and bush paths, avoiding roads. At checkpoints, identity checks could decide life or death in moments. Survival depended on caution, speed, and sometimes chance. ALSO READ: Keeping memory alive: A genocide survivor’s promise to Rwanda Although a few people still tried to protect neighbours they recognised - “He is one of us, leave him,” some would say—such moments quickly became rare as violence escalated. By mid-April, fighting intensified. Gunfire became constant, and signs grew that government forces and militias were retreating. “Even those who had been controlling things started to run,” Musafiri recalls. It was then that he encountered Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) soldiers for the first time. After weeks of hiding, the moment marked a turning point. Fear did not disappear immediately, but it changed – from immediate threat to cautious uncertainty. Rebuilding from nothing When violence subsided in Kigabiro, Musafiri returned to find devastation. Their home had been damaged and most belongings were gone. “There was nothing left,” he says. ALSO READ: After 31 years, Genocide survivors persist in search for lost loved ones He and his wife began rebuilding with whatever materials they could salvage – wood, metal sheets, and fragments of destroyed structures. “We started from zero,” he says. By July 1994, a new government had been established and reconstruction efforts were underway nationwide. In Kigabiro, residents contributed what little they had to restore basic life. “There were no resources,” he recalls. “But people were determined to begin again.” For Musafiri, recovery centred on his children. Despite limited means, education became his priority. With support from the Genocide Survivors Assistance Fund, they were able to continue their studies. His eldest daughter later completed university after attending EAV Kabutare and ISAE Busogo. “When I see where they have reached, I feel proud,” he says. “It shows that life continues.” ALSO READ: Genocide survivor Nduwamungu reflects on overcoming “urge to avenge family” Now in his sixties, Musafiri reflects on these events not as distant history, but as lived experience that still shapes him. “The country moves on,” he says. “But for those who lived through it, you do not forget.” His story speaks not only to 1994, but to the slow build-up of fear, sudden loss, and the long path of rebuilding – ordinary lives disrupted, then carried forward through survival and memory.
