Patricia Hajabakiga’s story begins long before Rwanda’s liberation of 1994. Born in 1956 in Nyanza District, Hajabakiga’s earliest memories are marked not by stability, but by displacement, rupture, and loss that would later shape how she understood identity, belonging, and nationhood.

Her father was killed during the 1959 violence that targeted the Tutsi, which would define the trajectory of her family in ways she would only fully understand much later in life.

Too young to remember him clearly, she grew up with fragments rather than memories. These came in the form of stories told by her mother, the absence of photographs, and the quiet, persistent presence of grief that shaped daily life in ways that were not always spoken about directly but were always felt.

A life shaped by Rwanda’s fractured past

By 1961, Hajabakiga’s family was among thousands of Rwandans forced into exile, first crossing into what is now DR Congo, and later moving across borders as refugee waves shifted across the region.

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Life in exile meant constant movement, uncertainty, and separation that became almost normal. Eight children in the family were scattered across different places and circumstances.

Only a few remained with their mother at different points in time, while others found themselves in Uganda or still within Rwanda under difficult and often unstable conditions.

For Hajabakiga, this experience of instability became the backdrop of her understanding of nationhood, identity, and survival.

"I was very shy as a child,” she recalls in an interview with The New Times. "People never imagined I would later enter politics or even speak in public the way I do now. I was quiet, reserved, and very much in my own world.”

But exile, education struggles, and resilience would eventually shape a generation that returned with a shared sense of purpose, forged not only by loss but also by endurance and the belief that return was possible.

Return to a broken country and the call to rebuild

When Hajabakiga returned to Rwanda in July 1994, after the Genocide against the Tutsi, the country she found bore little resemblance to the one her family had left decades earlier. Entire institutions had collapsed completely. Homes stood empty.

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Administrative systems were non-existent. Even the most basic structures of governance had to be reimagined, rebuilt from scratch, often with no reference point.

Yet for Hajabakiga, the return also meant responsibility rather than relief. She was appointed to Parliament in the immediate post-Genocide period, entering a legislature that had no established procedures, no institutional memory, and extremely limited administrative capacity or experience.

Everything had to be learned in real time, under pressure, while the country itself was still in shock and recovery.

"There was no experience of parliamentarian work at all,” she recalls. "We were not just learning procedures; we were learning what Parliament even meant in a country that was itself trying to exist again. We were starting from nothing, absolutely nothing.”

The first Parliament was not simply a legislative body. It was part of a national reconstruction effort where lawmaking, emergency governance, and institution-building were happening simultaneously.

Laws had to be drafted while institutions were being built. Policies were created in real time as returnees arrived, communities re-formed, and the scale of reconstruction became clearer each day.

This period marked the beginning of Hajabakiga’s public service journey, one that would soon shift from legislature into the executive branch of government where policy design and implementation would become central.

Building institutions from scratch

By the late 1990s, Rwanda began restructuring its governance systems more formally. The Ministry of Lands, Environment and Human Settlement was created, bringing together functions that had previously been scattered across agriculture, infrastructure, and local government structures that were themselves still evolving.

Hajabakiga was appointed as the ministry’s Permanent Secretary and Minister of State in charge of Lands and the Environment, a position she held until 2008.

At the time, the ministry had only a handful of staff and no established systems or institutional procedures. Even basic operational frameworks had to be created from scratch.

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"We really started from scratch,” she says. "We had to build policies, recruit staff, define the structure of the ministry itself, and even decide how it should function in practice. Nothing was predefined for us.”

The mandate was extremely broad: land administration, environmental protection, forestry management, water resources, mining, and human settlement.

But the urgency was even greater than the structure. Returnees from different waves of displacement were arriving with competing claims to land, often emotionally charged. Institutions had to respond to immediate social pressure while simultaneously designing long-term governance systems that would hold the country together.

It was here that land policy became one of the most sensitive, contested, and transformative areas of governance.

Land reform and the politics of return

Few policy areas in post-1994 Rwanda were as complex and emotionally charged as land.

The country was dealing with overlapping layers of displacement stretching across decades: those who left in 1959, those who fled during later cycles of violence in the ‘60s and ‘70s, and those who returned after 1994. Each group often claimed ancestral ownership of the same parcels of land.

"When people returned,” she explains, slowing down her reflection, "they expected to go back to their original land, to the place they considered home.

But in many cases, others were already living there, sometimes for decades, sometimes because they themselves had been displaced earlier.”

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The result was widespread tension, uncertainty, and in some cases silent grievances between communities trying to rebuild their lives in the same physical spaces.

The government introduced land-sharing and villagisation policies as pragmatic responses. While controversial in public debate, these approaches were designed to prevent fragmentation of land, improve access to infrastructure, and create space for essential public services such as schools, roads, and health centres.

The policy required extremely difficult conversations at community level.

"People had to fundamentally change how they thought about land ownership,” she says. "It was not just a technical adjustment; it was a mindset shift. And that kind of change is never easy.”

Hajabakiga was also part of national repatriation structures that facilitated the return of refugees from across the region, ensuring coordination between government systems and international partners.

The challenge, however, was not only legal. It was deeply emotional, tied to identity, belonging, memory, and survival.

Women, land and justice after Genocide

One of the most transformative outcomes of land reform was its impact on women’s rights and social position.

In the aftermath of the Genocide, many women returned as widows or sole caregivers, often without any legal claim to property or land.

Traditional inheritance systems meant that land was controlled by male relatives or in-laws, leaving many women and children vulnerable at a time when they had already lost everything else.

Hajabakiga and her colleagues pushed for reforms that would change this structure fundamentally and permanently.

The resulting legal framework established equal rights for men and women in land ownership and inheritance. Women could now legally own land, inherit property, and secure tenure independently, without requiring male intermediaries or family approval.

"It was a major shift in our legal and social system,” she says. "Women who had lost everything, who had returned with nothing, suddenly had legal recognition and protection under the law. That changed their sense of security completely.”

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The reforms also included provisions for children’s rights and safeguards in cases of family loss, ensuring that land disputes would not leave households without protection or access to basic resources.

The process was not simple. Field-level conflicts were frequent, and implementation required constant negotiation between legal principles and social realities on the ground.

But over time, these reforms became a cornerstone of Rwanda’s post-conflict recovery and social reconstruction.

Restoring wetlands and banning single-use plastics

Alongside land reform, environmental policy was another defining area of her work.

With her training in environmental science and exposure to international systems, Hajabakiga brought a systems-based perspective to Rwanda’s environmental governance.

Challenges were visible everywhere: deforestation, wetland degradation, soil erosion, and unregulated industrial waste management.

One of the most controversial interventions was the push to regulate and eventually ban single-use plastic bags.

The policy emerged from a simple but urgent observation: in a small, densely populated country, mismanaged plastic waste accumulates quickly and overwhelms drainage systems, wetlands, and urban environments.

"It was not an easy idea to sell at all,” Hajabakiha recalls. "Even within the government, there were serious disagreements. People saw plastic as convenient, as modern, and they questioned why we were trying to restrict something that seemed so useful in daily life.”

The private sector also resisted, citing trade implications and inconvenience for consumers.

But strong political leadership enabled the policy to move forward. Over time, Rwanda became one of the first countries in the world to implement a national plastic bag ban.

The environmental gains were visible, though implementation challenges persisted, especially as trade continued to introduce plastic-packaged goods.

The regional dilemma

Hajabakiga became a member of the East African Legislative Assembly (EALA) between 2012 and 2017, a period during which she tabled several bills, but she would encounter a fundamentally different governance reality.

At the regional level, environmental policy was harmonised in principle but inconsistent in practice.

"There is no strong regional enforcement mechanism,” she notes. "Each country interprets and implements policies differently depending on its own priorities and capacity.”

This created structural contradictions. While Rwanda restricted plastic use, neighbouring countries continued production and export. Under the Customs Union framework, goods still entered Rwanda wrapped in plastic packaging.

This undermined local producers and created uneven competition in regional markets.

"It is not fair trade in practice,” she says. "We do our part domestically, but others are not implementing at the same level, so the system becomes unbalanced.”

Efforts to introduce regional inspectorates or harmonised enforcement mechanisms faced political and institutional resistance across member states.

Governance, security and regional reality

Her time at EALA also revealed how regional integration is affected by broader political and security dynamics.

For her, environmental governance cannot be separated from health, trade, or security. Air, water, and ecosystems transcend political boundaries, making fragmented implementation increasingly ineffective.

Women in leadership, progress and persistent gaps

Reflecting on Rwanda’s women participation in governance today, Hajabakiga sees both continuity and change.

Women now occupy far more leadership positions than in the immediate post-Genocide period, when representation was minimal and often symbolic. Access to education has also improved significantly, opening new pathways for participation.

But challenges remain. Social pressures, economic inequality, and gaps in service delivery continue to affect women and youth, particularly in rural and low-income settings.

Even basic services such as childcare remain inaccessible to many families due to cost constraints, reflecting broader economic pressures.

"We are better than before,” she says, "but there is still a lot of work ahead, especially in ensuring that progress is felt at household level, not just in policy.”

Beyond public service

Hajabakiga also speaks about her personal role in caring for children who came into her life through difficult circumstances. Some were orphaned by the Genocide, others affected by the loss of parents or instability in their families. She describes how, over time, this responsibility grew naturally rather than by formal arrangement, becoming part of her daily life.

At one point, she was caring for more than twenty children in various ways, supporting their education and wellbeing alongside her own family. "I generally took care of them somehow,” she says, noting that many have since grown up and taken different paths.

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For her, this care work sits alongside her public service. Today, she runs a nursery school which she runs alongside her other work.

Unfinished work to drive sustainability, equity and regional unity

Looking back, Hajabakiga sees Rwanda’s transformation as significant.

"You cannot compare what we had in 1994 and what we have today," she says. "We are far ahead, in terms of economic development, social welfare, environmental protection. Rwanda has done well."

However, she noted that the job far from over.

While progress in land reform, environmental governance, and gender equality has been substantial, she said a lot more work needs to be done.

"We must maintain what we have built,” she says, "and continue improving it, because development is not a destination, it is a continuous process.”

Liberation redefined

For Hajabakiga, the meaning of Liberation has evolved over time. What began as political liberation has become a broader process of rebuilding society - institutions, laws, and socioeconomic structures.

Liberation, in her reflection, is not a single moment but an ongoing responsibility shared across generations and institutions.

"It is collective work,” she says simply.