When the story of the liberation struggle is told, we often hear more about those who left – those who crossed borders with guns on their backs and a dream in their hearts. ALSO READ: To honour our heroes, let us strive to leave Rwanda better than we found it We have not heard enough about the story of those who stayed behind. This article is dedicated to honouring these unsung heroes. The ones who were left behind, too soon They were so young. Some were newlyweds of one day, one week, or one month. They had not even finished their honeymoon when their husbands kissed them goodbye and said: “I am going to fight for our country.” Some never even had the chance to say goodbye. ALSO READ: Rwanda’s liberation struggle and its lessons for the youth Some were pregnant, waiting for their first child. Some carried a baby on their back, barely one year old. Others had one child on their back and another on their lap. ALSO READ: The long journey of nationhood: From Independence to Liberation Some were still very young themselves — 18, 19, 20, 23, 25 — and suddenly they became the heads of their households. And there were the older ones too: the mothers, grandmothers, aunties, sisters, and wives who had already endured so much in their lives. ALSO READ: How women in uniform epitomise Rwanda’s journey of resilience, transformation Women who had raised children and then watched those same children — and sometimes their husbands — leave together to fight. They stayed. With fear. With faith. With everything they had. Sleepless nights and prayers No one writes enough about the nights. The nights when a baby had a fever and there was no father around, no one to send for medicine. ALSO READ: Inside the RPA's rescue mission to stop the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi The nights when there was a knock at the door and her heart stopped. Was it good news? Was it the end? The nights when she slept with one eye open, listening for rumours, for footsteps, for anything. And the prayers. Prayers at 4 a.m. before starting the day’s work. Prayers in villages before fetching water and firewood. Prayers while cooking, reading, networking, and everywhere at any time. ALSO READ: Patricia Hajabakiga: One woman’s role in public policy after Liberation Prayers while holding a crying child: God, bring them back. God, protect them. God, give me strength. There was no counsellor. No therapist. No support system of that kind. ALSO READ: How RPA deployed 600 soldiers in the heart of Kigali against all odds There was only her God, her neighbours, and the weight she could not put down. Some of them gave birth alone. No husband. No mother. Some gave birth in cities, others in remote areas where there was not even a midwife. As they delivered, the umbilical cord was cut, and the child was named after the father who was absent, after the unit he belonged to, after a captured area, or after another word that helped the mother heal and keep hope alive. ALSO READ: How Kagame masterminded RPA’s decisive campaign against Genocide within hours And the next morning, they returned to the same thoughts, the same responsibilities, and the same waiting. That is not simply “staying at home.” That is war. They supported the struggle with what they had People often think liberation is paid for with bullets. It is also paid for with beans, with cloth, with pain, and with sacrifice. The Unsung Heroes contributed in many ways. They sold their wedding rings – the only valuable possessions they owned. They sold mattresses and radios. In villages, they sold cows and goats. They sold vegetables at the market and gave the money to messengers who passed it on to the fighters. They gave from almost nothing. They gave medicine, clothing, and whatever else they could. For the fighters, they would say. For our country. That is patriotism worthy of headlines. They carried ideas, intelligence, and the community They were not passive. Within their communities, they knew which roads were safe and which were dangerous. In churches and neighbourhoods, they knew who could be trusted and who could not. In their homes, they hid information and protected informants. They carried messages in envelopes, in their clothing, and in baskets of bananas. They protected and preserved information. Every day, they made difficult decisions: How to feed children with half the resources. How to explain to a five-year-old why Daddy was not there. How to analyse news, raise funds, and mobilize support for the struggle. They kept communities from breaking when everything around them was shaking. They were the first crisis managers. No title. No salary. But without them, the front line would have collapsed. The pain that never made the news This is the hardest part to write. Some never saw their loved ones return. They received the news in a whisper – on the road, from a neighbour, or at the market. And still, they had to return home, raise the children, and continue the struggle. Some saw their loved ones return wounded – missing a leg, an arm, or their sight. Missing the peace that once lived in their eyes. And overnight, the wife became a nurse, counsellor, farmer, and provider. And perhaps the cruellest part: Even those who found their husbands alive rarely had the chance to truly be with them. After the war ended, the duty of rebuilding after genocide was still calling. There was so much to do, including picking up the pieces of a broken nation. So, the women kept picking up the pieces at home. Many times, again and again, alone. The struggle did not end when the guns stopped. For these women, as for everyone else, the struggle continued. The older women carried twice the burden Let us not forget the mothers, aunties, and grandmothers. Some sent both husbands and children into the struggle. Imagine that: your partner and your children, your grandchildren, leaving on the same day. They became the center that held everything together. They took in other people’s children. They shared their last coin and their last pot of food. They sat with younger women at night and said: Cry, then wipe your tears. The children are watching. They had already lived through hardship. But this was different. This was watching the next generation walk into the fire. What they gave us The unsung heroes gave Rwanda three things: First, they gave resources when there were none. Second, they gave courage when there was fear. Third, they gave us the children who would rebuild. Look at Rwanda today. The entrepreneurs, professionals, security forces, doctors, teachers, engineers, and leaders... Many of them were raised by a woman who carried the responsibility alone for years. A woman who was grieving, who was struggling, who was afraid -and who still showed up every day. The Liberation Struggle was won with guns and sacrifice. But it was sustained by these women. To our unsung heroes To the 19-year-old bride who became a widow before she became a wife. To the young woman who gave birth with no husband beside her. To the mother who gave her child a name to heal her soul – a name connected to a military unit, a captured village, or a man she prayed would return. To the mother who sent both her husband and children into the struggle. To the aunt who took in four extra children and never complained. We see you. Rwanda sees you. History sees you. Your sacrifice and your pain were deep and unimaginable. Your quiet courage became the foundation of the Rwanda we have today. We can only say: THANK YOU. To the young woman reading this today: When you feel the weight is too much, remember them. They carried a war, a home, and a future – all at once, with no title. Do not waste what they paid for with their tears and sleepless nights. A luta continua! The writer is a diplomat, a Pan-Africanist, and a Rwandan patriot.
