Crossing borders has an interesting way of making you think. Having recently become a member of the Rwandan diaspora, I have found that distance has altered my perspective. For most of my life, Rwanda was simply where I was. Leaving it behind does not dilute that identity, rather it creates a question: What does it mean to carry Rwanda with you? This question feels especially heavy as we celebrate Patriotism Day and then consecutively remember the late Major General Fred Gisa Rwigema, who led a generation back home, out of exile, falling only two days into the liberation struggle. His sacrifice was departure, leaving behind the familiar for a Rwanda that he would never get to see. It would be dishonest to suggest that our lives resemble his. We live in a time of great privilege as Rwandans. We attend universities, build careers, enjoy concerts, and complain about minor inconveniences. While he lived a life defined by exile and armed struggle, ours is defined by mobility, safety, and choice. As a young Rwandan, I now realize that this does not absolve us of responsibility, it redefines it. It is easy to admire sacrifice when it belongs to history. We can continue to name our heroes and celebrate the courage of their generation every October, but patriotism becomes much more difficult when it moves from memory into our own lives. The fundamental question therefore shifts from “What did Fred Gisa do for Rwanda?” to “What does Rwanda require of us today?” Although we may never face the struggle that faced our Inkotanyi, a nation’s strength is not only tested on the battlefield. A country can be quietly eroded without a single shot being fired. It can be weakened by dishonesty that becomes normalised, mediocrity that becomes acceptable, by educated young people that have no interest in what happens beyond their own lives, and by citizens who consume endlessly without building in return. But, it can also be strengthened in equally simple ways. It can be strengthened by students who decide that their education will contribute to more than achieving a degree, entrepreneurs who seek to create jobs rather than simply collecting personal wealth, and young Rwandans who ask questions seeking contribution to Rwanda. These might not make history books; they are the gears that make a nation work. This is where I believe that we should closely examine the word “patriotism.” At times we treat patriotism simply as a feeling, but feeling alone is quite cheap. True patriotism is to ask what our country reasonably expects from us. Excellence? Discipline? Awareness? These questions have no predetermined answer, which is exactly why they are worth asking. Being Rwandan is not only determined by your geographic position, it is a commitment. What do I carry with me? What do I represent in the spaces I occupy? There is no formula for being a patriot. Some will stay abroad, some will create jobs at home, and some may serve in uniform. The point is not that every patriot will choose the same path, but that every path should be chosen with purpose. Fred Gisa Rwigema and his generation knew their destination, and they paid the ultimate price to achieve it. Our generation has inherited the freedom to choose our own destinations - paid with the lives of those who came before us. But choices come with an obligation: what do we do with the choices we make? The point of remembering those who gave everything for us is not to permanently look backwards in adoration. It is to make us look inwards with honesty. The most meaningful way to remember Fred Rwigema may, therefore, not be to create an impossible imitation of his life nor to romanticize his sacrifice. It may be to simply ask, honestly and without an easy answer: what kind of Rwanda are we going to be responsible for? The writer is a law student.
