A Letter to Those Navigating Loss, Uncertainty, or Silence

Reflections on Healing, Memory, and the Quiet Strength of Rising Again — 31 Years After the Genocide Against the Tutsi

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Dear friends, loved ones, and fellow travelers on this journey of life,

As we mark the 31st anniversary of the Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda, I find myself once again drawn into the solemn gravity of memory—and the enduring strength of healing.

On April 7, 1994, Rwanda was plunged into an unimaginable darkness. In the span of just 100 days, over one million lives were not merely lost—they were taken. Homes reduced to ashes. Families torn apart. Futures erased. For those of us who lived through it, the echoes endure: the cries, the silence, the collapse of a world we once knew. For those born after, it remains a legacy we carry—a story we must continue telling, and a call to rebuild something beautiful from the rubble.

This year, I write not only to remember, but to reach out—to you who may be navigating your own season of loss, uncertainty, or silence.

Perhaps you’ve lost someone you love.

Perhaps you stand at a crossroads, unsure of what lies ahead.

Perhaps the world feels too quiet, too heavy—or too loud with questions that yield no easy answers.

If that’s you, I want you to know:

You are not alone.

And I want to share something Rwanda has taught me:

Healing lives in stillness.

In the aftermath of the genocide against the Tutsi, Rwanda became a land of sorrow.

The silence we lived through was not peace—it was grief made audible.

And yet, it was in that stillness that something began to stir.

We gathered in community.

We faced our pain.

We dared to dream again.

The Gacaca courts—though imperfect—offered space to speak, to listen, to bear witness.

In the quiet, forgiveness took root.

Accountability was born.

And slowly, from the rubble, we rebuilt—homes, schools, lives, hope.

It all began in those sacred moments when we chose to pause, to breathe, to believe.

Stillness is not the absence of action—

It is the presence of grace.

It is the courage to sit with sorrow.

To let uncertainty move through you without breaking you.

To hear the silence not as emptiness,

But as a canvas for hope.

For Rwanda, that stillness became the soil of renewal.

A nation reborn through unity, resilience, and a steadfast will for peace.

Today, Kigali rises—

Not only as a symbol of progress,

But as proof of what is possible when we make space for healing.

Still, the journey is far from over.

The shadows of 1994 remain.

They remind us to stay vigilant,

To keep choosing light over fear,

And to never forget the cost of hatred.

So wherever you are in your own journey, I offer you this:

Let the stillness hold you.

If you are grieving, let it cradle your tears.

If you are uncertain, let it steady your steps.

If silence surrounds you, listen—

Not for answers,

But for the quiet strength

That has always lived within you.

Rwanda’s story is living proof:

Even in the deepest loss, a path forward exists.

Not a straight line. Not an easy road.

But a path nonetheless—

And we never walk it alone.

Thirty-one years on, we remember the lives taken,

The futures stolen,

The pain endured.

And we honor them—

By choosing to heal,

By daring to love,

By building a world where hate has no home.

So to you who are hurting, waiting, wondering:

Be still.

Let the quiet be your refuge.

Healing is not a race.

It is a resting place.

And from that place,

We rise.

Together.

With hope and solidarity,

—Cedric Habiyaremye